#not telling him it’d be better just sitting there and existing with him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

netherfeildren · 1 year ago

Text

Greener Memories of Better Men

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Best Story of the Day! South Austin elementary school started a “Breakfast With Dads” program but many dads couldn’t make it and several students didn’t have father figures. The school posted fliers at the local YMCA’s for 50 volunteer fathers… 600 different people from all backgrounds showed up…

Joel Miller is one of them.

-OR-

Sarah’s gone and Joel wants to feel close to her again. He reconnects with someone he used to know along the way.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak; Grief; Child loss; Emotional hurt/comfort; Angst; Fluff and smut; Unprotected sex; Creampie; Oral Sex (f!receiving); Size Difference; Size kink; Dirty talk; Truck sex; Praise kink

A/N: This was planned for a long time, and then just happened all at once today without prior thought. Enjoy! :)

Word Count: 10.8K

Read on AO3

When she got very sick, towards the end, they used to listen to “The Weight” by The Band all the time. He’d sit at her bedside playing it for her over and over again, and he’d watch her breathe. For hours, he’d sit there and watch the rise and fall of her chest, the slow, weak thrum of her pulse in her neck beneath the wan and clammy skin, listen to the sound of her fight to continue existing. Sometimes, when she was a little more on this side of lucid, when she’d let him look at those gorgeous green eyes, she’d mouth the words at him through cracked, parched lips. Hey, mister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed? The still beautiful sound of her laughter, not made any less lovely despite its weakness now, when she adapted the lyrics to suit herself, take a load off, daddy.

And sometimes, when she was keen on showing that superior and tremendous wit, that intelligent mind, the eye she had for seeing within and through him, she’d say that Fanny was the friend they’d always needed, but had never had. Like she knew, she knew there were times, only sometimes, where there was something missing, an imaginary figure that would have been nice or helpful, that was sometimes wished for. A mother, a wife, a partner, a friend, something they might have both needed or liked to have, perhaps, even especially, now, at the end.

It had been a slow crawl towards death, for a long time, and then, suddenly, a mad dash to the finish line she’d seemed desperate to win.

At times he’d been angry, angry and resentful and so fucking filled with a rage so deep it terrified him at the unfairness of it all. Sometimes there were parts of Joel that wished it was him lying in that bed, rotting away from the inside out by that invisible poison crawling through his little girls veins, but then the idea of Sarah being the one left behind, the one left alone, seemed an equally terrible fate, and he could not discern which was the worse of the two evils. And so he was left with nothing but this terrible impotence warring inside of him against his equally terrible anger.

If he could have carried the weight of her illness for her, he would have. If he could have bore the pain and suffering of it, he would have. He would have eaten his own heart, cut off his own limb, forsaken everything he’d ever known, to have taken her suffering from her. He’d told her they’d be brave together, that they’d get out of it together. Eventually though, that mad dash had ended, and after it was all done, she’d been the only one to be brave, and he’d been the only one to get out of it. If that’s what it could even be called. Sarah had died and Joel had been left with nothing more than whatever half life he pretended at now.

It’d been a year and a half since then, five hundred and sixty seven days since he’d put his only child in the ground. Days of living his life as if a thousand raging gladiators screamed and readied for battle in his mind while he lay limp and motionless in their midst. While he lay limp and motionless as the rest of the world went on around him. He failed all the time now, it seemed. Failed at being a father, a man, a brother, in his waking hours and in his dreams. And sometimes he wondered or worried at what she’d think of him now, if she saw what he’d let himself become. A limp and useless thing in the shadow of the memory of what he’d always been or wanted to be.

But he remembered love, he remembered loving her, and he thought that if he held onto that, perhaps, he could be something again. Certainly not himself, or who or what he’d been before, but he could find the wherewithal or the strength or the conviction to be something, surely, he could be something again. How could death have the ability to touch such perfection? He could not understand. So, if he could no longer be a father, Sarah's father, then he could find it in himself to at least be alive, couldn’t he? For her, at least, for that memory of loving her.

He sees the flier at the YMCA one evening, after he’s finished his workout. For months he’d gone from work to bed and bed to work. Gotten soft and lazy and horrible, half dead, but he’d had a dream a few weeks ago, a memory of them at Lady Bird Lake when they’d go and feed the ducks. She’d wanted to burst into the water after them, catch one for herself. Skinny little arms and legs flailing as he caught her around the waist, stopping her from rushing in after the poor things as they paddled madly away from the lovely little terror that she was. The thing he was now was not the man, the father, he had been before, not even a fraction. And he’d felt disgusted and ashamed and frightened with himself at the thought of her ever seeing the creature he’d become. He’d gone for a jog that evening after work. As exhausted and beaten down from the day as he’d been, he’d tied on his sneakers and forced his body to move. It had felt terrible and cathartic and he’d thrown up in his front yard afterwards, pathetic, heaving sobs wracking his body as he emptied the contents of his stomach in the overgrown grass and tears dripped down the tip of his nose, right there for the whole world to witness. But he’d gone out again the next day and the next and the next, and then he’d gone and gotten a membership for the Y, paid the thirty dollars and promised himself he’d make it there a few days every week. Pushed himself week after week to exhaustion and tears, even, sometimes. Wilting into bed at the end of the day like a felled weed, but he couldn’t stop.

Don’t stop to think, don’t interrupt the scream.

So he tried to not think, and he tried to keep going.

They used to walk down there all the time before, to the Y, Joel, Sarah and Tommy. She loved to swim, and the three of them would jump in the pool together and play for hours every summer. They were good memories he knew he needed to keep fresh in his mind, like a muscle that needed to be exercised constantly. He couldn’t, didn’t want to lose them.

The flier called for volunteers to show up for an event at Sarah’s old elementary school, “Breakfast with Dads” requesting fathers who could show up for those children who didn’t have a father figure in their lives. He’d stood still as a statue, reading the poster over and over again for almost ten minutes there, in the middle of the bustle of the busy gym around him. He could still remember the last time he’d picked her up at school with perfect clarity, the way she’d looked, curls bobbing around her, green eyes shining, shooting out the double doors towards him. She’d always been good in school, smart and lovely and friendly. He’d had to make the difficult decision to pull her out almost a year before she’d died, when she’d started getting too weak from the treatments to continue going in person. He’d not been back to the place since. Didn’t know if he was capable of walking through those halls she used to walk through, where she’d been happy, had friends, been a kid.

He thinks about it for days afterwards, afraid and unsure and awkward with himself. Worried the children will be able to smell the deceit on him, the fact that he isn’t really a father anymore, lying on the soft purple rug of her perfectly preserved bedroom. A mausoleum to her memory that he meticulously cleans every Sunday to maintain exactly as she left it, staring up at the stick-on stars of the ceiling. He thinks that perhaps it would be good for him, that perhaps he would like the chance to feel like a father again, to remember what it is to have some spunky little kid talk at him for hours on end the way Sarah used to. And if nothing else, he thinks that there might be some child out there without the commodity of a father, the way he is without the blessing of his daughter, who would appreciate the fact that he’d shown up. Perhaps, he can make some kid not feel as alone as he always feels now.

The morning of the breakfast dawns bright and warm, but with the faint scent of impending rain in the ether. She’d died on the same kind of sunny, tremulous day, and Joel’s hands shake as he walks up the steps of the elementary school. Flashes of the memory of her running out of these same double doors, skipping down the steps, curls flopping and gap toothed smile more luminous and sillier than any sight he’d ever beheld before. His heart beats like a hummingbird in his chest, hands clammy and shaking and ridiculous. He cries all the time now, at any and everything and it embarrasses him but is also so strangely freeing. He’d watched that ridiculous, but not really, movie Uptown Girls last night and had wept like a child at the end of it, all throughout it if he’s being honest. Huge mistake for the night before he was supposed to show face bright and early and have some kid inspecting him. Tommy’d shown up this morning with coffee and burritos and told him his face looked swollen, fucking asshole, and he’s once again ridiculous and embarrassed and awkward and shaking with nerves as he takes a few deep, calming breaths, before stepping into the Sarah’s old cafeteria.

The large room is loud and chaotic, the bright sound of children’s voices and laughter and commotion, and people, there are a lot of fucking people. Two different lines of men, traversing the entire wide room, starting at a long table on one end and snaking through the lunch tables. It seems he wasn’t the only one who’d seen the posters, who had felt the need to come here today. He’s inspecting the lines, deciding which one seems to be moving faster when he hears his name, soft and breathy and incredulous, voice like a fucking angel: “Joel?”

He turns and there you are. “Joel Miller?” You almost stumble towards him, hand almost outstretched, eyes almost swimming. The last time he’d seen you was the last time he’d picked Sarah up here, and there’d been real tears in your eyes that time as you got to your knees, and his daughter buried her face in your neck, your soft hair, as she cried and told you how much she’d miss you, how much she didn’t want to go. You’d been her last teacher before she’d had to leave school – she’d never gotten to finish the year with you, and it had been a painful and difficult parting for the both of you. One he’d not appreciated fully in the moment, but now, looking at your shocked face, like you’ve seen a ghost, the memory rears its head in his mind, the sound of your voice trying to soothe her, trying to remain strong, stifle the sound of your own tears. You’d gone to the hospital once, near the end, the nurses had told him, in the quick hour he allotted himself to go home and shower every day, to say goodbye to her. Had sat at her bedside and laughed with her, brought her a card and a bright bouquet of yellow daisies in a pretty, blown glass vase from her entire class. It had been near the end of the school year, what would have been the end of Sarah’s second grade year, and he’d been glad, after the nurse had gushed about the pretty young woman who’d come in, made Sarah laugh and smile, perked her up for even a few brief moments, he’d been so fucking glad he’d missed you. He hoped he’d never have to see you again, could avoid the memory of his daughter in your care, the way the two of you looked at each other, like you shared a secret, a friendship, a connection, that of pupil and teacher, but also just two girls, something special and sacred. He envied it and resented it and was glad he’d missed you and grateful he’d not had to see you, but he was also grateful for the fact of you, that you’d been able to give her something she’d needed and he could not provide.

He whispers your name, and you finally reach him, hand fully outstretched now, not an almost anything anymore, and your small, delicate fingers grasp at his thick forearm. The soft touch burns.

He places his big hand over yours, completely engulfing you, and when he whispers your name back he feels a tremble in your limb. “Joel, I’m so glad to see you,” said with so much sincerity he feels the backs of his eyes pinch. He did not think the hardest part of this day would be seeing you again, a person who’d known and cared for his daughter so deeply.

“I– I’m glad to be here,” he chokes, coughs, tries to take a steadying breath. “I saw the posters– just thought… I just thought it’d be nice for me to come around.”

“Yes,” you squeeze his arm gently, “Yes, of course. Welcome, please, I’m really so glad to see you here. There are so many great kids here today–” you cut yourself off, and your face does a funny sort of uncertain thing, you shake your head, try and give him a small smile. A deep breath, and then: “There are so many kids here that need someone. It’s a real good thing you came.”

“Yeah, well… I just wanted to– to feel– to remember–” he shakes his head too, unable to continue, but he sees that you understand. You slide that small hand into his, wrapping around two of his thick fingers and pull him around and further into the room. Nodding your head and smiling back at him like you’ve got the best sort of secret you’re about to let him in on. “Of course. Come on, I’ll show you to your seat. I know just the person for you.”

“Joel, this is my niece–”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” All the sass in the world and a scarred eyebrow to boot.

“Ellie,” you say nice and slow, voice soothing as if trying to calm a wild banshee on the verge of revolt, it makes him smile a small smile, “We’re gonna be nice. You promised this morning.”

“Ugh, fine,” she drops her head back on her neck, and he can see the whites of her eyes flash as she rolls them as far back as they can surely go. “Stick me with the dinosaur, what do I care?” Christ, he mutters under his breath, trying to hide his scoff of a laugh with a rough cough. He turns his head to rub his chin against the hill of his shoulder, running a hand over his whiskered face.

“Ellie– Mom said you can’t go to the sleepover tonight if you aren’t nice. Right?” You try and reason with her.

“Fine. Whatever – nice.” And she flashes a big old, saccharine grin, wagging her eyebrows at you.

“Okay,” you turn back to him, bringing your hands together in a soft clap beneath your chin and giving him a small and painfully sweet little smile – worried and probably a little afraid for him. He shakes his head, “It’s alright, we’ll be okay,” he says low, distracted by the sight of your small hands, fine and delicate looking, and the dainty gold necklace that sits at the hollow of your throat, a little golden pendant of your initial.

You nod your head slowly, turn back to give the kid, Ellie, one more stern look, and then turn to walk away, leaving him to face her alone, and no, he most definitely does not glance at your ass as you walk away from him.

He turns back to look at the kid, and she rolls her eyes again, turning back to flip open the book she’s got infront of her on the lunch table, a one Will Livingston’s No Pun Intended: Volume Too.

He snorts a little, sighs and settles into the cramped bench made for a child, thick thighs barely squeezing into the space between the table’s edge and the seat, knees bumping the underside. “Well aren’t you a pleasant one.”

“Yeah, a ray of fuckin’ sunshine. What’s your problem?”

“Jesus, kid. How old are you?”

“Thirteen. How old are you?”

“Forty eight.”

“Old.”

“Yeah.”

“So, why'd you get stuck with the leftovers? Where's your kid?”

He clears his throat, “Uh well, she– she’s not here anymore. Or I mean– she doesn’t go to school here anymore. She died. A while ago.”

“Oh, shit.” She’s quiet for a beat, looking down at the open page of the book, It doesn’t matter how much you push the envelope. It’ll still be stationary. “That sucks, man. I'm sorry.”

He supposes the correct response is: “Thank you,” he nods his head awkwardly, still unaccustomed to going through the motions of having to tell people and accept condolences. He doesn’t think it’ll ever be something he gets used to.

“I think…” she tilts her head side to side, letting the thought slide between her ears, flips to the next page, I walked into my sister’s room and tripped on a bra. It was a booby trap. “That my dad is dead, or at least a dead beat or something,” she snickers. “Don’t know. My mom never talks about him.”

Dead or a dead beat, he mutters, shaking his head, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s hard– being a parent, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah… hardest thing in the world–”

“Is it like – like weird… to not be one anymore?”

He feels his stomach drop out from under him, coughs roughly, “Dunno… I guess– I guess in ways I still feel like a parent. Think I’ll always feel like that. But in other ways, yes, it’s… weird.”

“Yeah… I guess that makes sense. You don’t forget how stuff feels, right?”

“Yeah, you don’t forget how stuff feels.”

“Do you like space?” she asks suddenly, very seriously, knocking her head to the side, looking up at him with big, baleful, hazel eyes. His heart twists in his chest.

“Sure, yeah. Space is alright.”

And then another seeming one eighty: “If you could do anything you wanted, where would you go? What would you do?”

“Don’t know, never really thought about it. Maybe… an old farmhouse, some land, a ranch.”

“Cool. What kind?”

He shakes his head, Jesus, I don’t know… “Sheep. I would raise sheep.” She nods, doubtful, unimpressed look on her face, and he frowns at the look, “They’re quiet, do what they’re told.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. So, just you and a bunch of sheep. Romantic,” she says sarcastically.

“What about you? What would you do?”

She points a single finger up towards the ceiling, ah, space… “Probably because I’ve always been here, never left Austin, single mom and all, ya know– I’ve read everything I could in the school library… Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, Jim Lovell. But you know who my favorite is?”

He could understand her on this. He felt, too often, like he was still right where she’d left him. “Sally Ride,” he says, of course.

“Sally fuckin’ Ride!” She slaps her hands down on the table, “Best astronaut name ever,” Shakes her head, whistling through her teeth appreciatively.

He nods his head, yeah, figures. “So, your aunt…” and he feels a hot flush spread over the tops of his cheekbones, real smooth, Joel. At least he’d waited this long.

“She’s my mom’s sister. She’s great. The three of us live together – kind of like my second mom, I guess. Or like they take turns being mom and dad. We’ve always been together.”

“That’s great, kid. She’s great. She– she was my daughter’s teacher, I’ve known her for a while now.”

“Yeah, she really is. I punched this girl last year,” she says way too excitedly, “Bethany,” rolls her eyes, “For being a huge dick, man, like seriously, she was. And she got me out of it. Backed me up with the principal, Mr. Kwong. No one else would’ve stuck up for me that way.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Seems like her style–”

“Protective,” she snickers.

“Yeah–”

“And good. Her and my mom, they’re a unit, the three of us. Don’t know, I’ve never seen anyone take care of each other the way they do. Sometimes…” she looks away a little shyly, “I misbehave,” she says slowly, “Like the fighting. For no reason, I guess. And I know it worries them. But I’m trying to be better, not fight as much. My friend Riley, she’s a good influence. She stops me when I get too riled up.”

“I reckon it’s a lot easier said than done, but the fact that you’re trying to be good is what counts, is what I’d say. I’m sure being thirteen is difficult,” he says a little sarcastically, but giving her the approximation of a small, warm smile.

“Fuck you, man,” she laughs, “It’s difficult as shit.” It hits him then, suddenly, that the kid just needs someone to talk to, someone other than perhaps her mother or her aunt who she knows love and worry for her so much. A third, impartial party. Joel had come here today and been able to be that for her, and as inconsequential as it may seem, after all he’s lived through, it’s everything to him.

The teachers and school administrators begin the process of handing out the breakfast: pancakes and bacon and sausage and fruit, and Ellie tells him about her book, full of terrible puns he pretends to frown at but also can’t really help but laugh at with her, and about a comic she loves Savage Starlight. Endure and survive, she tells him, is the motto, and he can’t help but think the idea is far reaching and significant in its truth. They sit and talk and laugh together, and it’s easy, this surly kid who pretends at being angry, hiding her charm with a potty mouth and a scowl, but who’s really nothing but sweet. It makes his chest ache and his throat go tight. So much so, that after a while he needs to excuse himself. He tells her he’s going to the restroom and runs off like a coward, the devil and his memories on his heels to take a few deep breaths, a moment alone to collect himself.

He rushes out of the cafeteria, bursting through the double doors and out into the hallway, scurrying to find a lone corner to hide himself and his shame and grief away in. He makes it to a shadowed alcove at the mouth of an empty hallway of classrooms and presses his hands to the concrete blocks of the wall, painted a soft blue color. He stares at the pockets in the aggregate and tries to take deep breaths, feels the air pass through his lungs, inflate his belly, and then back out, transformed into the world as something else. Sometimes he wishes he had the ability to transform his grief into something else – a non-memory, perhaps. Sometimes he wishes he could forget the whole thing, a terrible, selfish, disgusting thought. But pain makes terrible creatures out of us sometimes, and Joel has existed in a pool of such pain these past five hundred and sixty seven days that sometimes it’s difficult to recognize himself anymore, his desires, his goals, if he even has those anymore. Like he’d said to the kid, it’s a lot easier said than done, but the fact that you’re trying to be good is what counts, and he was trying so very hard to be good, better.

“Joel?” That soft voice again, a shiver claws its way down his spine, and he shakes his head at the wall, letting his hot, pinched eyes fall closed.

