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willreigns · 4 months ago

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Letters from the Other Side

The sea washes over the sides of the steamship, taking with it the algae stuck to it. You almost hope the waves can take you with it, the nerves getting the better of you as you leant over the rail. Come see me, you read the letter over and over again, your stomach fluttering, I want to see you.

CW: Post-war Levi x fem!reader, civilian!reader

A/N: Some post-war Levi goodness after the angst I’ve posted this past month. ~2.5k words of fluff and romance. If this does well, I’ll probably write the super romantic smut next.

Credit to @cafekitsune for the dividers!

Three years after the Rumbling and things were starting to return to a sense of normalcy in the Stohess district. At least as normal as things can get when the twisted mentality of the Yeagerists and their seizing control of the military dominated the news. Your mother and father tell you not to worry, but you’ve been worried ever since the walls disappeared and the Survey Corps regiment disbanded.

Or rather, you have only really been worried over a single person, the man with the raven locks and the dull gray eyes, dull eyes that glittered when you spoke to him. You were still a woman, and a woman has intuition for those sorts of things like attraction, and Captain Levi couldn’t help how flustered he got whenever he saw you. Your father was the owner of a blacksmith company, and you often bumped into Levi along with Commander Smith several times a month.

Humanity’s strongest, you’d think in awe, where you had imagined a big brute, now you saw the man for what he was.

Why’d he come along was always unknown to you, but as your father and the commander spoke privately in another room, you offered small conversation and tea while he waited. Where small talk began, somehow a deep appreciation for the other bloomed, and the visits began to feel like the visits of the suitors that bombarded your home on occasion. He’d gift you single flowers, it’s all I can afford, he’d say meagerly. You’d thank him with a kiss on the cheek each and every time. And each and every time a ferocious tinge of red would adorn his face.

The timing never seemed to be right with either of you, it always seemed like when one was ready to take the leap, the other had other obligations waiting. Wait for me, were his selfish last words to you and you nodded your head as you gave him a final good-bye.

It had already been three years. You were already on the cusp of giving up.

It had been a nice breezy morning when you received his first letter. The unfamiliar stamps had caught both you and your parents off-guard, but nonetheless they gave you the privacy to open it. There, in the small garden of your home, tears welled up in your eyes as you skimmed through it.

It was a letter from Captain Levi.

Or rather Levi, just Levi, as the letter so said. I have told them to stop calling me captain, but these brats never learn. You giggled inwardly at his words, tears welling up in your eyes. You read it one more time, much slower this time, familiarizing yourself with his handwriting, the slant in his letters, his signature, everything. You familiarized yourself with the names Gabi and Falco, children you did not know but instantly loved with the way they cared for Levi.

At the very bottom, a hopeful wish that you will respond, signed next to his name.

Of course you will.

Your father stood confused as you gathered parchment and a pen to write, finding it odd that his moody daughter was suddenly so lively. Perhaps it’s the engagement, he thought, and let you be.

Your ring twinkled under the summer sun, and yet nothing has caused more glee than the very letter you were responding to. You wrote about the situation in Paradis, you wrote about the kindness of the queen, and you wrote about how business was booming for your father, despite the war having been over. The thought saddened you, but you quickly sign the letter and add a note that you excitedly await his next letter.

It’s not that you fail to mention your engagement, rather some deep part of you didn’t want to mention it. Your betrothed was a good man, hand picked by your father, you had accepted to keep his worries at bay that you wouldn’t end up husbandless and with no children.

How quickly Levi’s letters can have you questioning your familiar duties.

We restored some of the land ruined by the war, Levi writes, many foreigners are starting to settle here again.

You can’t help the sense of admiration that fills you up. It filled you up when he’d visit with the commander, and it still filled you up now. A military man, you wonder if he’s still as strong as when you met him. Humanity’s strongest, you wondered if he still thought about you and the flowers he’d gift you.

I’d like to visit it one day, you write, perhaps a change of scenery would be nice. All this yeagerist talk has me going mad.

I’d like to visit you one day, you will yourself to write, but you don’t. You had been lovestruck years ago, perhaps the captain no longer harbored the same feelings. Perhaps the captain has found someone new, perhaps the captain has married.