He coughs, trying to clear his throat, “M’fine. Just needed a second–” Coughs again. And then he feels that small hand from before, at the small of his back. You rest there, gifting him that brief, comforting touch, and he reaches behind himself to clasp you around the wrist, keep you there with him, silent for a moment while he tries and fails to collect himself. His fingers wrap entirely around your wrist and something different and hot and alive flutters deep in his belly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it. I’m just– It’s overwhelming being here. I’m sorry. I’m okay,” he rambles.

“It’s okay, Joel. Just take your time.” Your voice is too soft and gentle for a hard and broken thing like him.

“She’s a good kid,” he tries and fails to keep his voice steady, comes out all hiccupped and cracked instead, and he feels you step closer, not touching him anywhere else, but he can feel the heat of you against his back.

“She is,” you whisper.

“S’got a fuckin’ mouth on her.”

“Yeah…” You try and laugh, fail.

He cracks and splinters: “I didn’t think it would be like this coming back here… seeing you,” voice breaking, “She was sick for so long, and I knew she didn’t want to leave me. I knew she was so fucking tired, but she kept holding on just for me. And I told her it was okay, I told her to go and that I’d find her again one day, and now I don't know who I am or what I’ve become, and all I can think about every single day is that if she saw me now I worry she wouldn't recognize me anymore.”

“You’re trying, Joel. That's all that matters. I know you are. I can see it now even just here today, you being here–”

“I wish I could see her smile again, just once–” he cuts you off, not really listening. His ears filled with static noise, chest heaving. Your other hand comes to his flank, and it’s too much: this place, your touch, the kid, all of it, all of his memories and all of his grief, and he shouldn’t have come here today. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and for a second, right before he pushes you away, he squeezes your wrist tightly, as tight as he can without really hurting you, lets the heat of your skin burn him, and then lets go of you, harshly shaking you off.

“I’m fine. I shouldn’t have come here today, I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

“Joel–”

“Tell Ellie I’m sorry, but I have to go.” And like a fucking coward, like a man his daughter’d be ashamed of, he leaves, runs away from you and the memory of her and another child who needs something he is not equipped to give.

He listens to the sound of your voice calling after him, and he is nothing but sorry and nothing but too much of a man he wishes he’d never been made into.

You’re on your second margarita when he walks in. Trailing his brother, serious, sullen look on his handsome face. When you’d seen him this morning, after all that time, after the last time which had been so painful and so sad and so full of regret for the circumstance of it, you’d felt like your heart was about to burst through your chest. You thought about him so often, about her, more often, probably, than was warranted or healthy, but the experience of having a child such as that in your care, such a special little person, and having to witness the extinguishing of such a bright flame… Well, calling it a tragedy was entirely inadequate in the face of all it truly was.

Anna was kind of dating the bartender that worked here, and with Ellie away at a slumber party tonight, the two of you’d decided to have a girl’s night out that you were almost certain was going to turn into a slumber party for Anna with her bartender, Ben, as well.

You eye the two brothers as they find their spot at the far end of the bar, watch as Tommy, you remember she used to talk about him all the time, flags down Ben to order them two beers, appreciating the way Joel pulls on the glass bottle with that soft, frowning mouth of his.

He’s so sad. There’s no other word for it. Sad and hurt and made into a sort of tragedy of a man that you wish desperately, and even though it’s not your place, that you could do something to help. The sound of him choking back tears this morning, the sight of him laughing with Ellie, she’d warmed to him immediately which was a miracle all on its own, and he is, you think, a man with so much tenderness to give that has nowhere to go now. And it is nothing but the gravest and saddest sort of tragedy.

“Hi, Joel.” Eventually, you muster up enough courage, after one more margarita, to approach him. You think that, perhaps, he’ll be annoyed to see you again, another reminder of his past and the difficulty of the morning, but you need to just talk to him one more time. To thank him again for being so brave, to reassure him that he’d done good. Tommy’d abandoned him to brave the waters of the bar a while ago, and he turns in his stool at the sound of your voice to peer over his shoulder. You love his beard, thick and lush and so soft looking, his thick, dark curls, slightly threaded with silver at the temples, and his ridiculously broad back. He’s wearing a dark green button down that brings out the colors in his eyes, tight around the swell of his thick biceps. He’s gorgeous and so fucking hot, and he makes you feel silly with nerves and fizzy bubbles deep in your belly.

“Hey–” he clears his throat, says your name softly, with a hint of apology. “Hey.”

“I saw you come in earlier, and I– I just wanted to come over and say hi and thank you again for this morning. It was a real nice thing of you to come today.” You try and swallow the shyness and nerves in your voice, but you’re pretty sure you fail spectacularly, can just picture Anna’s mocking giggles as she watches you twist your fingers and fidget in front of the man.

“You already thanked me,” he says gruffly, “And besides there’s nothing really to thank me for.”

“I know, but again, or anyways,” you stutter, “And there is.” There’s absolutely no reason for these nerves, you know this man, have known him for years, “It was a good thing of you to do. Ellie really liked you–”

“You gave her my apologies, right?” He cuts you off, a thing akin to desperation and worry coloring his tone.

“I did, don’t worry. She understood.” He looks like he wants to ask what excuse you gave her but forces himself into silence, looking down at his hands in his lap sullenly. “I don’t know… I just wanted to say thank you again.”

“Alright. And I’m sorry too, about earlier – after. I was an ass.”

“You weren’t. I shouldn’t have gone after you, should’ve given you your privacy. I’m sorry. I was nosey.”

He shakes his head, looks up at you with those hazel eyes, “No, I wanted you to come after me.” His voice is rough, like it costs him something to admit this truth to you, “Thank you.”

You have to look away, glancing back at Anna who gives you a wide, cheesy grin and a thumbs up, followed by a much more inappropriate hand gesture. You roll your eyes at her, a hot flush burning your cheeks. “That’s your brother, right? Tommy?” You turn back to him.

“Yeah, it is… You wanna sit?” He gestures to Tommy’s empty stool.

“She used to talk about him all the time.” You take the offered seat, nervous for a second that he’ll resent you bringing her up, react badly, but he gives a soft laugh, looking after his brother. “Yeah…” he says slowly, “They were real close.”

“That’s really nice,” you say sincerely. You catch Ben’s eye, and he nods his head at you, turning to get the two of you another round. “You two having a boys night out?”

He gives a short laugh, bringing his beer to his mouth again, pressing the lip of the bottle to his smile, “Guess he was just trying to do the same thing you are right now, distract me, make sure I’m alright or somethin’,” a quick shake of his head, and then takes another drag, and you watch the thick muscles of his neck work as he swallows. You have to look away from the sight, cross your knees together tightly, pulling down the hem of your wrap dress to keep it from riding too high.

Ben comes around at that moment to place two shots in front of the two of you. “Here you go, baby girl,” a wink and that smarmy little smirk that makes Anna lose her head, for some inexplicable reason, “Tequila for you and your friend here.”

“Baby girl?” Joel eyes you, as you push the shot towards him.

You roll your eyes, “Ignore him.” He takes the shot from you, fingers brushing yours briefly and you swear you feel a slight jerk move through him. You want him to want you so badly, you think suddenly.

“Shall we?” you wiggle your eyebrows at him, and he gives you a soft laugh.

“Seems I don’t got much of a choice,” before clinking his glass against yours, touching the base of it to the bar’s surface, and then shooting it back, not even an insinuation of a grimace as he swallows the strong alcohol, while your face puckers ridiculously.

Gross. You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut and sucking on the lime Ben had left also. “He sweet on you or somethin’?”

“No, not at all.”

“Huh, not so sure about that,” he eyes your sister’s boytoy almost sourly, and you get brave or reckless or something, all of a sudden, when you press right up to his ear, your breasts against his arm, emboldened by the liquor or the soft hazel of his eys, or the breadth of his shoulders when you whisper right into the peach fuzz covered shell of his ear, “He’s fucking my sister. Not me.”

He freezes, a soft, masculine sound rumbling deep in his chest before he clears his throat. He sets the glass down, and then slowly turns to face you, gripping your knee briefly as he spins on the barstool to bring your legs between the space of his spread thighs. He’s so thick everywhere.

“Is that so?” The place on your legs where he’d gripped you burns and throbs and the other, softer place between your thighs drips and aches. You nod your head at him, temple resting in your palm propped on the edge of the bar. Ben walks by again, snagging your attention from Joel’s molten gaze, “Gimme permission to come over tonight?” he says as he passes.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh after him, and you swear you feel the whisper of Joel’s touch on the curve of your bare knee again. When you turn to look back at him he’s staring down at you, a flush sitting high on his cheekbones.

There’s something slightly bold or desperate or sad stirring inside of you, and you need to hear the sound of his voice. You wish you could make things better for him. You wish that perpetual look of grief didn’t sit so deeply embedded in his gaze all the time now.

“You know that feeling of knowing someone, but not knowing them?” He asks you suddenly. “You and I, we’ve known each other for years. You were Sarah’s teacher, and she talked about you all the time – her last teacher – and I felt like I knew you, even though I didn’t really, not in a way that mattered, not in the way I would have liked, if I’m bein’ honest, but we knew each other peripherally. And I wanted you, all that time ago,” he laughs a boyishly shy little huff of laughter interrupting the rush of his confessed words, the crests of his cheeks flushing bright, “In that way you want someone you don't know but see all the time and want to know better. And now, it’s like… like we’re meeting again for the first time, but in a different way, in a way we’ve never met before, and yet you know so much about me already. You knew my daughter, spent time with her, you cared about her – it’s… I don’t really know what it is I’m trying to say, to be honest. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, another unsurely shy laugh, and you reach out to set your hand softly on his knee, rubbing the thick, muscular ball of it. It’s okay, you nod and shake your head at him at the same time. Confused also, with what you’re trying to convey, but knowing you want him to continue anyway. “You knew me before in a different way, and I’m not that man anymore. And I don’t know who I am now, or I’m beginning to relearn, but I’m not there just yet,” He trails off, and then softly: “Have you ever not known yourself?”

You tilt your chin slowly, watching the slow rove of the leftover tequila in the glass as you roll the base of it along the grain of the bar. “I’m… I’m not sure. Would it be very naive or arrogant or shallow to say, no? That I’ve always known myself, that even when I was lost or afraid, I was still certain of who I was, or at the very least, who I wanted to be? Like… like sometimes when you’re uncertain of the next step, or– or of what it is that you want to do next, but you still know the direction, maybe? Or what ending you’d like?” You give a brief huff of laughter, not really meaning to laugh, but expelling the air anyway, glancing down at where you’re still gripping his knee. He lays his own large paw over your much finer hand, calluses on his palm that you can feel on the back of your knuckles. “I think now we’re both, maybe, not making sense. But I think that sometimes happiness is only the peripheral thought, the peripheral ending, like obviously we all always want to end up happy. I was always open to the journey, open to the different avenues my life could take, but all I’ve ever wanted was for me and Anna, and then later, Ellie, to be okay, to be happy. Nothing else matters after that. The way I get there, the way I’d make it happen never mattered. Only that, in the end, we’re okay.”

“No… I know exactly what you mean.” His brow caves in on itself, “I know exactly what you mean because I failed at that. That was all I ever wanted too, and look at what I ended up with. She’s gone, I failed her.”

“But you didn’t, Joel,” you say with all the fervor you can pull from your heart, all the certainty you absolutely know that he’s wrong with. You bring your other hand to his other knee, leaning forward to make absolutely sure he’s understanding. “You can’t honestly say that. You’re right, I did know her, and that little girl was an exceedingly happy child. If anything, you were nothing but a triumph, and you need to hold on to that, and think of it every single day for the rest of your life. You were triumphant in that girl. Never forget it. There is not even a shadow of failure in the memory of that child and the life she led.” And this does not seem like the appropriate environment to be having such a conversation, but you push on. His hand tightens over yours almost painfully, his blunt rough nails digging into your soft skin. “When she died – was she scared? Or peaceful?”

“She was so fucking brave,” he chokes. “She was so fucking brave. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in that heart. I’d swallowed all of it. I’d swallowed all the fear either of us could ever carry. She’s the one that held me while I fell to pieces. While I lied through my fucking teeth and told her it would be okay, that I’d be okay, that she could rest, she could go. And held me and tried to soothe me and told me she’d see me again one day, but not too soon. Eight years old, dying and comforting her father, cracking jokes. She was so fucking brave, and I’d promised her that we’d both be – that we’d both have courage and both get out of it, and in the end, I ended up being nothing but a goddamn liar.” And there are tears in his eyes, and maybe you shouldn’t and maybe you’re overstepping and maybe it’s the alcohol, but you lean forward in your barstool, that boldness and that desperation and that sadness pushing you along so that your knees are sliding further between his spread thighs to wrap your arms around his neck to hug him tightly to yourself, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, big hand coming up to cup the back of your head.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, even though you know the words are redundant. Even though he’s probably heard them an antagonizing amount of times. You are so sorry, and you have to tell him that you wish you could help him in some other way, that he’d not have to bear this alone, that he’d never have had to live it at all. I’m so sorry, Joel. I’m sorry that you lost your daughter, and I’m sorry you’re alone now, and I’m sorry we didn’t know each other better before, but maybe we can know each other now. I’d like to know you now more than anything else.

You feel the rattle of his wide back as he takes in a shaky breath, and you slide your hand soothingly up the broad expanse to tangle in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he laughs wetly into the warm space beneath your jaw, rolling his forehead against your shoulder, “I’m killing the mood,” and you feel the wet press of lips to the soft spot beneath your ear, right at the vulnerable hollow. Your heart stutters, and you shiver a syrupy sweet little jitter down the line of your vertebrae in the clutch of his arms, letting your head fall to the side to open yourself further to him, you smell good, whispered into your skin, but the two of you are sitting at the center of the crowded bar, industriously dedicated patrons hooting and hollering around you, and you can feel Anna’s nosey gaze zeroed into the back of your head so you pull away, letting your hand on the back of his head drag around along the edge of his jaw, fingernails pulling through the soft whiskers of his beard so that you can feel the snick, snick, snick of each bristle beneath your nail.

“Let’s go outside,” you whisper, made only of boldness and desperation and want now. Wetness pooling at the center of you.

He pulls back, and his hand slides to grip your jaw in his wide, rough hand. The architecture of you feels inconsequential and without strength or steel in his grasp. “For what?” Voice serious but also knowing, also provoking.

“I wanna kiss you.” Might as well be honest now that you’ve got his hands on you.

“I think that if we go out there, I’m gonna do more than just kiss you. You prepared for that?”

“Yes, let’s go,” and you’re already pulling him out of his barstool before the words are even fully out. His hand goes to your elbow to steady you as your feet meet the ground, and you can’t help but give him a small laugh. “Are you okay?” Just making sure.

“Yeah, I’m okay, sweetheart. Are you?” His gaze is so warm.

“Yes.” And you can’t help but smile widely up at him. He gives you a huff of laugh through a half crooked smile that looks a little bit like the sliver of the moon when it’s nothing but a silver crescent in the sky, hand wrapping entirely around your bicep to tug you closer. You feel a little bit out of control when you slide your hand over his belly, and his eyes go immediately dark and molten, rubbing slowly up his chest. He makes a deep, rough sound, low in his throat. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He pulls you along behind him, and as you’re making your way together out the door, you hear the sound of Anna whooping and whistling loudly behind you right before the bar door slams shut.

He tugs you along behind him, and then passes you gently in his hands to walk in front of him as he weaves through the crowded parking lot, his wide chest, smoldering hot through his clothes, pressed up against your back, big hands wrapped around the soft of your hips. You feel him nosing into the curtain of your hair, smelling you and humming appreciatively, and you realize that he’s steering you towards the back of the parking lot, his familiar truck tucked into the far dark corner, and you twist, suddenly, in his arms, walking backwards and reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. His hands go to the small of your back, bunching your dress in his hands tightly so that you feel the humid night air against the uppermost backs of your thighs. The look in his eyes is so dark, so wanting, and he presses you tight against his chest, your breasts squished up against the hard planes of him. He’s not even looking where he’s going, and your feet are barely touching the ground anymore as you tiptoe backwards, guided by his embrace. One of his hands comes up to grip the curve of your jaw, and then you feel the side of the truck against your back. He hoists you higher up towards his mouth, “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, and before you can even think about saying yes, yes, please, finally, he’s swallowing your breath in his mouth, eyes still slightly open to watch you as he does it, pushing his tongue into the wet gleam of you to taste everything you so desperately want to offer him. He nips at your full bottom lip, then laps at it soothingly, and you moan for him, head falling back on your neck to open further for him, cradled now in the palm of his hand. Your hands smooth down the sides of his neck and then curl to scrape your nails down his stomach, and he groans into you, one thick thigh shoving between your knees. One of his palms slides over your hip to grip the curve of your ass, the other coming up, gentle yet unyielding, to circle your throat and tip your chin up to him as he pulls back to look down at you. The hand on your ass tips your pelvis into his and pulls your core along the broad expanse of his thigh so that your pussy slowly rides the hard muscle, once, twice. “Joel–” you gasp.

“Back seat,” he orders, tugging the truck door open and hoisting you inside. Are you really about to let this man fuck you in the back seat of his truck in a crowded parking lot? Yes, yes, you are. He follows in after you, and then slams the door shut behind him, encasing the both of you in this quiet, paused moment before he’s pulling you forward to straddle his lap, spreading his legs wide to widen your own stance perched atop him. You listen to the sound of your panting breaths as he runs his hands over your curves, squeezing and kneading as he goes, and you plant your palms on his strong chest, smoothing them down over his belly, reaching the line of his belt to tuck them inside, he growls low, leans forward to lick at your throat and you feel the tug of his fingers at the tie of your wrap dress, then the pull of the fabric as he bares you for his eyes. You pop the first few buttons of his shirt as his wet mouth moves down the thrumming line of your neck, over the wing of your clavicle to the tops of your breasts where he pulls back to take you in. You’re wearing a soft pink lace bra and a matching thong, and as his eyes move down the length of you, the fire already smoldering within seems to ricochet up to a burning inferno. There is something about the look in his eyes, compared to before, compared to the usual look, that is even more thrilling than just the fact of him gazing upon your naked body. He’s always so serious, melancholy and sad and straightforward, in a way. But taking him in like this, the way he’s looking at you now like he wants nothing more than to devour you, to push inside of you, it makes it all the headier. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, look at you,” he murmurs, smoothes his hand over your breasts, thumb catching and flicking at your nipple, down the soft swell of your belly, stopping at the little bow at the front of your thong. He pushes the sleeve of your dress over one shoulder and tugs you forwards, you feel him lift the back of your dress over the curve of your bottom, his hand following the path of bared skin, taking in the tiny scap of lace disappearing between your asscheeks, and he makes a breathy, desperate sound, “Where the fuck are the rest of your panties, little girl?” He pinches the lush of your ass, smoothes his hand down and around to cup you between your legs, and you’re sure he can feel the soaking wet there because you listen to the sound of his gasp, and then he’s pressing there, seeking out your clit and rolling gentle circles to the swollen, throbbing nub. You run your hands up his chest into his hair, gripping there, pressing your nose into the thick curls to take in the scent of him and then running them down the heavy swell of his biceps. He’s so masculine, hard in all the places you’re soft, and wet, for him. His other hand grips your hip to pull you closer, rolling you onto the thick line of his erection, and oh God, he’s big. You can tell just like this, thick and long. Your hand moves to his belt buckle, pulling at the leather and the zipper of his jeans, and then you’re slipping your fingers beneath his boxers and wrapping around the thick heft of him. “Jesus, fuck–” he gasps.

You fist him tightly, squeezing at the thick root of his cock and sliding up to the fat head to twist there gently. His fingers move beneath the line of your panties, finally making contact with your bare skin.

“Fucking wet little cunt. Shit, you’re soaked for me, baby.” All you can do is moan as you pull him out of his jeans. He’s heavy in your palm and your mouth waters as you take in the sight of his big cock. Thick and long, wide, drooling head an angry red verging on purple. He hooks the gusset of your panties to the side and slides the underside of the shaft through your swollen lips, pressing the fat tip to your clit, and then sliding along your slit to catch softly at your opening. “Joel, please–” you moan. The head of his cock catches again and again, and you’re so wet, coating his thick length in your slick. He reaches to pull both cups of your bra down, exposing your breasts to his gaze and when his mouth latches onto one peaked nipple, sucking sharply, his other hand wrapping around the heavy weight of your other breast you cry out, fingernails digging into his thick shoulders. You use your grip on his shoulders to drag yourself along the length of his shaft while he sucks and nips at your breasts, pulling back to gently slap the full side of one, sending a jerking shiver through you while he watches how it jiggles and sways for him. “Shit, you’re too fuckin’ pretty,” he groans, and you’re about to come just from this, just the feeling of his thick cock sliding through the lips of your sex, and you tell him so, wet mouth presses to the arch of his ear, you tell him you’re about to come, but he changes the angle, presses his hips up and then the tip of his cock is breaching the dripping mouth of your cunt, stretching you wide to take him and you both pant and gasp, burying your face in his neck as one wide hand presses at the base of your spine, forcing you to take more of that impossible length. You feel the pinch and snap of your thong around your hips as he rips the scrap of lace off of you, and you think you must shake your head or something, make some soft sound because he tuts his tongue in a gentle reprimand, “All of it, baby. The whole thing.” He squeezes your breast, strums at your nipple, presses a feather light kiss to the hinge of your jaw, and you feel your cunt flutter around him, sucking him deeper so that he can wedge that thick cock further inside of you. “Yeah… Fuck, yeah. Just like that, good girl. You asked for this, sweet girl.” You hitch and sob into his neck, clawing at his shoulders as he finally forces you down all the way onto him, buried balls deep in your weeping, fluttering pussy. “Now you’ve gotta take the whole thing, no cryin’” He sounds like he’s spitting the words through clenched teeth, struggling to get them out despite the demand of them. “You’re doing so good,” he whispers, “Taking my big cock in this tiny little cunt.” He kisses your ear, your throat, pulls back to suck on your nipples, all while his hands on your ass start to rock you on his length, working you loose and wet and pliant.

“Fuck– fuck, Joel–”

“I know, I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? But you can take it– deep breath, you can take it.” He fucks up into you, holding your hips steady as he feeds you his cock over and over again, and you drip down onto his balls and the leather seat beneath. “Does that feel good, sweet girl? Tell me–”

“It’s so– it’s so good. Wanted it so bad–” you slur, wet cheek pressed to his shoulder, you mouth at his neck, little teeth digging into the thick line of muscle so that he’s growling, thrusting up quick and a little painful into your cunt, tip punching right at your cervix.

“Lemme see you– I’ve gotta see you,” he says suddenly and presses you back. You reach back to plant your hands on his spread knees, arching your back to present yourself to him. His gaze is almost manic, licking over your skin, your bouncing tits as he fucks up into you, the swell of your tummy glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, down finally to the place where he’s fucking in and out of your swollen, blushed cunt, stretched obscenely around the base of him. “You’re so goddamned lucky we’re in a car right now,” he growls. He jerks you back into him, both hands squeezing your ass in each palm and rolling you hard and fast onto his impaling cock, your swollen clit presses into his pelvis on every thrust in, and you feel your cunt pull tight and then go loose as you start to come around him. Yes, yes, yes, fuck, yes – just like that. His cock kissing your g-spot with every press inside. You sob into his neck, pull at his hair, scratch at his shoulders and neck as you gush around him.

He surges up then, orgasm not entirely abated, and flips you over onto your back, laying you down on the truck’s bench. He pulls his dripping cock out of your still grasping clutch to kneel down on the floorboard, hulking form entirely too large to fit in the tight space, and drags the broad, flat of his tongue through your drenched sex, tasting the echoes and throbs of your climax, sucking your clit and your come into his mouth while you sob up into the roof of his truck. He pushes your knees up to your chest, displaying you for himself entirely and devours you. “Fuck, there ain’t enough room in this fuckin’ truck to eat your cunt the way I need to,” his accent suddenly heavier, a sharper twang cutting off the end of his words, lost to the taste of you and the feel of you and the scent of you. You lean up onto your elbows, sweaty face burning bright hot with shyness as you take in the sight of his mouth wrapped around your clit, lapping at your leaking sex. He looks up at you, reaches up to wrap one hand around your breast, one of your legs is hanging down the length of his back over his shoulder, the other hooked at the bend of his elbow to keep you open and spread wide for him, and the two of you hold gazes for a moment. His eyes flash with something… different to desire or lust, something more in tune with whatever it is that’s happening here between the two of you right now, something more than just a quick fuck. You whisper his name, and his eyes flash again, predatory and desperate, and he’s pushing up, the wet sound of his mouth unlatching from your pussy and crawling back up onto the seat bench, pressing his slick wet mouth to yours and licking into you, sloppy. “Taste–” he orders, he pulls back, fists the root of his cock and feeds it back into your gaping cunt, “That’s what it tastes like when you come for me.” His voice is a growl, something like a commandment or a promise, something else that hums beneath the mere words, something that says this is happening again, I need this to happen again, I’ve wanted this longer than I can say. He fucks into the very end of you, and you squeeze your eyes shut, let him maneuver and manhandle you to his liking so that both of your ankles lay limply over his shoulders, pressed entirely in half for him to pound into you.

“Open your fucking eyes,” he pants. “Look at me,” he begs. You do, and you watch a bead of sweat roll slowly down his temple, over the curve of his jaw to the point of his chin, and then drip and splash down onto the swell of your breast, seep into your skin.

He’s so deep like this, right at the heart of you, and it hurts and it feels good and you can’t help but think about the next time already, hope that this can happen again. “Yes, Joel,” you gasp, “Please, don’t stop.”

“Yeah?” He grits, lifting one hand to hold on to the edge of the window above your head, the other gripping at your ass to pull you onto him harder. “Yeah, just like that– Taking me so well, baby. Taking the whole thing like such a good girl.” He’s so big, maybe too big, and he pounds into your cunt, forces you to take the entire thing, thick thighs bracketing your frame, cock punching at your womb over and over again. You feel cock drunk, Joel drunk, and you turn your face to press into the back of the seat crying, telling him you’re about to come again.

“God, yes, yes, you’re such a good girl. Come on my cock again, one more time for me.” His thrusts speed up, harsher, stronger and he’s saying your name while you sob out his, while you leak around him. “Hey,” he grips your jaw, gives your head a little shake, “Hey, baby– you gotta tell me where. Where can I come? Inside? Can I come inside?” It sounds, a little bit, like he’s beginning.

You nod your head, yes, gaze delirious, unfocused, the swell of his anchoring bicep is so thick and distracting, and you start to milk his thrusting cock inside of you, muscles squeezing tight, fluttering loose – please, please, please, come inside of me, please, I want it so bad. He groans, grits a curse, your name, something that sounds like gratitude, and then he’s filling you, thick cock kicking and jerking and spitting his come right at the mouth of your womb, inciting your own orgasm to throb again, again, harder, deeper.

He drops his head to the damp crook of your shoulder, takes in the heady scent of your sweat and sex, licks a path up the side of your throat. He’s careful not to ask you to bear the full, heavy weight of him, and he pulls his hips back, shivering at the sensitive slide of his spent cock falling from your wet cunt. He sits back, grasps your knees to keep you spread and watches the flutter and clench of your hole as the thick white leak of his spend starts to drool out of you. He gives a low, appreciative hum, and then bends forwards to press his face into your tummy, nuzzling there softly. Your hands come to his hair, panting chest heaving, and he mouths and sucks at the skin of your stomach, the undersides of your breasts as you both catch your breaths. He looks up, then, suddenly, a thought occurring to him, “You’re going to have dinner with me, right?” Voice a little frantic.

You give him a slow, lovely smile, eyes sparkling, “Think we’ve gone and done things a little out of order here, haven’t we?”

He frowns in mock severity, then presses his face back into your tummy, another soft kiss, and shakes his head slowly, “No,” another kiss, this one to your hip, “Not at all. This morning counts as breakfast together.” He looks up to give you a quick, boyish grin. “How I see it, that’s actually an extreme dedication to order. Breakfast, sex, dinner.”

You sigh, laugh softly, “You know… I’m actually a little hungry right now,” you say contemplatively.

“Burgers? Fries?”

“Milkshake?”

“Well, we’ve gotta have somethin’ to dip ‘em in, right?”

“Of course.” Your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him up towards your mouth, “You’re so smart.”

“Very true. You’ve gotta stick with me now, I’ll teach you everything I know.” A kiss, another and another.

He rests his face back on your belly, looking up at you, and you run the pad of your thumb over the fan of his lashes, and he feels so happy.

It’s been months since then… and still even now, when he looks at you, all he knows is that he’s sure you saved his fucking life.

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sxcret-garden · 10 months ago

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Wooyoung ღ NSFW Alphabet [M]

ღ Ateez - NSFW Alphabets ღ Ateez Wooyoung x gn!reader ღ words: ~2.6k ღ genre: smut ღ warnings: heavy power dynamics in some parts (especially with sub!Woo)

A = Aftercare (what he’s like after sex)

This hugely depends on what kind of sex you had. Overall he’s definitely caring, looks after you, asks if you feel okay and how you liked it. If he took on the more dominant role he’s definitely gonna rub your back, cuddle with you, get you some water, help you clean up,... there’s literally nothing he doesn’t think of. Will be ESPECIALLY cuddly if he teased you a lot during. But if it’s the other way around and you took on the more dominant role he’s gonna snuggle up to you like a cat. He will still take care of you eventually, but he needs to hear what a good boy he was first.

B = Body part (his favorite body part of his partner)

I really think he’s a boobs type of guy and also a bit of a perv, so I can’t not say your chest. Like… if you have breasts he loooves playing with them, squeezing them in his hands, just the feel of them, y’know? Huge fan of nipple play too, so you can expect him to give them a lot of attention. And if you don’t have breasts then I think the answer is still chest!! Idk, there’s just something about him marking up that part of you or resting his hand there as he makes out with you that feels so good to him. Plus, what better place to rest his head than your chest where he can feel your slowly calming heartbeat afterwards?

C = Cum (anything to do with cum)

He loves your taste and loves having you watch as he licks your juices off his lips after giving you head. Definitely the type to kiss you as the taste is still present on his tongue. As for where he prefers to cum… he’s not too picky about that. However, he finds it insanely hot if you get on top of him, maybe pinning him against the bed or a wall, and you tease him so good that he can’t but help cum right then and there in his pants. Will definitely blush a little at his failure to keep his composure, and if you tease him about it (or maybe even humiliate him 👀) you can be sure this guy will submit to you immediately and be hard again in no time.

D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret or secret desire of his)

Secretly he wants to try being under your command for a day or maybe even longer. Of course that includes any sexual acts you might wish for, whenever you tell him to, but it’s not just about sex for him. Wants to be ordered around by you and please you, do anything you ask of him, and afterwards receive praise or a punishment - whichever you see fit. And in between he’s going to be your little toy who’ll do anything you want.

E = Experience (how experienced is he?)

I think he certainly has some experience, maybe more, maybe less than what you’d think. But what I’m sure of is that he knows himself very well, and even if he has less experience, communication won’t be a problem for him, so it’s easy to figure out what works for the both of you either way.

F = Favorite position

You on top of him, preferably with you being in control. Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s a total switch, but the thing he’ll keep wanting to come back to is simply you sitting on top of him, deciding on what pace you’re going at and controlling when he cums. He’ll go crazy if you keep edging him again and again until it gets painful, but even then all he’s going to do is hiss curses through gritted teeth and beg and at the same time he’ll enjoy you making him your little toy so much that most of the time he isn’t even going to think about taking matters into his own hands and finally getting that release he so desperately craves. Though such times do exist, and then he surely is ready to fight you for dominance no matter what…

G = Goofy (is he more serious in the moment? is he humorous?)

Sex with Wooyoung is definitely going to include laughter. It’d feel off to him to always stay completely serious throughout. Whether he’s chuckling to himself as he teases you, or laughs because one of you was being clumsy or something that you two imagined to feel good didn’t quite work out as well as it did in your heads - he knows how to lighten the mood and sometimes appreciates you doing it as well!

H = Headspace (how much does he think about it/you during the day? how elaborate are his fantasies?)

I think he has sexual thoughts less often than you’d expect him to. But when he does they’re usually deliberate, when he really has the time to make up elaborate scenarios. The type of guy who knows it’ll feel even better when he thinks about it until he really is painfully horny, and gets off to whatever thoughts are up in his head only when he can’t take it anymore. If he has a partner they’re definitely going to be the nr 1 person to appear in his fantasies, though from time to time he might think about someone else too.

I = Intimacy (how passionate or romantic is he?)

Very passionate at all times!! Can be very romantic too if it fits the mood, and won’t find it too cheesy at all to prepare the bedroom with candles and rose petals and all that stuff 🥺 though this won’t be the standard, but from the way he always looks at you with adoration in his eyes no matter what you’re doing, I’d say he is fairly romantic!!

J = Jack off (how does he masturbate and how often?)

Pretty much every day, mostly out of habit and to briefly destress in the shower after a long day. Though sometimes, when he has the time, he’ll spend quite a while masturbating in his room (oftentimes while fantasizing, as described above 👀)

K = Kink (one of his kinks)

How could I not talk about his very apparent degradation kink here!! (Very uncreative, I know lol but come on!!) It does things to him to say the least when he gets pushed around a bit. I’d even go as far as to say he’s into being humiliated, like you making fun of him for cumming so fast, or teasing him about what a little obedient slut he is when it takes you no time at all to make him submit to you. Might start giggling and blushing right then and there, and will enjoy it even more if you punish him for that reaction. He’ll be painfully hard in no time, and at the same time he just can’t stop pushing your limits, until you start to manhandle him. (And even if he’s a lot stronger than you, this guy will simply play along and let you do to him whatever you want.)

L = Location (favorite places to do it)

Pretty much anywhere if y’all are horny enough djbdndndd he won’t shy away from semi-public sex, though he probably wouldn’t try to sneakily get you off with other people in the room (he’d certainly still tease you though). The bed, the couch, someone else’s bed, against a wall, the kitchen counter, a public bathroom,... anything goes so long as he gets to fuck you.

M = Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going)

Your reactions, your voice, your praises, even you pushing him around a bit… any affirmation is enough for him to keep going, and once he’s caught a glimpse of what he can do to you, he’ll get even more curious and want to find out even more about you! And even if the day comes where he’s seen everything, he’ll just want it all over again, so really it’s very easy to get him going and to keep him going.

N = No (something he wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Really he’s open to most things, but one thing he certainly won’t do is using sex as a distraction or as a way to fuck out your feelings before having talked about it. He wants you two to always be transparent with each other, as he would never judge you for anything and he wants a partner where he feels that they won’t either. Angry sex or anything similar is totally okay with him, so long as both parties know what’s going on emotionally!!

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Loves giving and receiving equally, so he’s definitely going to suggest 69 sometimes! Is a big fan of turning it into a game of who can make the other cum fastest, or of who can make the other feel so good that they lose focus and have to stop pleasuring the other. However, he also enjoys simply taking turns, because he loves watching your reactions and hearing you praising him about how well he’s doing. Plus, sometimes he really just wants to lean back and enjoy as you suck him off too.

P = Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s more on the fast and rough side, but can do slow and sensual too. Especially when y’all are just having sweet vanilla sex he’ll be so soft and caring with you 🥺 and yet he’ll keep a slow pace until you start begging him for more, focusing entirely on your pleasure as he makes sure to help you build up your orgasm slowly, so he could make sure your high shakes your whole body when it finally does come crashing down on you.

Q = Quickie (his opinions on quickies?)

A big fan tbh! Though it’s not a rare occurrence for something that was supposed to be only a quickie to turn into well over an hour of sex so cjbdndbdnxnx

R = Risk (does he like to experiment or take risks?)

He’s open to trying out pretty much anything, especially if it’s something you bring up to him. Will usually not find it weird, even when it’s something that would seem weird to others or that a lot of people shy away from. Sure, there are some things he won’t be into, but most of the time he’ll be open to at least try! As for risk taking - as I said, semi-public is definitely something he’d be open to, but he will make damn sure you two don’t get caught.

S = Stamina (how long does he last?)

Not as long as he’d like lol. However, when he really feels himself running out of energy but both of you still want to keep going, he’ll simply suggest taking a bit of a rest with some cuddles, and then eventually you’re gonna start lazily getting each other off again. You’ll either keep going for another round or two, or you’ll agree that you really are all out of energy and you can just keep cuddling!

T = Toys (does he own toys? does he use them? on a partner or himself?)

I think he’d like the idea of using toys while having sex with you! A vibrator, a cockring, or maybe even handcuffs - if it enhances the pleasure for you, him, or both of you, he’s all for it!

U = Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

Teases A LOT. I don’t think I need to say much here. He’s a tease in- and outside of the bedroom, he just can’t help himself :’)

V = Volume (how loud or vocal is he? what does he sound like?)

He’s pretty vocal I’d say!! Definitely talks a lot and is super into dirty talk especially - but if you’re only just starting to have sex and getting to know each other’s bodies, or if he’s with someone inexperienced, he’ll definitely communicate a lot too and ask what feels good and what doesn’t, nudges you in the right direction, etcetc. Lots of moans and groans and other noises that tell you he likes what you’re doing especially when you’re pleasuring him, or when he’s coming close. And don’t get me started on the fucked out and exhausted but at the same time sweet tone in his voice afterwards, as he tells you how amazing you were.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon)

“Ahh…” Wooyoung lets out a pained noise, almost a whine, as you push him into the mattress with his hands pinned above his head. You can see his muscles dancing under his skin, yet he doesn’t put any strength at all into a rather pathetic attempt to free himself. You’ve ceased your movements on top of him, edging him for the third time now, and you can tell he’s slowly losing his composure, a drop of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes shut tightly in a desperate expression. Still, he doesn’t do anything to resist. He doesn’t free himself - which he undoubtedly could - and he doesn’t flip your positions around to take over control. He barely even begs. Of course he does, but what falls from his lips the most are praises about how good you make him feel, how beautiful you are, and sometimes a “can’t take it anymore”. And that’s your cue to stop, to let him rest while his chest rises and sinks as he breathes heavily, waiting until you can start riding him again, not yet knowing yourself whether you’ll let him cum this time, or if you want to keep playing with him.