Sadness consumes you. After all, you were just friends back then, right?

You trash your letter and write a plainer one instead. It hadn’t even reached half a page when you sealed it, wrote his address on the front of it and set it aside for the postman to pickup tomorrow.

“Honey,” you can hear your mother call, “James is here to see you.” You force your best smile to greet your husband-to-be.

It’s weeks before the next letter arrives. The pretty orange and red tree leaves were beginning to fall, a cozy chill running through the district. Your wedding preparations were already underway when the postman calls out to you, a single letter in his hands, the stamps it bore already familiar to you.

More talk of restoration, recovery, Gabi and Falco’s shenanigans, when finally you reach the last bit of the letter. I don’t mean to bother you, Levi writes, your last letter felt abrasive. I understand if things have changed. Everything has changed.

You wonder what goes through Levi’s mind when he writes to you.

No, things have not changed. Things still felt the same, at least they did to you. Still, you couldn’t ignore your engagement anymore as you saw your mother debate through wedding ribbons in the distance and you finally will yourself to write and tell him the news.

I’m engaged, it feels awful to write it, my engagement is a long one, though, and so I’m sorry if the letter was short. I must’ve been busy.

You write of other things, of the rising tension amongst good folks like your family who didn’t want to fuel another war, and the yeagerists. You write of how the talks of peace by the ambassadors (who you found out were actually part of the same regiment as him) were falling on deaf ears.

I’d like to see you, you finally write, I’d like to see what the other side looks like.

You add the last bit in a final moment of hesitation, sign your name and set it aside, a deep breath falling from your lips.

“You’re changing the wedding date again, and to a later date might I add,” your father bellows out to you.

“Father, please,” you reply, exasperated, trying to escape the dining room and into your own, a new letter in hand, “I will get married in time, what’s the rush?”

“The rush is that you’re not young anymore, I beg you to reconsider.”

You shut the door behind you, shaky fingers coming to pry the letter open. You force yourself to read slowly, absorbing every single inked word coming from Levi’s fingertips.

You skip his polished words of annoying governmental policies being implemented on his side and go straight to the heart of the letter, his real response to you.

Congratulations on your engagement, he begins, I’m surprised you haven’t even married yet.

That? That is what he has to say? You scoff, a slight irritation blooming.

I don’t look like before—I’ve lost an eye and my right hand is destroyed, his letter continues, I look awful.

I’m not humanity’s strongest anymore.

You don’t know why these words strike you deeply. Years and a great distance separate you from what Levi is or was for that matter, yet it isn’t Levi’s exterior that ever affected you in the first place. It was the small talks and the small gifts, it was his tinged cheeks and his intrepid way of speaking around your people who have only seen the refined things in life.

You could never look awful to me, you write in your response, a wave of heat flaring up on your cheeks, you’re just trying to get me not to go.

Levi’s letters continue well into the deeper part of winter, the leaves have long since fallen, snow beginning to gather amongst the branches. The winters where he lived were harsh, and he writes of how they were causing the ache in his knee to worsen. You spend some of your money to send him some ointment you purchased from a local medic.

He writes to you of how the snow reminds him of when the Survey Corps would serve hot chocolate on the off chance. You send him chocolate you bargain off a local vendor.

The signs of Levi’s homesickness don’t escape you, even if he doesn’t admit it.

I could send you Stohess’s entire stock of goods if I can, you respond to his letters of thanks.

What would I do with all that, he responds to yours, breaking you into a fit of silent laughter.

I’ve missed your awful humor, you write casually. You wonder if you should trash this letter and begin a new one, but you don’t. I’ve missed you, you finish writing.

The budding roses in your garden remind you of your predicament.

“As much as I respect you,” James begins, “I won’t accept any other change to the wedding. If you won’t marry me then I’ll find someone who will.”

You comprehend his irritation, even if you don’t fully understand it.

He leaves you on your garden bench, exiting through the gate, just in time for the postman to arrive. Your feelings don’t subside, in fact they linger as you read Levi’s next letter.

Upon opening it, nervousness hits you as you see just how short the letter is. Policy change, annoying policy change.