“Woo…” you breathe out, leaning in to scatter a trail of sloppy kisses up his sternum. “Such a good boy for me…” The way he looks at you when he opens his eyes makes your heart swell. There’s still so much warmth in his gaze, and so much desire too. He doesn’t care if you keep teasing him like this or if you finally grant him that release he so desperately needs - all he cares about is you making him feel good, one way or the other. And so you press a kiss to his lips, before slowly starting to roll your hips again.

X = (X) as a mark (does he like marking you/being marked? where?)

He enjoys marking his partner, but loves being marked up even more! If you set any rules like no marks where it’s hard to cover, he will absolutely annoy you by pretending as if he was trying to give you a hickey there, but he’ll never do it for real (unless maybe he’s drunk and goes a little overboard kalsjdfks). Instead he loves marking your chest especially, but the inside of your thighs and your hips are close seconds! As for him, he really doesn’t mind where you put your mark on him. Couldn’t care less if it’s somewhere that’s hard to cover - quite the opposite actually. He loves the thrill of knowing he’ll be in trouble the next day because of you sucking a mark into the skin on the side of his throat. He does see it as a way to mark you as his and vice versa, but it’s not among the most important parts about sex with you for him.

Y = Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

Average I’d say? He doesn’t need sex every day, though he wouldn’t mind! He certainly won’t say no if it’s something you want, but for him he’d be perfectly satisfied with only a few times a week, when you two really have the capacity to take your time with it.

Z = Zzz (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards)

Tbh he can fall asleep fairly quickly afterwards. However, he will always make sure to stay awake for a good amount of aftercare and some cuddles. Even when he’s spent and tired he doesn’t want to fall asleep on you immediately.

#ateez smut #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #wooyoung smut #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez reactions #smut

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cherubcameron · 7 months ago

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Part 1

You sat across from Steve, leg shaking as he stared at you. His face showing every inch of remorse it could possibly muster. Your eyes scanned down back to the table. It’d been two weeks since you two have seen each other. Since the incident.

“Robin tells me you’ve been talking to her.” He says, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah—“ You toy with the hem of your shirt. “I have.”

He simply nods.

“I hate this, I hate you not telling me what’s wrong. I hate not being able to talk to you everyday.” He says, his hands on the table. You finally look into his eyes and you can see. He means every word.

His eyes look like a puppy would’ve been punished for barking too loud. You wanted to kiss his eyelids until his eyes shifted to a happier expression. But instead you stay glued to your seat, staring at him.

“I heard you guys talking. How they think you’ll be better off with Nancy.”

His eyes close and he shakes his head.

“But I didn’t say anything—

“Exactly! You didn’t say anything. You didn’t tell them you were with me.” You practically scream.

“I don’t have to, it’s already obvious—

“So! You should be able to scream it from the rooftops. I-I love you Steve. I have so much love for you, it hurts. You didn’t even defend me in that moment. How am I supposed to know that—

“ I love you! I love you, isn’t that obvious?! And there you go again, running away from me! How was that supposed to make me feel?!” He places his hand on his nose quickly. “I told them to shut up! I don’t think you heard that. But I did. I told them that whatever it was that I had with Nancy. Its over. Will always be over because I’m in love with you!”

Silence overtakes the table. You are left stunned. You stare down at the burger in front of you. Finally acknowledging its existence. He had ordered it for you; before you walked in. Because he knew you liked them.

“I’m—“ Tear fall from your eyes. “Sorry..”

You feel him sit right next to you, his hands immediately wiping away your tears.

“You’re the one I want. You’re the one I love.” He whispers, you finally make eye contact with him. There’s so much love in his eyes. Finally, you push your head closer to his. Mouths finding one another’s. Hands exploring the others body.

You pull away first, shy from the public display of affection. He only grins, his eyes never leaving yours. Your head fits in the shape of his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s go somewhere. Just you and me.”

Taglist

I really hope this lived to your expectations.

@cupid-club @marvelcasey05 @hazydespair @molotovgirl45 @daisy-munson

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #stranger things x reader

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gay-dorito-dust · 1 year ago

Note

Maybe some fluff with Hobie when the main trop is that they are soulmates?

I honestly had no idea where I was going with this, it’s all over the place.

What’s a soulmate?

It’s a…it’s like a best friend but more.

It’s the one person who knows you better then anyone else, it’s someone who makes you a better person. Actually they don’t make you a better person, you do that yourself, because they inspire you.

A soulmate Is someone who you can carry with you forever. It’s the one person who knew you and accepted you, believed in you before anybody else did. Or when no one else would, and no matter what happens you will always love them; Nothing can ever change that. - Dawson’s Creek (never watched it but have heard the ‘what’s a soulmate?’ Clip more times then I can count.’

The term soulmates had been so firmly interchangeable with romantic connotations that many often forget that being soulmates with someone doesn’t necessarily mean that it was remotely romantic in the first place.

You can be soulmates with that one friend who’s stood by you through thick and thin, a family member, or a co-worker that you get along with very well, so much so that you might as well be the same person.

With that out of the way, let’s move onto yours and Hobie’s relationship.

To begin with, you and Hobie both thought that the idea of soulmates wasn’t something you’d fully put your faith into as to believe that you and someone else were tethered to one another, expected to love one another against your better judgment.

What if your soulmate was a twat? A down right godawful human being? What then? Are you still expected to love them even though everything they’ve ever done was morally and ethically wrong?

Fanfics, romance books and movies never bother to divulge into these topics, which is why you never truly trusted the so called ‘fairy tale ending.’

Soulmates didn’t exist, and even if they did, in what right mind would you have in ever wanting one?

‘What would you do if you found out you had a soulmate?’ You remember telling Hobie one day as you were both hanging out on a rooftop somewhere just a little ways of the pub you always relegated to at the weekends, or whenever Hobie and his band had a gig there.

‘I’d tell them that they’re full of shit and shouldn’t be believing in fairy tales, for they’ll always lie to you.’ Hobie replied, looking over at you from over his beloved guitar that he was previously tuning before laying it carefully down by his side. His actions made you chuckle as you sat up to stretch your arms over your head, grunting. ‘yeah, if you ever had a soulmate it’d be your damn guitar with how careful you are with it.’

Hobie gives you a good shove in the arm, ‘oh fuck off, what about you then?’

‘Hmm?’ You hummed.

‘What would you do if you found your soulmate?’ He echoed your question and for the first time, you didn’t know how to respond because if you had it your way, you’d would’ve wanted Hobie as your soulmate because in your eyes there was no one better then Hobie Brown. For Hobie was the best friend that always believed in you when you and seemingly everybody else you have ever met in your life have long since given up on you. But not Hobie, never Hobie.

Even during the times where you wanted him to leave you alone, he would always come back a good hour or two after with your favourite snacks in tow before he sits himself down next to you and offer to listen to what’s been eating away at you. When asked why, Hobie would look at you as though you grew a second head -even though you were quite certain in your friendship that Hobie wouldn’t give two shits if you were to grow a second head- before responding with; ‘you’re my mate and I need to be on the look out for you, even if you don’t want me to, I will, because there ain’t no way I’m letting you sit this one out on your own; we’re sitting out problems out together from now on.’ Hobie then proceeds to tuck you tightly into his side. ‘So don’t go hiding shit form me from now on, yeah?’

From then on you never once hide anything from Hobie; until one morning you found a tattoo or a marking of sorts in the shape of a electric guitar just on the inside of your wrist; Now this wasn’t just any old guitar, you knew the shape and model of the guitar like the back of your hand and from that morning onwards, you had been keeping your soulmate tattoo/mark covered by wearing long sleeved shirts or hoodies because you know if you were to conceal it in any other way and Hobie caught wind. You’d be fucked on a multitude of levels.

What you didn’t know what that Hobie was in the same predicament as you in regards of having a random tattoo/mark he doesn’t remember getting suddenly appearing on his body. He knew what it meant the moment he saw it, and ever since he’s been trying to find a seamless way to integrate it into a conversation with you that wouldn’t seem too out of left field. Hobie knows he’s a confident bloke but to drop this type of thing on you unexpectedly as though it was nothing, wasn’t the way he wanted to go about things you both adamantly shitted on previously.

Hobie also has a sneaking suspicion that this was why you had brought up the topic of soulmates when you did; because you also had a mark of your own. Ever since you’ve both been tucked away on the rooftop, he’s noticed how every so often you would subconsciously pull down the fabric of your hoodie/long sleeved shirt as though you were trying to hide something. but even with all your attempts of hiding your Mark, Hobie could often sometimes see glimpses of the neck of the guitar practically wink at him knowingly.

‘I dunno,’ you shrugged, ‘what can I do in that situation? I can’t say that I love them because I’m fated to them-‘

‘Why not?’ Hobie interjected.

You shrug again, ‘I want to at least get to know the person outside of the whole being my soulmate before I start saying anything in regards to liking them, never mind loving them.’ Once again Hobie caught you pulling down the fabric of your sleeve out of the corner of his eye before casting his eyes back to you.

‘What if your soulmate is closer then you thought?’ He asked as you furrowed your brows as you looked at him as a weird feeling befell you. It felt as though Hobie knew something you didn’t and your hand immediately went to your covered wrist, feeling over exposed all of a sudden as a flurry of thoughts rushed to the forefront of your mind all at once, overwhelming you to the point where it became hard to not only swallow but breath as well.

Hobie knew

He knew

Were the only thoughts that stuck out to you in that moment and in that moment, you honestly didn’t know what to do now that you were caught. You cursed yourself for not knowing any better as Hobie was as smart as they came but before you could start running your mouth with excuses, Hobie lifted one of his spiked cuffs slightly up his arm to show you his tattoo/mark.

However a question still remained unanswered; where do you go from here now that you found out that your best friend was your soulmate?

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chahnniesroom · 1 year ago

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tenderness | bonus scene: banmal

pairing: bang chan x female reader

summary: the first time you call chan 'oppa.'

this is a bonus scene taking place in the tenderness universe, but you don't have to have read tenderness to read this fic! just know that the main character is currently a manager for stray kids. she's also chan's soulmate, which explains why she lives in the dorms with him.

chapter word count: 1.6k

warnings: none!

a/n: a bit of fluff was requested by one of the readers on ao3. the term 'banmal' is used to describe informal speech in korean and is usually for casual conversation between friends, relatives, or people younger than you. i can't properly demonstrate the way that the main character's speech level changes since speech levels don't exist the same way in english. i only modified the honorifics that y/n uses to address the members. this was my first time writing fluff, it was surprisingly fun!

tenderness masterlist | read it on ao3

“Noona?” You and Jisung are lounging in the living room after a schedule that miraculously ended early. You're not sure where the other guys are and you don't really care, it's nice to have one on one time with Jisung.

“Hm?” You drag your eyes away from the drama that the two of you have been half heartedly been watching to find him deep in thought.

“You called me Jisung-ssi earlier. You always do that. Why?”

“Ah,” you say, flustered. “It just still feels weird to talk to you guys informally. I don’t want anybody to get the wrong idea.”

“But you don’t call Felix, Felix-ssi! I’ve even heard you call him Lixie before! Why is he special?” Jisung whines.

“It’s different!” you defend yourself. “We talk in English mostly. There’s not really any honorifics or levels of speech. It’d be weirder if I did speak formally to him.”

“Sounds like an excuse, but okay. What do you call Channie-hyung?” he asks with a particular gleam in his eyes.

“Chan-ssi,” you say matter-of-factly. You have to bite back a laugh at the disappointed noise he makes at your response.

“Minho-hyung?”

“Minho-ssi.”

“Changbinnie-hyung?”

“Changbin-ssi,” you reply dutifully.

“You guys are the same age! It doesn’t make sense!” he groans.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting,” you say, amused. “I talk to all of you the same.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re hopeless.” He shakes his head dramatically. “You’re soulmates with Channie-hyung! That means you’re basically family to all of us. Listen, at work? Sure, fine, you can be all polite and formal, I get it. But in the dorms?”

“Jisu-”

“Here, the guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Please please please, can you call Minho-hyung oppa to his face?”

“What? No!” you say immediately.

“Pleaseee,” he draws out the word playfully. He shuffles closer and takes your hands in his, pouting exaggeratedly. “Just once! I just want to see his reaction! I know that all of us have told you at one point to speak to us comfortably. He wouldn’t get mad at you, I promise!”

“I’m not going to do it,” you laugh, trying to disentangle your hands.

“You can tell him that I forced you to! I’ll volunteer to clean the dishes after dinner! I’ll be better about cleaning the bathroom! I’ll buy you bubble tea for a week! I’ll buy you new shoes! I’ll stop changing my mind a million times when we’re trying to decide what to order during schedules! I'll write you a song! Please please please, Y/n-noona!”

“I-” you falter. Jisung immediately brightens, his mouth curves into a heart-shaped smile. “Fine. Only because you look so cute.”

Jisung cheers, jumping up and punching the air with his fists.

“You’re the best!!”

“I’m going to blame you for it,” you warn.

“Of course. Even if hyung kills me, it’ll be worth it in the moment.” He beams.

—

At dinner, Jisung sits to your left and every few minutes, he nudges your leg in an attempt to prompt you into speaking. You ignore it, continuing to eat as if nothing is happening. Yes, you agreed to follow along with Jisung’s silly idea, but you still want it to happen naturally, otherwise it would be even more out of place. As much as this is kind of a joke, it is starting to feel a bit strange always using polite speech and you're curious to see how everyone will react.

Opportunity strikes when you stretch to grab one of the side dishes that happen to be in front of Minho. You can't quite reach it sitting, but before you can stand, Minho picks up one of the serving utensils and picks out the best piece, placing it into your bowl. He serves himself next, but you know it's just to play off his kind gesture. You're genuinely grateful for his thoughtfulness.

“Thank you, Minho-oppa,” you say, making sure to keep your voice casual.

Everyone freezes. Minho is good at maintaining his nonchalant expression, but his ears betray him by slowly turning red. Your cheeks are flushed to match and even without looking, you can tell the rest of the boys are stunned. It takes a great effort on your part to not turn to glance at Chan, although you can practically feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jeongin elbow Hyunjin in the stomach and mouth "Oppa?" in disbelief.

Finally, Minho recovers enough to clear his throat loudly and say, "it's nothing, I was going to get some anyway."

Jisung, on the other hand, is grinning like an idiot.

“Hyung! You should have seen your reaction, I wish I had taken a picture!” He cries out, laughing loudly.

“What reaction?” Minho tries to play it off.

“Hyung, your ears.” Hyunjin tugs on one teasingly, then instantly apologises and cowers when Minho turns to glare at him.

"Call me oppa too, Y/n!" Changbin says excitedly, standing up to serve you from the dish closest to him.

"We're the same age, Changbin-ah, I'm not going to call you oppa," you tease. He just laughs, delighted to be on the receiving end of your more casual speech.

“If Y/n calls Minho-hyung oppa, does that mean she needs to call Chan-hyung ajhussi?” Seungmin pipes up. Across the table, Hyunjin dissolves into laughter at the thought.

—

Chan doesn’t mention it all evening, even though the boys continue to tease Minho, calling him ‘oppa’ instead of ‘hyung’ when they address him and taking every opportunity to call Chan ‘ajhussi’. They’ve both given out countless headlocks in revenge, but it’s all in good humour. Eventually, Minho, Felix, Seungmin, and Jeongin head home, and the rest of the boys drift off into their own rooms.

After washing up, you join Chan in his room, not wanting to hog the bathroom for any longer than required. He’s already set to sleep and had been sitting in bed scrolling on his phone until you had walked in. Through the reflection of the little mirror that you’re using to do your skincare routine, you can see that he’s watching you.

“You know,” he says steadily. “You can- you can call me that too, if you want.” You pause at the carefully worded request. You make eye contact with him through the mirror and watch as the tips of his ears and the tops of his cheeks slowly pinkens.

“Call you what?” you ask, deliberately playing oblivious.

“You know,” he flounders.

“Do I?" you wonder, tapping a finger to your lips teasingly.

“I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t feel comfortable, I just thought that if you were going to talk to the boys more casually then you can do the same. You’re my soulmate, things don’t have to be so formal all the time. I don’t want to force you to do anything, but I wouldn’t mind, at all! I know Jisung probably was the one to get you to say that to Minho and it was really funny to see his reaction. Uhm. I mean, you can really call me anything that you want! Chan-ssi. Chan-oppa. Chan-ah, actually no that’s kind of weird maybe not that one. Uh if it makes it less weird you can use my English name too! Chris, Christopher, whatever,” he trails off, then buries his face in his hands with a groan. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

You're finished your skincare routine so you put away all the containers and turn in your seat so that you're fully facing him. You take a second to collect yourself, then pitch your voice so it's small and cutesy, a far cry from how you normally talk.

"Oppa," you test. His eyes immediately shoot up to meet yours, cheeks darkening more than they had before. "Do you want me to call you Channie-oppa?" You tilt your head to one side and widen your eyes.

"Argh.” This time, he turns to smash his face in his pillow to hide himself, pulling the blanket over his head for good measure.

"Channie-oppa, why are you hiding? I thought this is what you wanted." You lightly tug at the blanket, but he holds it tight, shaking his head vigorously. You've never been the type to perform aegyo, but it's surprisingly fun and you can't deny that you're enjoying Chan's reaction. After another minute, he pokes his head out looking a bit sheepish.

“You are really cute when you say that,” he admits. “And I really like to hear that you feel comfortable using banmal with us.”

“I am comfortable with everyone, I have been for a while,” you say. “And you’re also really cute when I call you oppa.”

His eyes crinkle as he smiles and you take the opportunity to lean forward and poke one of the dimples that appear. In retaliation, he grips the corners of the blanket and collects you in his arms, effectively swallowing you in the mess of fabric. He pulls you so that you lose balance and fall onto the bed, cradled in his arms. You feel so safe in his embrace and the both of you momentarily fall silent.

“Okay, I think we should sleep now,” Chan says eventually. “Good night, Y/n.”

“Good night… Channie-Oppa,” you respond.

Even though you can’t see Chan in the dark, you know that he’s smiling. It’s enough that you drift off to sleep with a smile as well.

tenderness masterlist | read it on ao3

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dokidokitsuna · 7 months ago

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Our Hero

Looks like Dream Alliance is gonna win the poll-- in any case, even if it slips into 2nd place by the end, it’s the oldest AU on the list so it takes priority. ^^ The art train has already left the station~

I thought it’d be nice to start off with a picture of good old Mad Scientist Magolor. I’ve never actually drawn what he would look like after his big adventure is over, during the brief year or two when he’s considered the universally-beloved savior of the world…y’know, before Consequences™ start to muddy the waters. ^^; He’s basically the same; the only changes are his scar and Nova-freckles, updated vambraces, and of course, the wheelchair. I originally intended for his dimensional overcoat to carry his weakened body around, and I guess it could, but visually I like the actual chair better. :] It makes him feel more down-to-earth.

So, if you remember, a while back I wrote out a “bad ending” epilogue for Dream Alliance, which I admitted I didn’t actually consider “canon” to the AU. "So then," you may be wondering, "what IS the canon ending? What actually happens to Mags and Division Six after they save the world…?"

Well, I gave it some thought, and as painful as it is…I think the true ending would be very similar to the “bad” one. Hyness is the problem-- after all’s said and done, the various leaders of the world would probably want him dead for inciting a global genocide. And it would be hard to blame them…but at the same time, I simply cannot imagine a Magolor who would sit quietly and let his father be executed. Even if it meant having the whole world turn on him, even if he truly felt the punishment fit the crime, he would still have to try to save him. He just loves him too much.

There would only be two major differences, and the first would be the position of the Dream Alliance: one of the conditions of the “good ending” is that Susie discovers the truth about Magolor, but understands where he’s coming from, due to her relationship with her own morally-bankrupt-yet-loving father. She does have a talk with him, but keeps it under wraps, and generally ignores the issue until the public finds out that Hyness exists. And even then, although she’s duty-bound to respect the wishes of the rest of the world (and kinda does want to avenge President Haltmann Sr., who died during the Void fiasco) she feels bad about having to oppose Magolor on this, and holds back a bit during the final fight.

The second (even more painful) major difference would be…I think Magolor would decide to sacrifice himself to end the conflict. 🥺If the world wants a life to take, let it be his-- after all, that would be the harshest possible punishment for his father, and he knows it. Nothing would hurt Hyness more than to live out the rest of his days knowing his beloved son died for his crimes.

And it would also quell any concerns regarding all the power Magolor amassed during the story: if he dies, the Void Destroyer System dies with him. No one has to worry about the god-killing mecha or alien auxiliaries falling into the wrong hands; it will all be gone. That extra detail, I think, would be enough to convince other world leaders to accept the deal.

His angels would agree unanimously to die with their creator, because that’s how they are (Morpho might even pull a “see you on the other side”, being part death-god, after all…he knows they’ll meet again in some form~); Gryll and Adeleine would be inconsolable, the other generals would be low-key devastated too (I think MK would be hit the hardest); and Hyness would probably still be alone in his cell, able to ‘sense’ the loss of his child even without anyone telling him…and wishing for nothing more than to join him from that moment on.

#kirby #gijinka #au #dream alliance #magolor #god damn ;_;#there’s something about this AU that always brings on the freaking tears #you’ll see when I start going through the rest of the extra content

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jasontoddspussy · 25 days ago

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khajiit jason!! can ya do khajiit jason, just him like... either after an assignment from the dark brotherhood gone wrong or someone preformed the black sacrament on the joker and jason finally gets his revenge/justice?

Well, Jason thought, that could’ve gone better.

He knew taking out a target in broad daylight was stupid to begin with, but this couldn’t be called anything but downright sloppy.

The target had been on their own, plucking herbs from the nearby forestry. They’d been armed, unsurprisingly, wolves were a problem after all, but alone. Jason had, originally, thought he’d take them out at night. But after a quick stakeout, he’d been annoyed that their house was placed right in the middle of Markath. Not only did that mean guards would be more likely to spot him, but so would nosy town-goers.

Not that he couldn’t do it. He knew he could.

But when he’d seen them out and alone? He’d taken the chance. He’d been arrogant - Just because he was larger than most, didn’t make him invulnerable.

(He knew it didn’t.)

The target had died easily, not knowing they were dead until they hit the ground from Jason slitting their throat.

But they hadn’t been as alone as he’d thought, it seems, as someone had spotted them and shot an arrow at him. It’d landed right in the meat of his shoulder. He didn’t have time to stay and kill someone else, it wasn’t in his contract, so he fled, trying to keep his bloodloss to a minimum.

It was daylight though, so he wasn’t going to heal until nightfall. He felt overheated and drained. He wasn’t good with magic, so he couldn’t cast a healing spell, either. He knew how, but it cost way too much magicka for him to do the simplest of spells, and besides, he usually didn’t need to. He healed fast.

Jason grimaced, making a quick make-shift sling for his arm and trying to plant pressure around his wound, he made his way to his (stolen) horse, readying himself for a long, trying trek back to the sanctuary.

Back home.

“Welcome back, my love.” Talia greeted by the entrance to the chambers. He’d just finished reporting back to Nazir and had been on his way to take care of his wound. Thankfully, since he was now out of the sun, it would be swift healing.

“Thanks.” He replied gruffly. His den-mother paused, clearly giving him a once-over before sighing softly.

“Damian’s been looking for you.” She said, pulling him to a cot where he sat down. Patiently, she unwrapped his makeshift sling and without any pre-ample, pushed the arrow all the way through so she could break it.

“Is he not to be training?” Jason questioned.

“He is. There has been an event he wishes to speak to you about. This one promised.” She tells him, using a small healing spell to heal his shoulder. Most of their people aren’t all that good at magic, but she, and Grandfather, both excel at it.

It was what captivated Da-Bruce. Before the man left.

“I see. Where can this one find him?” Talia smiled, her even though it wasn’t visible because of her mask, he could still tell.

“He will find you.”

True to her word, Damian found him later that night whilst Jason was reading.

“Brother. I have news.” His brother announced, ears standing proud. He was even wearing war-paint, imitating Jason’s own stripes. He found it endearing.

“Yes? Come sit and tell this one.” He prompted, patting the cushion beside him. Damian sat.

“Someone has performed the black sacrament.. To kill the mad-man who tortured your soul. Do you wish to meet with and create the contract?”

Jason’s blood froze in his veins. He- Would he actually get to avenge himself?

He’d been revived, and turned, by Grandfather with the blessing of Night Mother herself. He wasn’t supposed to be alive, but his family felt he deserved another chance.

His existence betrayed everything he’d been taught growing up with his dad and other siblings, but he was happy- Even.

Even if his old family didn’t want to avenge him.

But this… This could mean he could finally get to put his soul to rest, metaphorically speaking.

He knows Bruce would never. Not so long as that man is mortal.

“Tell me where to find them. I will create the contract.” He told Damian, who handed him a go-back. It was arranged exactly the way Jason liked. His little brother had been prepared.

“Of course, brother. May warm sands guide you.”

The invoker wanted to meet near Morthal, which suited him well enough. Jason walked out of the shadows, seeing the ritual remnants on the ground still, and a man, presumably, sanding with his back to him.

“You called?” He spoke, announcing his presence.

The man didn’t jump, or startle. He simply turned around. Jason stared at the Dawnguard Uniform, at the blue eyes and dark hair.

“Good. I need you to avenge someone for me. Kill Joker, and avenge my brother.”

Said Tim Drake, Jason’s younger brother.

#jason todd #dc #batman #talia al ghul #damian wayne #khajit #the dark brotherhood #tes #crossover #prompt

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fetusharryluvr · 2 years ago

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wedding planning gone wrong

in which everything goes tits up, y/n is upset, and harry comforts her…

4 months ago to the day, you became Harry’s fiancée. It was the best night of your life, so far. You still remember it as though it were yesterday. He whisked the both of you away to Italy for the weekend, a place you both loved with your whole hearts. Then, during a moonlit dinner in Rome, he went down in one knee, and of course you said ‘yes’ before he could even finish his sentence. It was perfect, just you, Harry, and the stars.

The two of you had been stuck in your own little husband-and-wife-to-be bubble ever since. One thing you and Harry never understood was how people could wait 2 or more years to get married. Your love for eachother was endless, you didn’t want to wait.

You began planning almost immediately. He adored seeing how happy and in your element you were. Most nights he would come home to you cozied up on the sofa with your laptop, asking him questions like “Magnolia or ivory centrepieces?”

Harry himself couldn’t tell the difference, but somehow he’d always give you the right answer.

Tonight was exactly the same. Or so Harry expected. “Hey, wifey. ‘M home.” He called out out as he locked the front door, a nickname he had given you from the moment you accepted his proposal.

He waltzed into the he living room with a wide smile on his face. It’d been a long day at the studio, and all he was looking forward to was cuddling up with you and hearing about what new ideas you had for the wedding.

Except, this time when he walked into the living room, he was greeted with the hushed sound of your crying. His face fell when he saw you curled up under a blanket with flushed cheeks, and your swollen, bloodshot eyes. “Love?” He cooed, immediately sitting down on the sofa beside you, taking your hands in his, “What’s the matter?”

“It’s all ruined, H.” You sniffled.

He didn’t understand. “What is? What’s ruined?”

You frowned. He brought his hand up to your face, ruining it along your cheek and pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “The wedding. I got a call from t’ venue this mornin’. They said there was a double booking and it turns out, the other couple have a famous photographer, so the hotel picked them over us ‘cause it’s ‘better publicity.’” Seeing how upset you were just made Harry even more sad. “An’ then I went back to the dress shop for a final fitting and when the lady was zippin’ it up, she ripped the dress. S’ now we’ve got no dress and no venue.”

Harry brought you closer to him, allowing you to sob into his chest. “Shh, it’s alright. It’s okay, we can fix this.” He hated to see you cry. He knew how much this meant to you, how excited you were. How you’d had your wedding all planned out since before you knew Harry even existed. He sighed into your hair, pulling away and holding your cheeks. “Y/N, love, look at me. I love you so fucking much. I would move heaven and earth for you, y’know that. I will try and fix this for us. And if I can’t, then I don’t care. I would marry you in our bedroom wearing your bloody pyjamas if it meant getting to spend the rest of my life with you.”

You felt yourself beginning to well up again as you stared at him, his hands warming up your cheeks, “Really?” You asked, unsure.

He looked back at you, speaking in a soft, sincere tone that told you all you needed to know. “Of course. We don’t need a big, fancy, expensive party to prove that we love eachother. I want a marriage, not a wedding. I just want you, and everything that comes with you.”

That. That was exactly why you wanted to marry Harry. He didn’t care for what other people thought, he loved you and that was all that mattered. And he was right, you didn’t need a huge, look-how-much-money-we-have wedding, all you needed was eachother.

That night, you spent it cuddled up on the couch, making love with your fiancé, watching your favourite romcoms, and googling the nearest registry offices. The planning may have gone tits up, but you and Harry were going to have the best wedding ever.

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rise-my-angel · 1 year ago

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Heart of the Great Wolf

24 - Ghostly Dreams of Old

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon Reader (Past)

Length: 13.8k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, discussions of warfare, strained parental dynamics, insecurity and trauma, mild smut, oral sexual descriptions (m and f receiving)

Notes: I'm gonna end up having to add a certain kink in the warnings one of these, aren't I? Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

He hadn’t expected anyone to find him in there, though he supposed that considering who it was which came slowly walking in through the door, it only made sense. You weren’t the only one struggling with being here, the only one struggling to find any kind of harmony now that you were allowed to exist as a real human with their own autonomy in this castle. Theon had spent too much time in this castle as a man he couldn’t recognize.

The door creaked open, and you had walked in slowly, quietly. Your hands gently wrung almost in a slight nerve as if not wanting to disturb the quiet. You knew why he was in Bran’s room, and despite nothing but time being what could help him come to terms with what he had done, you knew doing it alone would be of no use. You said nothing yet, and neither did he.

Just turned to look at you with a painted sorrow and regret in his eyes that rarely he let any see unless it was alone with the other. You looked at him almost upset and uncomfortable that afternoon, having to come to you and tell you the boy wanted to speak to you and almost without realizing he had gone back to calling you, “Your Grace.” But it was different now, very different.

Theon wasn’t stupid. He could see that losing Jon had hurt something deep in you he didn’t expect, and then standing in your father’s quarters as Tormund spoke to you, a soft joke on his lips about how much Jon loved you was sickening. He didn’t quite get it then, but he got it quickly once he came back, or at least from what he could sense on one person.

Something was going on between you two, and Theon could tell that Jon did not care to hide it.

He let his heart sit right on his face in how he looked at you and that day in the courtyard? As the North all chanted King in the North, all the man could do was almost spin tight in his arms, that was the embrace of a man who was desperately in love with you.

But still, you now stood beside Jon as you did Robb. Standing beside Jon, as you thought once you would be here in this home, in these halls, ruling by your King’s side but it was the child which Catelyn Stark would hate you for being with. If she could, she’d look down on you for not just running to his brother, but his bastard brother. Would call your love for Robb into question as if you didn’t spend an entire year being tortured by the Boltons as much as you tortured yourself for not dying at Robb’s side like you promised.

Catelyn would look down on you for whatever this was with Jon, and he hated that you blamed yourself for it. Just as he knew, you could tell Theon still blamed himself for Bran and Rickon, when more forces then him had taken them away by now. Much time had passed, you both quietly looking to the other before you wasted no more seconds and walked up.

Gently sitting next to him where he sat, you facing the closed window waiting for Theon to be ready to talk. Waiting for him to turn away from where Bran used to lay and find a voice. You were patient, it wouldn’t feel better forcing it out. “You know, it’d be nice. To have one day where you and I wake up and we’re not constantly walking around here thinking about our failures.”

You hummed, nodding mindlessly as you both still had yet to look at the other. Finding a small voice of your own it was at the least tinted in some lighter amusement. “I can almost imagine what it looked like. You storming into this room trying to tell Bran what you’d done.” Theon finally turned his head enough to look at you, sitting more to the side like you were as you elaborated. “All worked up prancing around the room calling yourself a Prince.”

The smallest hint of a smirk came into his features, “Sorry is that funny to you?” One shoulder of yours shrugged as he huffed out a breathe. “Braver then I ever was. Sat there as I woke him up telling him I betrayed his family and took his home, and he refused to give up with all the boldness those Starks have.” Nodding behind him slightly, “Had to sit down on the bed like I was lecturing him just to get the message through, that I was going to make him surrender. No wonder the men had no respect for me, couldn’t even get it from an eleven year old.”

Both taking a moment to laugh, your uninjured hand trailed over the fingertips of your wrapped scar and down to your palms as they sat in your lap. Glancing back at him finally, you could see both the guilt but also a calmness over it, one he knew he could only speak of which just like this.

“You think they’re telling the truth? About Aegon?” You shrugged properly that time, it was impossible to tell and even more impossible to find out the truth on your own. All you had was their word but it was hard to imagine it stemmed from a complete lie.

Leaning forward, your hands clasped as they rested over your knees. “They said Aegon’s face was so smashed and bloody, not even Lord Tywin could recognize it. If they switched him out, it might be possible. What that was supposed to accomplish though, I’m not sure. Why sneak out one child and not both, considering they also got out Aerys’s youngest before my father got there.”

Shaking his head, he echoed words you had been thinking this whole time. “Don’t know why any of them would think the North would kneel for them, after what they did.”

Three Starks in one war was the previous rebellion’s cost. So far, it was looking the same. Four dead, one so far North none knew where to find him or why he was there, and two none with any clue anymore of where they were or if they were alive. “In my experience, most of those going for the Iron Throne don’t care about the North.”

“Got a good track record though. Never lost a battle yet.” Your eyes met and unspoken words sat bright across both of your eyes for the other to see in full. “Least this time I’ve learned my lesson, about trusting my own people for help.”

“The North are your people. Whether they realize it yet or not. We’ve all done bad things at this point, we’re all as guilty as you for something.” You both were quiet before you spoke softer, “You should go see him. Both of them, before we leave. Say sorry for being such an ass when you stormed the castle.”

Teasing between you both was a bit easier. The dynamic would never be what it used to be, but neither of you thought it would be better if it was. Something between you and Theon now bonded you in a way that you wouldn’t know what to do without him, and he felt the same. Teasing used to be mostly a game between you both but now it almost was the only thing either had left to cope with what you’ve done, what you’ve been through. Slowly work your way through the years of sin and maybe if you joke about enough of it you’ll forgive yourselves.

Theon nodded, keeping quiet for a moment before his tone turned light once more to match. “You’re sure we can’t just sail to the cliffs and climb up ourselves. I mean, if I could trudge through a moat to climb two walls, how hard can it be there?”

You could’ve laughed, but it was no ones fault. Dragonstone was not seen nor visited by many and unless your eyes saw it’s scale for yourself, it was impossible to know why that was not a good or viable option. “Tell you what, Greyjoy. When we’re on the island, you and I will go down to the sea, and we’ll find out how long it takes us to climb up and over. Before we both fall and die from exhaustion.”

Theon leaned forward to match your position, arms outstretched against his legs. “You know what, I change my mind.” You turned with a bemused question on your face as he raised an eyebrow tilting his head at you with a knowing expression. “If Jon saw me putting you in that kind of danger for fun, even if I fell and snapped my neck I’m fairly sure he’d bring me back to life just to kill me again himself.” That got you both to laugh at least. Theon once more turning a bit quieter, “Can I ask, what exactly is going on between you two?”

Sighing out, you bit your tongue trying to find the right words but once more you could feel that same stare that it seemed like all were giving you over it, not truly realizing none of then were. Your hands wrung together, brows narrowing as you struggled to come up with it. You had never spoken of it to anyone with any real substantial amount of truth until your mother. She knew with more detail then any you’d told but you had no idea what to say outside of such an outburst you had.

Dropping your head you felt the sting behind your eyes flow stronger. Trying to grab your attention better by softly calling your name but you shook your head. Was it the guilt of doing anything willingly after Robb or the hammering hatred that was branded into by the monster which came after him, with poison words and a deadlier touch. Or perhaps, was it the thought of how would it look to all others?

Catelyn would hate you, you knew that, but who else would? Would Arya look at you and think you had jumped from one to the other as if they were interchangeable? How much should one know if you say anything to anyone else? Then as you actually opened your mouth to speak, that insecurity bled through in an instant. “The day we met with Ramsay, he had said something. I know he was trying to rile me up, rile Jon up into getting angry when he said it. That I had just went from one man’s bed to the next..but the truth is he wasn’t wrong.”

Theon narrowed his eyes, a doubt in your intention of words. “Ramsay was only-”

Your voice was short, stern. Cutting him off with a spitting hatred only for yourself. “He was right, Theon. I just went from one to another. Jon and Robb, then Robb to Ramsay and now I’m back with Jon. Maybe I am just fucking my way through the North.”

Taken back clearly, Theon felt a tinge of confused. “What do you mean back with Jon?”

Your head hung, shame filling as the need to repent came forth. All this time away from the faith and still the call to wash away your sins returned in your lowest of moments. “We never- it didn’t get that far..but we..Jon and I had been together before I was to marry Robb.” You didn’t dare look at him, suddenly it was not a man you’ve come far to deeply trust but the fear that if you did look? You’d see the judgment as you were always scared any would look to you with.

Like they doubted what you felt for Robb was ever real, when the sheer idea of anyone thinking that was enough to make that weight in your throat sink and slam you into the earth.

“He- my maidenhood was still intact when..it never went to that point..but we still..then I married Robb, Jon was going to the wall, and we thought that was the end of it. I never said anything because I knew how it would look. Everyone would assume it wasn’t real, what I had with Robb and..then I lost him and..” Your voice finally cracked, and the sting turned to a push and out the tears shed down your cheeks without being stopped. “Willing or not, Ramsay still..took me in such a manner, then I ran from that and now I’m worried that everyone will hate me for it. Hate me for only being here to warm one man’s bed to the next.”

The next thing out of his mouth, you didn’t expect. “You’re an idiot.” You turned, eyes red and tears still there but there was not the judgment in his eyes. Just a soft understanding you didn’t know how to handle. “Everyone who laid eyes on you two knows you loved Robb. You try to keep a lot to yourself, but there wasn’t a second that anyone could think you didn’t both love each other with all your heart.” You wiped at the tears, but it didn’t help much. “And you didn’t betray him with Ramsay. You were a prisoner, he forced it all on you, Robb would’ve never blamed you for that. And he wouldn’t blame you for Jon.”

Truthfully, you weren’t so sure of that anymore. Turning away from him again, it was lucky you had gloves otherwise your nails would be digging into your skin by that point. “You two fought together to get this place back, you’re standing together to figure out how to fight against whatever’s coming from beyond the wall, you’re standing by him as your King. Oh and you both came back from the dead, if you forgot. I think that if you die, come back, and then also bring another man back to life that entitles you to be allowed to fuck him.”

You were red beyond red at how casually that just came out of his mouth. Your eyes wide as you stammered in place. “We- it was, we're not-”

Theon called your name though, and in the racing nerves in your blood you managed to turn to look at him trying to breathe calmly. “Whether you are or aren’t, no one here cares. The Northerners don’t, I don’t, free folk sure as hell don’t. The only person who thinks you were some whore had his head chopped off the other day. So his opinion no longer counts.” Leaning closer, there was a low tone that sounded as close to assurance as he could get. “If no one objects to you fucking him, you’ll be damn certain no one’s going to object to you two loving each other. Let other people make you happy for once, Baratheon. Because you’re shit at it on your own.”

The quiet between you was there for a long time, trying to find agreement and you couldn’t tell what was your own insecurity which was making you feel those things and what was the suffocating influence still trailed from Ramsay Bolton.

“Didn’t we come up here to talk about Bran?”

Shrugging, Theon held a small smirk. “Not my fault you’re disgustingly lovesick for Kings in the North. I came up here to think before you and I head out. Depending on how serious this Aegon is, might be my last chance for a while.”

You nodded, finally feeling your cheeks dry properly. “Go see them before then. No matter what you had done, you were still family to them. They’ll want to see you.” Standing abruptly, you smoothed out the skirt of your dress as if to occupy yourself in any small way before walking back out to the world. “And Theon?” Turning back to look at him, a softer, more sorrowful expression formed on your face just a bit. “Don’t blame yourself too much either. We can’t go back, we can only do better. Both of us.”

There were so many times returning to Winterfell was all you could look forward too, but now the last four times you had done so were only dread. The uncertain mystery after Lord Arryn’s death, escaping King’s Landing knowing you were returning to Robb for war, being dragged back in the violence and blood of a never ending nightmare and now. Returning to a place you struggled to find home in now that you were allowed to call it as such again.

“You’ve been at that all day.”

Your eyebrows barley raised in acknowledgement as well as a thick hum in your throat. Your mind carefully focused on the details outlying in the paper in front of you. You could feel his warmth before you saw him. Leaning down against the table with his palms flat leaning just over your shoulder enough he casted a shadow. Turning up suddenly with narrowed eyes, Jon only had a fond smirk on his face.

Leaning back enough, in the emptiness of the room there came the gentle comfort of his hand running along the strands of hair lose against your back before sliding down your spine. Stopping in the middle and hadn’t moved away from that spot. His voice was comforting in sound, “You can put in as much detail as you want, but the are never going to memorize it as much as you have.”

Sighing out, you paused your hands before gently returning to the drawing. Your own tone a little far away, “I just need to be sure. It’s a complicated place, I don’t want to leave anything up to chance.”

The outlines of Dragonstone was not easy. A map only in broad terms of what was where and you had now been tracing along it to guide the paths needed to take both sides of the castle, and how rough the terrain to overcome would be. Mountains and ragged cliffs, drop offs and water spilling down the sides it would be difficult for any unfamiliar with the land.

Jon watched as you finished the section you had been working on, waiting until your movements slowed to finally interrupt. Leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the top of your head before speaking lower in your ear. “Fighting up to the castle will be easy. It’s getting our feet on land that’s the problem.”

Standing up a bit straighter you sighed out. Still running your eyes all over the contents. “I- we’re not just fighting for land, or for a home. We can’t get this right, then we don’t have another option to protect the people we already have here.” You looked up to him, eyes wide glossed with a worry that you felt in your throat as well.

Jon nodded, the assurance in his was genuine but not overwhelmingly hopeful. Which truthfully is what you needed, not to be told this would be a breeze. Lowering his head enough to meet your eye level, “Obsessing over it won’t make a fight any easier. I won’t have you losing sleep over this, you’re doing enough as it is.”

Watching the other for a moment before you nodded. The hand on your spine making a jump to run over your hair and down to your cheek. Thumb running across your bottom lip as the grey in Jon’s eyes seemed to paint darker and darker the more you looked into them. Your own hand reaching up to run yours across his pulse on the wrist close to you. A once dead heart with a pulse running strong and steady.

Your mind finding the right words for it, lucky that he could sense something trying to come out as he stood patiently to wait. Your eyes flickering down in a tinge of guilt though, was not the emotion you preferred to make itself known. “Feels like it never stops. The entire time I was with Robb, we were always going somewhere, fighting someone, planning something else. The only time we ever had was while we were at war. And now it feels like it’s happening all over again with you.”

Turning to lean against the table, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you follow suit. Noticing he seemed to have stepped a bit closer to press his side up against yours. “War was when he needed you the most.” Looking to him at the side, Jon’s jaw was more clenched then before, the hands in his arms tensing a bit around the knuckle as something rougher was fighting through him. “It’s not the life you thought you’d share with him, but I know there was nowhere but at his side he’d rather you have been. Could handle it as long as you were.”

Your voice was mostly just a whisper, a tugging at your heart of blue eyes and a reddish brown head of curls that no matter what always found ways to charm you off your feet. “And how do you know that?”

Jon’s was also a whisper, but much more sure and confident even through the rasping strain. “I spent everyday growing up trying to figure out what kind of life I could have with you. What I’d do to convince my father, where we could go that it didn’t matter, worrying you’d come to your senses and realize being with a bastard wasn't good enough for you.” He didn’t meet your eyes, and it was only a distant pain in his face which spoke of something long gone but still rippled in hurt.

His name coming softly from your lips, you leaned a bit more into his side, Jon leaning back without committing fully. “I wasn’t ashamed of being with a bastard, I was afraid of how much you’d get intro trouble if we were caught, because of who I was.”

Shaking his head slightly, almost having a talk with himself in the inside you were not privy to. “When I started thinking about joining the Night’s Watch, part of me wondered if I should just keep going past the Wall and bring you far North with me instead. I’d build you a home, and a nice big hearth to keep you warm, because it didn’t matter where we were or what was happening. I just wanted to be with you.”

You almost felt a need to cry, things were so much easier back then. “Is that where you came up with eight children?” Jon chuckled deep in his chest and the comforting sound and look of a small smile on his lips was enough to pull a gentle, breathier laugh from you.

“It was still five back then. Now it’s probably closer to nine.” You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh more or find a sickening warm pooling of phantom blood spilling from the jagged scars in your stomach. You might not even be able to give him one, you might have only had chance and you ruined it after all.

But he continued, “My point is, it doesn’t matter if we’re still at war five, ten years from now. As long as I have you, then I’m happy.” This time, he looked at you while your eyes found themselves trained intently on the floor. You wished you could see any putting up with you for that long anymore.

Inhaling deeply, you found more strength in your vocal cords finally. “So we take it one step at a time. We fight this one before we start worrying about the next.”

Jon still watched you closely, “Exactly.”

Biting your lip, you almost felt the need to cover any and every doubt inside your mind as you looked over to him with a lightness in your eyes that was only put them seconds earlier. “Could still go North when winter is over. If this being King thing doesn’t work out.”

Smirking with a huff of a laugh, Jon shook his head almost incredulously. “We have a nice big fire, and a warm bed in our room already. Can’t build you a nicer home then that.”

He looked to a shine in your eyes, and you knew he had seen the surprise in which he wasted no moment in calling it our room. When for all this time, you had still seen it as his. But Jon saw it as yours, both of yours. Neither you nor him looked away. “Well, this is the home we fought for together I suppose.”

Had the doors to the study not opened, Jon would’ve moved in a heartbeat to lift you up onto this very table. Kneel down in front of you, and show you just how good he wanted to make you feel in the home you reclaimed together. Ever since you took him into your mouth the other morning, all he could think of was how much he wanted more and more of you at every chance.

Jon was feeling a deep, almost frustrating desperation and he hated barley being able to control his want.

Gathered all around going through the fine details, plans made through and through again ensuring all details on the lands covered. “It’s the only place they can stay that high with their sights on the water, but it cuts them off from the view of the hills leading to the castle approaching. That’s where they’ll keep him.”

You and Ser Davos both stood beside one another, leaning over the plans you spent much time drawing up and he readily backed up the fact that it was not going to be an easy feat sneaking around that long of a go to sail up unseen from the fishing port. You could land, but without anything to distract their eyes would find yours sneaking up. Archers could pick you off from afar behind then they could reach in the lands outstretched up the hills to the main land.

Smalljon Umber narrowed his eyes in thought, voice slow as he pieced it together. “Why hide him up from the fighting if he’s their King?”

Eyes sharp as he looked over everything, Jon turned to look at him. “If he is Rhaegar’s son, they’ve been hiding him all these years. They can’t afford to put in him a battle and lose him before he’s gotten to the Iron Throne yet” His hand gesturing to the very spot on the outlines, “If that’s the castle's best vantage point, then that’s where he’ll be.”

Jon clearly thought about it for a good while as he considered the plans moving through his mind. “We don’t even need to beat them.” All heads flying up to look at him with confused eyes, except for your watchful ones still on the plans below. “If I can get someone up to Aegon, they’ll surrender just to keep him safe. I’m not looking for a fight, but if they’re going to force us too, then we only fight as long as it takes to get someone there.”

Theon nodded, looking at him with a determination. “We attack the Golden Company from the East so they don’t catch the rest of us sneaking up behind them from the West.” Both men nodded at the other with a knowing look, Theon’s own glossing over with a hint of impress.

“I won’t trap us by relying on Stannis’s army to make this work, so we need to split our men into two. I’ll lead the bulk of us up the path to the castle, keep them occupied fighting us while a smaller group will have to get up the cliff’s the hard way. But we’ll keep their eyes off them.” It was a risk sending a smaller group that route, but it also was the only way to make it work. As long as Aegon was out of the fight, that side of the castle would be clear to sneak in.

Smalljon once more spoke up, asking the burning question. “Who’s going to lead the small charge to sneak in?”

If there was an answer on Jon’s mind, you spoke before he had a chance to get it out. “I will.” His grey eyes snapping sharply to you, but the others with a watchful trust that you looked only at them back too. “I’ll only need a few men. Enough to climb the walls, and sneak past whoever we find stationed at the top. I know this castle better then anyone, I know exactly where to go and how to get their the fastest.”

Davos met your eyes with a brighter agreement. “Going through Aegon’s garden will be your best bet. Easy to get turned around if you don’t know where you’re going. And from there you can either sneak in through the main hall on the inside or around the long way to the tower entrance at the bottom.”

Your eyes followed along the path as he spoke, knowing the path up the tower was the best bet. They wouldn’t see you coming until you were too close, whereas the main hall was too close to the main doors and if the battle reached their before you, it would draw attention. “So we plan for both. If it’s only us, we go the outside route and if my father joins us we can get inside.”

“He can sneak up from behind.” The others had a question in their eyes that while you missed, luckily Davos was there to provide explanation. Running his hand along the path from the back of the outlines and up. “There’s enough room to sail Northwest and not be spotted by any of his ships. Stannis can sail right past them and land at this port, and by the time they come up behind, you can open the back gates to let them through.” Nodding to you, “You’ll be ready to knock at their door and stop before they even realize how many are there.”

Maege Mormont had a question of doubt as she looked to Davos. “We sure the villages won’t send word the second he lands?”

He shook his head no, but you were the one who spoke. Eyes still along the outlines as you could see the motions in your head playing out. “There’s not many who live on Dragonstone. Two thousand at best, probably less at this point. Mostly small villages and a few fishing ports, none of them have any reason to want Aegon and the Golden Company there.” Tilting your head slightly to the side with a reluctant casualness. “That, and the Targaryeans never gave much thought to them. My father’s not the most charismatic of the family but his own men are loyal. They believe in him and a good couple hundred of them come from these people. They’ll help him sneak quietly before they’d turn him in.”

Jon had been watching you carefully, closely. He could see the plans in your mind just as vividly as you were conjuring them. Were it up to him, he’d keep you on the ship until the fighting was over but he also knew that it was the dreams of you dying in a pool of your own blood which fuelled such a fear of you anywhere near so much of it again.

The deep rumbling from Tormund sat in agreement with you. “I’ve climbed the wall more times then I can count. Me and a few others will join you, get you up to this King in no time.”

Agreeing, Theon who stood on the other side of you, swallowed heavily before taking a plunge that had you raising your gaze more soft and proud as he spoke. “So will I. Climbed over both these walls and through the moat to get into Winterfell the first time, should be able to do it again.”

But it wasn’t mistrust in those watching. It seemed, the trust which already existed between both of you was finding it’s way onto the Northerners who once knew it was his head to be taken for those very actions. A simmer flowed between each of you until it landed on the squinting, almost glare of Jon as he looked at you. Rising in heat until it sweltered too much bear as Jon nodded. Directing attention to the rest of them.

“Make sure your men all know, we’re only fighting until they surrender. I’m not going there to kill this King, or stop their own plans. I need Dragonglass and we only fight as long as it takes to get to it.” All nodded in understanding as he looked back to the plans. “Now we just have to find a way to breach their ships blocking the way.”

“Leave it to me.” Once more eyes found yours as you didn’t others. “I’ll see what we’re working with when I get to White Harbour. See what Manderly’s ships can handle, and if my father cooperates then he knows as well as I what it’ll take.”

Jon’s tone notably, was a bit softer when he directed his focus to you. “If we can get our feet on the ground, our odds are promising. Getting to the beach is the important part.” Your head absently nodded in agreement but it wasn’t formulated enough to speak aloud the plans in your mind.

You would present them when you had something fully formed swimming up there. Voice far away as well, “I get us ashore, you have the rest.” Finally meeting his eyes, he was hesitant but didn’t voice whatever the doubt in the more deep grey’s were speaking of you. Whatever he wanted them to say, he would wait until there were none left.

“That’ll be all for tonight.” Plans made clear and more talk of how and where to go were put into proper place until it was late enough for Jon to dismiss the meeting. Watching for all to leave you two alone, your palms now braced on either side of the table, leaning forward as you continued to keep all focus on the movement’s making in your mind.

Closing the door himself, Jon walked back to lean across somewhat on the other side mumbling your name. Looking up with ease this time, he wore the nerves much clearer on his wide, bright eyes. “You sure you want to be the one to lead them up there?”

Your eyes flickered to the side in squinting thought before returning to meet with no conflict that he felt over it. “You said it yourself, no one will be able to memorize this place as much as I know it by heart. I know where to go and where not too. It’s the best option.”

Sighing, he leaned his palms across the wooden surface, trying to find your gaze with more understanding of what he was struggling to say. “It’s also the one option where I can’t protect you if something goes wrong.”

A lurch in your heart, wanting to reach out and grasp him but you only mimicked his posture. Voice quiet and tender as you looked him over. “I’m fairly certain it would be hard to protect me if I’m in the thickest part of the fighting.”

Jon sighed out, eyes closing and opening back as he steadied his intentions in sturdy of voice. “You would stay on the ship if I had it my way.” He was trying not to glance down at where he knew your scar was.

Your head dropped into your hands for a moment sighing out not in frustration at him, but for causing him this kind of worry in the first place. Rising up again you had more of a pointed glare then perhaps you initially intended towards him. “So you can die fighting for me, but I can’t for you?”

“No.”

Your head jolted back just the slightest at how easily the answer slipped from his mouth, and with how sure of himself he said it. “May I ask why not?”

One gloved hand reached forward, cupping your cheek as you instinctively moved to hold the back of it and run your thumb down across his wrist. His voice rasping out in close to an upset of sorts, “Because I already spent a year thinking you were dead, and only got angrier at how much I hated living without you.” His thumb ran across the skin of your cheek in his own touch. “I can’t go through that again.”

Your thumb pressed against his pulse, still strong. Whispering so low were he not only a foot from your face he may not have heard it. “And I don’t want to do this, any of this without you.” Your other hand desperate to find his touch but the angle was too far and too awkward. “I’m not trying to prove a point, or be angry you want to keep me from it. But I can’t sit back and let you protect me when someone should have been there to protect you.”

Your head nodding to his chest, covered but once more all knew what lay under it.

Jon frowned a bit, his brows narrowing as his eyes slipped shut. The light touch of your thumb across the pulse on his wrist and easily under the feeling, did you feel it increase the more you ran your thumb over the area. Jon’s voice was tight and restrained when he found your eyes again with a smile trying to fight to be playful. “Going to start locking you in our room one of these days.”

You moved across the table, awkward stretch be damned, keeping your lips from him but the air from your words hit his face as he ran the hand on your cheek now to run through the hair at the back of your head. “Why do I feel like you’d enjoy that more then you should?”

The grey turning black quickly before you, and it was obvious Jon was withholding a clawing animal inside of him as his jaw clenched looking down to your mouth. Trying to find something as playful and innocent to say back, but Jon was still struggling. Not previously realizing how desperate you could make one man feel, but you saw a raw need in his eyes towards you more and more. His voice deep in a husk, “I enjoy a lot of things about you more then I should.”

Your heart skipped a pace, but as it regained a beat it shortened your breathe as it moved faster. An innocent flush in your chest as he looked shamelessly down to what he could see of your frame from his spot.

But he didn’t do anything. Pulled back, and instead collected himself as if not a thing was out of place since the others left the room closed. Nodding you to follow him around the table, “Come. You’ve been here all day, I need to get some food in you.”

You with not a clue that for a brief moment as you came to his side, Jon aggravatingly, couldn't stop himself from recalling how it felt to spill so deeply down your throat, filling your stomach with his seed. As he gently led you out into the halls, he flexed his hand painfully to restrain himself to not slam the door shut in how worked up he already could feel in his bloodstream.

And worse, when he gently ran a hand more innocently down the hair at the back of your head as he led you to the kitchens, Jon recalled the sensation of his hand pressed tight in your hair. Holding your face down and reaching the coarse hair around the base of his cock as you held his hips desperately, and the muffled sounds of gagging and swallowing that came from you.

Jon was getting a bit annoyed with himself, how often since reclaiming Winterfell was he obsessed with the memories and dreams of your touch and the dark desire in his mouth and cock to have you anyway he could imagine.

Half of him was consumed with the fights now and to come and all it would focus on was whats the next step and how many lives will it take to keep them safe again. The sheer not understood responsibility with how much of his day was drowning in the horror’s hes seen to come, and the weight of it all.

The other part of him however, wanted to keep you locked in his room. Not just for his anxious mind over your own safety, but because he had dreamt of something multiple nights in a row since being back here of you. You so peaceful at night, sleeping next to him with not a clue what kind of things he was dreaming about.

Dark, perverse dreams of pinning you down, tying you to his bed, fucking you for hours upon hours. Sleeping fantasies of not letting a single drop of him, not go deep inside your cunt. Dreams obsessed with the idea of not letting you leave his bed until he knew without a shadow of a doubt that you were with his child. And he had no idea of how to stop those thoughts the entire evening with you.

It wasn’t a normal way to think about you he knew, and he didn’t used to be this way. He used to feel terrified at the idea of getting you pregnant, knowing how much him being a bastard would ruin your life. Would give no hope to the life of your own child, another Snow, but now this one being from a bastard father himself. How no matter what he dreamed of in a life with you, Jon used to never want to think about getting you pregnant. Because he knew you would never be able to be with him in this way whatsoever.

But now it was different. He did have you, in more ways then he once could fantasize of. Something about how sure and confident you worked so seamlessly together, held nothing but respect for his people, made him radiate with a pride over how far you two have come. How not a single person around rejected the idea of you two finally being allowed to be together. How he could be with you, make you his wife, take you as many times as it took to fill you with his seed and give you a son, and there wouldn’t be any outsiders interrupting your life saying it wasn’t allowed.

And even though he didn’t like not being able to protect you out there, your place fit so well as you both now were to rule and lead together. He knew you suited being a Queen at his side. Fit well beside him, and he shamefully thought once more, of how good you felt as you fit perfectly under him too.

You were leaving for White Harbour the morning after the next, and Jon knew he had to get a grip.

“Do you truly believe such nonsense?”

Jon Connington was beginning to feel the pull of an increasingly growing frustration with the men around him. He had known Lord Varys for a very long time, longer then the years he spent in exile. A man of whispers and so far much of those continued to be kept from him. And yet, the ones he seemed to choose to share so willingly made no logical sense in his mind. The rumours of the King in the North, rumours of the Queen at his side and all he could think was Northerners were far too superstitious.

He could say of himself he was raised from the dead. Until he landed here in Westeros, most had too put him in the world of the no longer living. Drank himself to death in the ranks of the Golden Company, yet now stands with those same men all but breathing.

Rumours of their Queen slaughtered by House Frey in some war he cared little about, more that the King by her side had somehow survived a knife to the heart. Adding it onto the raven he had sent their way, talking of the dragonglass on the island and it was of upmost importance they are allowed access to it for something far North.

Lord Varys stood by him on the high walls, looking over the vast caverns on the edge as rocks surrounded the view like a shield to either side. “You don’t believe in the old powers, my lord?”

Shaking his head, Connington crossed his arms over his chest, squinting in the bright sun so high in the sky. “If this Northerner wants me to believe in dead Kings and ice monsters, he can show up on our shores like a man and show me his heart himself.” Inhaling deeply, he straightened his posture and took a tone lighter, in an almost mocking. “Tell me. If you’re so fascinated by these people, why are you running before they even get here?”

An amused hum came from the spider beside him, always as entertained by the attitudes of men around him as he was good at hiding any reason they shouldn’t be. “I assure you, Lord Connington I have far more important matters to attend to then to stand and watch a battle I have little to contribute to.”

Connington gave the spider a glare to the side, and still nothing had changed on his face despite the irritation inside him. “Is there anything I need to know? About this King in the North? People on this island seem to have plenty to say about his wife, but I’ve heard next to nothing about him.”

“He is Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son, his last living son if I am not mistaken.” If Lord Varys noticed a change in the mans tensity, no word was spoken of it.

“My little birds also tell me he is quite the foe in battle. An excellent swordsman like you have not seen in some time, said to be quite an intense lad. And allying himself with the eldest daughter of Stannis Baratheon? Raising each other from the dead? I wouldn’t have crossed them myself.”

Connington glared more openly that time, but Lord Varys did not take offence. “Only one spiders opinion, I of course, am not the King. But I would recommend keeping ours as far from this Jon Snow on the battlefield as possible. Just to be on the safe side.”

As the sun had begun to set to the west behind them, Connington eventually turned to him fully. Hand’s both gloved enough that not even a good tug would drag them off, he extended it out. “Do me a favour,” Lord Varys raised an eyebrow in silent patience, “Don’t mention any of this to him. He has enough on his plate, I don’t need Lyanna Stark’s ghost coming to haunt him now too.”

As the sky turned dark and he stood alone, Jon Connington couldn’t help but wonder to himself. Was all the destruction left in Rhaegar’s wake truly worth it? Almost thirty years had passed since your death, he thought, and still I haven’t found a way to move passed the things you did.

The choices near the end that so few understood, that stayed locked heavily in Connington’s head because who was left to care about his side of things?

He had been foolish at one point to think that Robert Baratheon’s death would make any of this more simple, but it didn’t. If anything, the death of the one man he had truly been hiding Aegon from, only made things even more complicated. It had been almost thirty years, but every day he still thought of Rhaegar, would that ever go away? Would he ever leave his mind for good?

Thinking to himself so loudly in his mind, will I ever look at your son and finally see you in his eyes? His face? His words? Anything?

Is there any of you left in your son, Rhaegar?

If you could hope and pray for anything to come crashing through these walls and end this conversation now, you’d accept it with open arms. There was nothing you wished to talk about less then this, but your mother walked beside you through the grounds of Winterfell with no intention of letting you walk away without addressing it further. “There might not be a better opportunity for some time.”

Sighing out, you found the strength within you not to roll your eyes. As nice as it was to see her settling in easier, there was no denying that it was difficult getting used to her having a presence in your life now. Having made sure her quarters were well tended too, having gotten her more things more fitting of the cold and snow around the North and had a place here. Yet she walked beside you now, as your eyes flickered to the sides, trying to spot who may be overhearing. Not wanting the people to get the wrong message, not that you were entirely sure what that was anymore.

Technically, it was a Northern Queen and a Southern Queen walking side by side, but all any would see should they glace over was a mother giving a lecture of sorts to her increasingly agitated daughter.

Glancing to her from the sides of your vision before training them back forward, your tone stern and short with huffs of frustration in your breaths between. “There’s nothing for him to see, what would he even be looking at?” Your voice turning more stiff mock of an accent. “Oh my word, it seems you still have a gruesome scar where you were stabbed repeatedly in the womb.”

Your mother’s flat expression was not impressed as she looked at you, your name flat on her voice in warning. “Now you’re purposely being childish.” Your shrug did not do much more to make that statement any less true. Huffing, she leans closer to speak less to those around the yards. “A maester will be able to tell you what you won’t listen to me for.”

You shook your head, ignoring the sting on your arms you weren’t quite dressed for. “I’m not going to speak to Wolkan, and to answer your next suggestion, no I won’t see Pylos when I am there either. I’m perfectly content not being told unfortunate news I can already predict myself.”

There were times you felt disconnected from her, and yet as you both walked through the grounds and found rigid disagreement between the other, it was clear who you were related too. An undeniable awkwardness between you both with little love, and yet you had the same narrowed expression and roughness in your voice the more an argument was impending. “You need to start taking your own health more seriously.” Turning finally you faced her with a sharp glare but much like you, Selyse did not back down or back up. “You can ignore it all you want, but you are a Queen now. And things will be expected of you, and when you have no answers for that what are you going to do then?”

Truthfully, you didn’t know. You didn’t want anyone to bring it up, you didn’t even wish to think on it at all. Relaxing in your shoulders as they deflated, you peeked to the side and found none standing too close. Your mother’s eyes softening just enough for you in front of her to see. “What did Maester Cressen tell you, when you lost yours..”

Selyse leaned in just the slightest bit, your head hanging a small amount as something felt as if it were starting to choke in your throat. “He thought it was something in my blood. That whatever it was, I’ve like had it since I was a girl. It effected my ability to bear a child, which is why I was unwell both with you and Shireen.” Her hand draped up gently to drape a loose strand of your hair behind your shoulder from where it fell. “I always knew there was something wrong, but you had no ill signs until you already lost yours. You do not need to have the worries I do.”

You bit your tongue, looking to the side as your gloved hands flexed at your sides. “And if there is? I already have a reminder forever of losing him. What if I can’t handle hearing the truth over any more?”

Selyse didn’t really move to comfort you, but there was a pain you both understood. A loss that weighed heavily and drowned out any confidence in your capabilities of a duty you were long raised to uphold. The hand on your hair ran down your upper arm as her voice was low. “Then you deal with that then, but only then.”

Inhaling, you stood straighter as you glanced around to nothing of focus. Your voice now airy and far as the topics were changed in your mind to avoid the current any longer. “Ser Davos is staying behind until the men here are ready. Are you coming with me to White Harbour?”

Your mother now too glanced around, looking to the place she’d never spent any time thinking of what it could look like. “I’m staying behind for now. If I leave before I memorize where things are, I will just have to relearn it all over again. I will join with the rest, let you spend some time with your father.”

Tone much more flat as well as you expression dropped. “Oh, that will be a great joy.” She once more said your name in warning, but you turned to walk away by that point, but before getting too far your eyes narrowed before whipping around to face her. “Mother, don’t interrogate him once I leave. I am a grown woman, I can make my own choices.”

Her lips narrowed flat but a single raise of her eyebrows told you that was not a promise she would be making. You glared much easier that time but with a fluster on your cheeks at what she would even say to him. At least you were her child, there was tact to be given there. You couldn’t imagine what she would say to Jon once you weren’t there to pull her back.

Sorting through the tools needed, Tormund quickly had tossed what was good and not for the task at hand, “I’ve been up and down the wall many times, pretty crow. And I never had anything fancy to do it, just something reliable.” Both of you saying yes and no to certain things, comparing the rocks and cliff sides to the snow and ice and coming to a conclusion they weren’t terribly different.

Shaking your head at one point, “It can’t be big enough we need to see where we pick it through. Where we are climbing, it will be next to pitch black until we reach the top we have to be able to rely on what we can feel. And we won’t be able to communicate either, if something goes wrong we all need to be able to rely on having what we need on us.”

A plan of silence was to keep sure none would spot you. Deciding that if your father’s men were going to take up the back, you only needed as many of you to safely climb and sneak your way through the grounds to get to them. “How does a girl like you know so much about this kind of thing?”

Smirking much easier then normal, you only sorted through the ropes as your voice was stuffed with a fondness of the past. “The mines we are going to, some of them go far down into the earth and they are pitch black without a torch.” Narrowing your eyes at the looseness or tear in others you put some to the side. “I spent a lot of time down there as a girl, you teach yourself rather quick how not to fall to your death when all alone.”

Tormund chuckled, not sure in your own head if he would even picture it or not. “Well you’ll be tied to me this time, meaning if you fall to your death you’d be taking me with you.” Leaning forward with a playful narrowed expression, “Means we don’t fall, pretty crow. I’ve got too much to see of you to let you and I die yet.”

The laugh between you was easy. Setting up the right equipment for four of you, Tormund tethered to you and beside you both Theon would be tethered to another of the free folk, Ryk. A short man, but surprisingly sturdy on his feet in comparison. Agreeing to have only four of you climb took away the likelihood of being discovered.

Quiet passed between you both for a little bit, Ryk coming over at one point to look over things as Tormund seemed to have a more narrowed, sharp look in his eyes that didn’t quite intimidate. But was enough to grab your attention. Tossing a few ropes into his chest roughly, before giving a flat expression as the other said no words in response. Hands stopping to look at him with a questioning gaze, he gestured back to the man, “Longspear stole my daughter. Took her right out of her tent, gave a good fight though. Broke his lip and almost bit half his ear off.”

The proud look on his face would’ve been amusing if you didn’t have multiple questions, the first of which being, “He stole her?”

Smirking, he shrugged at you. “The way the free folk do things, pretty crow. You want a woman? You have to prove you deserve her, be strong enough to protect her, give her good sons.” Noticing a tint of unsettled in your eyes, even though your face was stone as statue he leaned in with a quieter tone towards you. “Our women aren’t like you Southerners. Most places, the women are scarier then the men. Any man who catches himself around the Frozen Shore with his pants down?” Giving out a whistle almost in dismay, “Wouldn’t want it to be me.”

Your eyes narrowed as you considered it, looking back you continued your work, “So it’s a bit more like you take whats in front of you, and if you can hold onto it, then it’s yours?”

Nodding with more of a proud look once more, “Aye, that’s exactly it. We don’t have your fancy castles and servants. If we want something, we have to fight to keep it. You talk to the women where I’m from, and you’ll find most of them enjoy finding a man who can keep up with them.”

Glancing up to Ryk, you nodded over to him. “So is that why you keep giving him that look? You don’t think he’s good enough?”

Chuckling deep in his chest, “Munda’s my own blood, but she likes him well enough. And I know why. He don’t fight with no spear, you know. Never has. But they call him Longspear for a reason. I don’t fight with him, no matter how much he makes me want to yank his eyeballs out. But man like him doesn’t use it enough, it’ll grow smaller until he goes to piss and can’t find it. So I put up with him.”

It was difficult to say if you were slightly more intimidated by their culture, or growing simply more amused by how natural they spoke of things most absurd. Born from the same people, Northerners and the Free Folk both came from the First Men, and yet they couldn’t be more different in the way things were seen or done. For all the slander in the South of how rigid and brutish the North was, they seemed to hold a great importance on their morals.

Your mind trailing back to his story you glanced back asking, “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

Nodding, a small smirk once more thinking of it. “Aye, got myself two. That I know of. Munda’s the youngest, least the fucker waited until she was a woman to snatch her. Svanya’s older, both of them went with the other groups, finding land and homes.” Tilting his head a bit more in a serious gaze as he did so, “We raided enough of your villages over the years, plenty of space to make our own this point.”

Desperation was an odd thing you thought to yourself. Recalling the way Olly had to almost force the words out to tell of what happened to his father and mother, the village taken from him and what led to such a horrid hatred festering in his heart to be manipulated. Yet, the man before you led that raiding party himself, but you found not an ounce of distrust towards him.

Winter had come, and the storms would soon follow and that took the blood thirst and hatred for one another out of the equation when it mattered. The ones who couldn’t move passed it, seemed to not have ever made it in the first place. You were making plans to tie a rope between you both and scale the cliffs during a battle at his side and it was odd to consider this seemed like not an unusual thing for your life now.

The man it seemed, had a thought which you had not realized was brewing beneath the surface. Tone quieter and deeper as he looked at you, “Strange though, how you Southerners all put the blame on your women for everything that goes wrong.” Your heart skipped a beat, a familiar banging in your head that moved until the pain bled out from your stomach. “Can’t go anywhere ‘round here without hearing someone talk about how you two died. How that scrawny worm was the son of the man who did that to you.”

He looked down to your covered stomach and you hated that everyone knew about it. That there was no escaping the stories told and what was lost that night with you. No matter how much you tried to look up to the skies and tell yourself it was okay to not assume Robb hates you, you still hate yourself.

“Just beacuse you heard of it, doesn’t mean we need to speak on it.”

Tormund however, was not pressed by your stiff, held back attitude. “Men where I’m from are judged on whether or not they can give their woman strong babies. You’re lot seems to judge the women when they lose them. And none of it means shit in either direction.” Your jaw clenched and if he noticed he didn’t even think to stop. “Most don’t even name their babies ‘till they reach two, how often they die. Getting gutted when he was still inside you’s even less your faul-”

Slamming down the wall spikes in your hands with a loud thud you finally felt your voice raise in a more yelling hiss, “Why do you care so much? Why do any of you care about it when it’s no business of yours.”

Instead there was sympathy, as much as a man as himself could muster. A pain he knew nothing of and never could, but you didn’t want anyone to care. You didn’t want to care, yourself. Except every time you look in a mirror, you spend so much of that time trying to not to look at it. You could see the blood and sorrowful blue eyes all over again every time. Feel the blood in your mouth choking your hysteric gasps as you tried to tell Robb to leave while he still had his life.

No child to bury, and no father to even bring home either. Only a dagger with their blood and yours remained. There was nothing but failure every step of the way, and The Mother had never once told you how to repent for the sins you didn’t know you committed.

“Hate to break it to you, pretty crow but I care about you now. Means I’m gonna tell you when you’re acting dumb.” Your face fell slat, eyes slightly narrowed with no amusement but once more nothing was taken with offence. “If Snow’s heart is beating after getting a knife shoved in it, you’re probably fine too. Besides, if I have to watch him give you those desperate lovesick eyes when he thinks you aren’t looking one more time, I’ll throw myself off this cliff when we’re done with it.”

He had overheard you and your mother earlier, and he’s seen Snow enough times looking at the kids around these walls then look at you like he wants that more then anything. He knew the longer you didn’t talk about it, the more you were going to let that fester and grow into something ugly.

But you indeed, were a little too much like your father for your own good at times. A stubbornness that was like chipping away on a boulder. You just needed someone strong enough to finally come by and crack it open in one go, get you back to being yourself and not falling into closing off like many knew for your father.

Yet, far South following along the sea until one reached Dragonstone there was another who could not stop the comparisons of a father. Only, the comparisons were not easily come by. In fact, they were getting increasingly hard to see, and there was still a King in those eyes.

Jon Connington had come across Aegon finally. Sat at the head of the painted table with the backdrop of a dark sky finally setting over to greet. His hair still sat blue, and he could only wonder if Aegon was still dying it or if this one was taking longer to wash out. Not with the same length, Connington had let his normal colour bleed through, many would recognize him in Westeros and there was little reason to hide anymore.

Yet Aegon still sat there, blue covering up the true colour beneath. Before making the voyage here, the Imp had put together the truth on his own it seemed. Realizing that the blue made the same blue in Aegon’s eyes stand out, or perhaps he had put it, was trying to hide the purple which was the real colour. Was right annoyed at how fast Tyrion Lannister had caught onto things.

Connington had spent many years thinking he knew exactly what he was looking at. In Essos, it was easy to see that image. By the time Varys and Illyrio had approached him, the boy was already two and steps were taken to hide his true identity well. Then he learned who it was, whose son he was, and it felt like he was given one last chance to prove himself.

He had failed spectacularly and it got him sent into exile. An exile that meant he was not there to protect Rhaegar from the imposing, overpowering strength of Robert Baratheon. But he had trusted him with Aegon. He had thought to himself in those days, “I failed the father, but I will not fail the son.”

Aegon was approaching Rhaegar’s age when he died. What had it been? Twenty seven? Eight? It felt more like a lifetime ago. Looking at him lean almost lazily across the surface of the painted table, he held a small carved dragon in his hand. Twisting it as he looked it over time and time again with something far away in his eyes. A wonder that washed over into doubt with the tides.

Where are you in your son, Rhaegar?

“I haven’t seen you this serious in a long time.”

Connington focused back onto the present, the boys blue- purple eyes shining up brightly at him but not bothering to hide his own exhaustion. Gesturing to him as he walked slowly over he jested, “I would say the same about you. Everything we’ve done and this is the least I’ve ever seen a smile find itself on your face.”

Still, no smile came.

Pulling up to sit in the seat closest to him on a different side of the table, he leaned in closely nodding to the carved dragon he returned to staring at. “Hoping it will come to life?” But Aegon only shook his head with a twisting grimace. “Ones bigger then that will be yours eventually. It’s in your blood. Those dragons of hers get big enough, could ride one all on your own beside her-”

A moment of deep irritation, he tossed the figure halfway down the table, Aegon leaned back with a sigh. Arms crossing over his chest as he looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Meeting Connington’s eyes once more the exhaustion was a lot clearer. It had been a long road to get here, but it wouldn’t stop now. “All my life I’ve been preparing for this, to be here. It felt right, felt it was what I was always meant for to train for these days but now that we’re here? Now that I am to call myself King? I’m not quite sure I really did leave Young Griff behind in Essos.” His laugh wasn’t quite genuine, but a sarcastic huff. “I haven’t been Aegon since I was a baby. Who is he supposed to be now?”

Connington felt the rising shame, that he was relieved Rhaegar’s confidence had not passed onto his son. He didn’t like seeing the boy so full of doubt, but there was something fearful in how confident his father had been in that final year. Something that no one understood and he died without anyone ever getting it. Including Connington.

“You’ve always been him. You were trained, taught, educated all to be as good and better then your father. This was meant for you, no matter the name we hid you behind. This is just an obstacle.”

Aegon wasn’t finished however. Interrupting Connington before he had a chance to continue, his brows narrowed and voice tough and rigid as he spoke. Eyes trained on the painted table. “It wasn’t my first instinct. The King in the North, I mean. You had asked me what my first instinct was, but my first instinct was to just let him have what he wanted. We needed a place to go, somewhere to think before Storm’s End. Why should I care about giving a bunch of Northerns rocks in a mine?”

The man knew where this was going. “But now he’s coming for a fight.” Aegon nodded, still unsure as he was before making that very choice. He knew exactly what he did. “You made the choice you thought Rhaegar would.” They had worked hard to raise him right, prepare him. But all the training hadn’t given him the one that was plaguing the boy, Connington knew. Aegon had little and less experience of the world and all it’s woes. He was still a like boy too naive for a King’s own good. “There is no going back now.”

Sighing out deeply, the boy once again seemed more agitated then Connington had seen in him for a long time. Not realizing, he as seeing the same in Connington in return. “I know. I made the choice and I have to live with it, even if I don’t like it. I’m not supposed to enjoy it.”

Where were you, Rhaegar? Why could your soul not pass any of your certainty of yourself down to your own blood? Aegon knew what it took to be King, but it also sat upon his shoulders like a burden instead of a life he was to rule from. He didn’t choose to be King, but the closer he got to reaching that, it felt as if Connington couldn’t find the right words to comfort him over it.

He never had to comfort Rhaegar, always confident and always sure his actions were the only ones that were correct. Aegon was bringing a Northern King to his shores for a fight and only saw regret in what he could’ve done instead. Rhaegar thought he was more god then man. He didn’t care what others thought as long as it was his choice to be made. Where was the fair middle in between them?

Gloved hand reached out, grasped the boy’s forearm gently and squeezed. His eyes shooting up to meet Connington’s with a gratitude, even if he didn’t say it. “Get some sleep. We still have much to prepare for, and I want to see you working more with that sword tomorrow. Never assume you’re as good as you think you are, that’s how you lose at the Stoney Sept and get kicked out across the seas your whole life.”

He was strong, but not as skilled as he needed to be. Connington could see the strength behind him, and he could overpower a man twice his size, but being a good swordsman was more then that. Either he needed the skill, or he needed the intensity. Both of which Rhaegar had, and yet not enough to win a battle when it mattered the most.

Get Aegon through this battle though, and the rest will come easier. After all, time was on Aegon’s side. Just not his own. Death, he knew, was slow. In the quiet silence of his quarters, he would look upon his arm and seek out every breathe of change coming to it. He had time. A year, two years. Five? Some stone men live for ten. Time enough to beat this King in the North, and finish what Rhaegar had started.

He needed enough time to sit Aegon on the Iron Throne, and then Jon Connington could die content.

There wasn’t much packed, wouldn’t need much where you were going. Yet the image as Jon walked into his room was one which made him a little more unsettled you could tell. Tucked away neatly against a wall was a bag only with what you’d need for a short time, but you had sat against the foot of the bed on the floor, leather armour sitting around when he came in. Your eyes registered from the sides of your vision but were too focused on the final stitching to properly look up.

“What are you doing?” Without sacrificing your attention you answered mostly with one word that you were stitching. A smirk came across Jon’s face however as much as he felt the need to roll his eyes. “I can see that, I meant why are you doing it on the floor?”

Finishing up, you tossed it to the side, leaning back once more against the foot of the bed as you looked up at him. Taking the time to take his heavier layers off as he watched you. “I needed space, and the floor mean’s nothing’s in my way. Did yours as well.” Raising an eye brow at you, you nodded to the amours beside you. “Stitched up what was torn, cleaned and polished the metals. All is missing is you in it.”

“You didn’t have to-”

You barley even glanced at him as you stood, interrupting with an ease you didn’t notice took him slightly off guard. “I wanted too, wasn’t anything.” Even more off guard Jon felt as you seemed to take over the task for him he started. Coming to stand in front of him, as you undressed him, leaving just the soft minimal layers underneath left. His eyes slipping closed with a satisfied hum as you slid to move behind him, and let his curls fall loose around his head, running your fingers through them to breathe some life into the strands once more.

With almost only an instinct, as you ran through his curls, you slowly made your way down to run your hands down his upper arms, his shoulders sitting higher in a tensity that had you looking at him almost in a worry. One of his own reached up, grasping a hand of yours holding it under his tightly as his voice rang out low. “I’m sorry about Tormund.” Your brows narrowed but didn’t move to interrupt him. “I told him not to say anything. He overheard you and your mother, thought he was trying to help.”

Your head almost hung a bit behind him, body going a bit more slack which you knew he could feel in his touch. Murmuring your name, you slid from him entirely before he had the chance to grab you. It was a deflection coming from you, but he let it happen. “I told Theon about us.” Pacing to the other side of the room before turning back to him. Not making eye contact as you braced your palms on the cabinet behind you. “About how we used to..”

Jon’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, stepping further in and crossing his arms across his chest. “I think we’re a bit beyond the point of worrying what other people think.” This time he wasted no time in coming up to you with ease, one hand moving to your hip, while the other tilted your jaw up so you had to face him properly. “How about you tell me what’s really bothering you, beacuse it isn’t that. And before you take off on me.”

Sighing a small bit, you let one of your hands reach out to his waist while the other lightly moved along the scars hidden by the soft shirt over him until reaching the edges. Dipping your fingertips into the collars, you pushed the fabric aside enough to run freely along the one over his heart. The lightness in your eyes fading as you looked at him. “Mine wasn’t like yours. Your body died, but you were somehow still alive in Ghost. Your mind never stopped, it was always you in there somewhere. But I wasn’t. I was beside Robb, and then...when I first woke up, I thought I was still dead. That whatever I was seeing was just some punishment I was in for what I’d done..but it was all real. You were still always there, so it makes sense all of you came back.”

Your fingers never stopped tracing over the mark, Jon leaning forward more to press a kiss to your forehead before wrapping a hand around to hold the back of your head and rest against you. “You think not all of you came back?” The hand on your hip ran up, his thumb now running gently over where your own scar was under your dress. “Or are you scared just this part didn’t?”

You didn’t answer, and Jon sensed it almost right away. The growing combination of failure in what was supposed to be a purpose you were born for, and the impossibility of how you lost that and yet still can stand in the space you were. Looking up to meet his eyes, there was a sorrow in his own that Jon didn’t know how to make better in yours. Voice high and airy, trying not to break you mustered only half a smile before the sting turned to tears. “You said you wanted nine, right? How much would you hate me if I couldn’t even give you one?”

His lips were soft, gentle and light as he only kissed you enough to calm any out of control emotions brewing within your chest. One hand on your cheek as the other stayed running along that spot. His lips stayed coaxing gentle following from you, until he felt you relax. Until he felt you slide your palms up his chest and collarbones to wrap gently around the back of his neck.

Tilting your jaw better to deepen just a tad amount, he felt you give a tiny whimper into his mouth that once more had him kiss you a smidge more demanding. But just as he felt you lean into his chest, and the desire in him to press you further into the cabinet did he move back. Pressing one smaller one to your lips, before moving away enough you could feel his lips brush yours as he spoke. “I’m taking you to see Wolkan first thing in the morning, I don’t want you leaving with that on your mind like this. I want you to hear it from him that you have nothing to worry about.”

A little smirk fell over his face as he gently nudged your nose with his, before letting himself get just greedy enough to steal one more kiss. “Besides, we already have one oversized child to take care of.”

Your face twisted on confusion, only for Jon to pull away just enough he knew you could see it. Hints of it were on Robb but neither of you had the words nor understanding to explain it. But his eyes were white, as if the brightness overtook most of it’s colour in the same instance that the door opened.

But for a moment, you recalled how it felt that day first arriving in Castle Black. Deep red eyes like blood looked to you with a quiet intensity you once thought was strange how human it felt. And in a second as your lips parted and looked back between the two, Jon had come back to himself, and suddenly Ghost had happily walked over and nudged into the back of Jon playfully.

The force pushing him against you, hands reaching out with a chuckle to keep you steady against him as the large direwolf came to his side. His eyes found yours and you looked up at him with a wide eyed wonder, an impress in your expression. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you actually do it..”

Running his hands along your hips as he looked down at you, passing in between your eyes and lips as he spoke. “It gets easier now that I know what it is. And this way I know I can keep an eye on Winterfell while we’re gone.”

Ghost seemed to have enough, not wanting to be in the same room as both of you and not a shred of attention was on him. A tiny whine in his throat that had you both amused. “I’m guessing this is who you meant by oversized child.”

As the normally silent and stoic direwolf now tried to take charge of the interaction by demanding you both pet him, the answer was clear. Watching you smile and laugh at how easy you interacted with his own direwolf, Jon had found enough strength in him to reel back that desperation. You were his after all, and maybe for now just making sure he was taking care of you, of your heart, was just enough for the wolf in him.

And wolves always take care of their mates, no matter in what way they need.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine

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shunin-gumis · 3 months ago

Text

Mistery on the Moonlit Passage - Track EP

Seasonal Event Story

Case closed! Hope you enjoyed this silly event 🚢

Location: Cruise Liner - Sky Deck

Toi: Look, Ani-sama! HAMA’s port is sparkling! It’s so pretty…

Ryui: Yeah, but it’s nothing compared to the radiance of your existence itself. Is the sea breeze too cold? Here, put my jacket on.

Akuta: Yoo, I get it. Eating in a place like this just ups the vibes AND the flavor.

Chief: Yeah, this is a wonderful place. Thanks for telling us about it, Nanaki!

Nanaki: Nah, I just thought it’d be a waste to keep it to myself.

Nanaki: (Though, the original plan was to come here alone with the chief… Still, I’m glad I asked…!)

Kafka: Oho. The inside’s pretty rowdy too, but it’s a whole other level here ♪

Nanaki: Ah, Oguro-san.

Chief: Kafka, you’re back. How did your conversation with the owner go?

Kafka: I’ll share now since everyone’s gathered. You can keep eating while you listen, don’t worry.

Kafka: Just now, I proposed a plan called “Snoozing Cruising” to the owner of this ship, and it was very well received.

Yukikaze: Sleep and cruises. What an interesting combination.

Kafka: Guests will be able to experience something different from their everyday lives, and we plan on creating high quality relaxation using Netaro’s. A pretty fresh idea, no?

Yachiyo: Yesh…! The president is so smart! An dumb commoner such as myself with a mindset so fixed it’s practically immovable could never come up with an idea like this one!!!

Yodaka: I see. It may be a rather welcomed form of hospitality for the modern man, exhausted from their everyday lives.

Ryui: I’ll ask just in case, but you aren’t planning on using Yowa’s thing as it is, right?

Kafka: Of course. There was a good chance of everything turning into an even bigger incident if there had been even the slightest mistake. We can’t have something like this happening again.

Kafka: That’s why I plan on asking Netaro to write out a specifications sheet! Because right now, no one is safe, not even the robots.

Netaro: Nyoooo NYOOO!! Having to work overtime ‘cause of a doll meant to help me skip work…

Ryui: Serves you right. Repent for what you’ve done.

Nanaki: U… um, Ryui-san.

Ryui: Whaddya want?

Nanaki: Uh, well, about what happened before…

Ryui: (What…?)

~~~(flashback)

Ryui: …

Ryui: If that’s what you’ve gotta say, then just shut it and get out of my way.

Ryui: If you’re just gonna sit around and do jack shit, then nothing’s ever gonna change. By sticking to the same old crap, you’re just playing safe to avoid getting screwed over.

Nanaki: …But is it really such a bad thing…?

~~~(end flashback)

Location: Cruise Liner - Sky Deck

Ryui: …Hmph.

Nanaki: W-What is it?

Ryui: Nothin’. Just thought your face was finally looking better now.

Nanaki: …I… see. But, thank you.

Ryui: Not like I did anything worth being thanked for.

Muneuji: Speaking of which… as the key to solving this mystery was “music,” this makes Nanamegi the closest person to reaching the truth.

Chief: Really…! You sure gave it your all while we were fast asleep, Nanaki…!

Nanaki: Ah, um, I didn’t do that much… In the end, Yowa-san only spilled because Ryui-san interrogated him into it.

Yukikaze: That being said, you were the only one that noticed what everyone else brushed over. It’s evidence that you’re very mindful of your surroundings.

Muneuji: I agree. Nanamegi is a man who considers all the finer details.

Nanaki: Muneuji…

Muneuji: You’re always able to understand Isotake despite him speaking in sounds, you constantly encourage Kinugawa to speak up and express himself, and you always call out Uu-chan for being uncooperative…

Yukikaze: It’s wonderful how much you think of your friends. I’m proud.

Nanaki: T-That’s enough!! But thanks!!

Nanaki: (These guys are natural older brothers… It’s crazy how straightforward they are with their praises…!!)

Chief: But also… the more considerate a person is, the more likely they are to hold back from expressing their true feelings.

Nanaki: …!

Chief: Nanaki-kun, you don’t have to hold back with me. You can tell me whatever’s on your mind!

Nanaki: Ummm… Okay…

Yukikaze: Same for me, you cute and attentive little brother.

Nanaki: T-Thank you.

Nanaki: (...Though it’s not really out of consideration for others, but more because I don’t wanna get hurt…)

Nanaki: But… anything, huh?

Kafka: By the way… are we planning on heading back now to get some proper rest?

Nanaki: (I don’t have the courage to say it right now—)

Chief: W-We should…! Though most of us did end up getting a good sleep earlier…

Nanaki: (...Something like “Your sleeping face is beautiful, but in my opinion, a smile suits you the best.”)

Nanaki: I hope… I’ll be able to tell you one day.

#18trip #18tlip #18trip translation #event story translation #mistery #nanaki nanamegi #muneuji kaguya #yukikaze kamina #netaro yowa #ryui shiramitsu #This was a fun event #yearner teenage boy continues to yearn

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pjoxreader · 1 year ago

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Hiya! I was wondering if I could possible request a platonic Will x Sibling!Reader who's also a child of Apollo, and Reader's kinda scared of the dark, and has trouble sleeping without light?

I truely hope you're doing well! Take care of yourself, hydrate and get proper rest!

-✒

Younger Sibling Reader Scared of The Dark

((Welcome back ✒! Thank you! I was drinking water and I'm just naturally nocturnal. 😅 I hope it's ok I made the reader younger and added Leo! Just thought it'd be cute!))

Will Solace

-Will is the best sibling to tell your worries too, he’s the type of person who wouldn’t tell your secrets if it was tortured out of him. Of course that doesn’t exclude you from light teasing, he’s still your sibling after all.

-But at the end of the day he’ll make sure you feel safe and secure. That’s the most important thing to him. So when you come over to his bed and gently shake him awake he’s up without another question sitting up so you can sit in his bed with him.

-”Did you have a nightmare?” he asks gently and quietly to ensure he wouldn’t wake up any of your other siblings as he soothingly rubs your back. You give a sheepish nod at that as you hold onto his pj shirt for comfort. “I… Just hate the dark.” you admit quietly.

-Will hum softly at that in thought. “Well… I can do this for tonight… But tomorrow we’ll find a nightlight for the cabin, ok? It’d probably be for the best so we don’t all trip over each other.” he says with a soft chuckle. You can’t help but laugh quietly, Will starting to glow to help comfort you.

-It was so comforting to see Will’s glow, it seems the rest of the cabin seemed to agree as even the restless sleepers start to still. He lays back down scooting over for you to cuddle up with him. He had a loving and caring, if not sleepy smile on his face as you cuddled up into his bed.

-”Sleep well.” he says gently as he presses a little kiss to your forehead, he has a smile that could rival his glow in brightness.

Leo Valdez

-It must have been the early hours of the morning when you made your way into the workshop. To no surprise Leo was still hard at work. You tug on his suspender strap making him turn in surprise, moving his goggles up to his forehead. He had grease and oil stains on his face.

-”Oh? You’re sure up late?” he checks over at the clock with a worried frown seeing just how late it was. “I… Couldn’t sleep… It was too dark.” you admit sheepishly as you look at the ground. Leo hums in thought exaggerating it by rubbing his chin.

-”That is a good point, it does get pretty dark in the cabin… Well we can’t have that can we! You can crash here while I work on fixing this major oversight!” he declares proudly ruffling your hair with a big grin on his face.

-You can’t help but laugh at that, Leo was such an amazing brother and he was just naturally charismatic and always making people feel better. He had been to multiple orphanages and had met plenty of kids there.

-Needless to say he was protective over you. He never really had siblings of his own and now his siblings were the only family he had left. He’d never take a second with you guys for granted. “Let’s get you to bed!” he says and grins carrying you over to the sofa.

-You can’t help but laugh at that as Leo lays you down onto the sofa. “Oh you like my big strong muscles? Your brother has been working out!” he lays you down on the sofa and kisses his non existent biceps. Leo kept you laughing the entire time before you crashed and fell asleep, making you fully forget your previous worries.

~Masterlist & Rules~

Like my writing? Please consider sending me a Ko-fi! ☕

#pjo #hoo #pjo x reader #hoo x reader #will solace #leo valdez #pjo fluff #hoo fluff #tooth rotting fluff

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netherfeildren · 1 year ago

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else.

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored.

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story!

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism.

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are.

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on.

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man.

Mandalorian.

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk.

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room.

This is the first of many lies you will tell him.

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you.

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed.

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar.

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response.

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity.

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold.

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know.

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now.

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured.

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness.

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish.

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this.

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian.

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time.

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again.

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a.

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people.

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now.

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind.

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you.

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems.

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway.

And then he’s there.

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now.

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself.

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over.

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt.

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong.

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath.

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather.

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock.

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move.

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too.

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been.

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement.

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you.

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you.

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?”

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over.

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically.

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor.

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest.

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely.

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else.

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs.

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again.

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you.

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive.

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore.

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours.

But then: a person without a soul could not cry.

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed.

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

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