The ambassadors have told me that postage to Paradis will be barred soon. Your eyes widen. Despite the nice spring breeze, your body suddenly feels so cold.

If I don’t hear from you again, I wanted to wish you a happy marriage. Your eyes well with tears, but it’s his next words that move you.

Unless you change your mind. Come see me. I want to see you. Just as you’re about to trash the envelope, a small flower catches your eye. It was dried up and rather lonely, but you hold it close to you as small tears slip down your cheeks.

The next morning, you try to give the postman your next letter but he just shakes his head in response.

“Apologies ma’am, the military has ordered a full stop for all international mail.” You thank him anyway, despite how distraught you feel.

Your wedding is within two weeks. The white dress in the corner of your room haunts you. Although lace with spring flowers were added to match the season, it only made it look like the kind of dress you wore on your deathbed.

There was no more rescheduling your wedding date, there were no more letters to look forward to, you could only look over the last letter, his final request.

You longed for Levi. Did he long for you?

Come see me, I want to see you.

Despite the spring air, a heat that resembled summer humidity burned through you.

“It’s a one way trip if you decide to head to the other side,” the hefty man tells you, “military has barred all incoming and outgoing mail, I wouldn’t be surprised if they bar incoming ships soon.”

This was it, the point of no return. You had written your last letter addressed to your parents—an apology for doing what you are doing. No, your heart hasn’t seized its rampant beating since Levi’s last letter. You need to see him.

You board without much of a glance back.

For days, sea sickness threaten to put a damper on your good (albeit nervous) mood, your only fuel the letters stored in your small suitcase, rereading them every night as the darkness of the ocean tormented you.

Finally, the crewmen announce that you will be arriving in the morning. The sun was setting off in the horizon—you clutched his last letter as you take a brief moment to absorb this feeling of resilience that surged through you. You’d get to see Levi soon, you’ve waited enough. Here, near the rails of the ship, you long for him, nerves filling your stomach.

The sea washes over the sides of the steamship, taking with it the algae stuck to it. You almost hope the waves can take you with it, the nerves getting the better of you as leant over the rail. Come see me, you read the letter over and over again, your stomach fluttering. I want to see you.

Past the plethora of persons disembarking, past the many political volunteers ushering about far-off dreams of peace that were unachievable, you navigate through unknown territory in an effort to find him. Fingers pointed, people spoke foreign directions as they glanced at the address on your envelope. It has all brought you here.

Face to face with a young girl, too young to be married.

“Ah—sorry,” you begin, “I was told Levi Ackerman lived here.”

“Yeah he does,” she begins suspiciously, “I’ll get him.” The door closes again and already you feel out of your element. Perhaps this was a mistake, you wish the ground can swallow you whole. Peering eyes look at you through a nearby window, ones that belonged to the young girl who just spoke to you, and another who you haven’t met.

“That’s her? No way,” you can hear them say. Suddenly the door opens, and dull gray eyes that bore a hint of annoyance soften and make way for a familiar glitter that reminded you of simpler times.

“Levi.”

He whispers your name, suddenly hiding his maimed hand, trying to get you to see his good side, the side with his working eye. But you don’t see that. You see the man who gifted you flowers, you see the man whose cheeks you once kissed.

You will yourself to move and you do, grabbing the hand behind him and crashing into him in an embrace. Levi’s face is red, and he glances at the window to see Gabi and Falco gawking at them. He waves them off annoyingly and they give him a thumbs-up as they pull away.

Hands come to wrap around you, lips kissing your forehead.

“You came,” he whispers into your hair.

“Of course.”

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x reader fluff #levi ackerman x reader romance #captain levi x reader #captain levi #levi #levi x fem!reader #attack on titan #super soft ending #i went against my angst nature for this one #but i’m happy with how it came out #i’m now thinking super soft super romantic smut next #heheheh 😈

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nathandrakeisabottom · 28 days ago

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What Lovers Share: Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: Nate tells you historical fun facts while you warm his globes. Huevos in French. Besties who just happen to enjoy swapping spit. Warning: Explicit. C*ck-warming, B*ll-suckin', B*kkake, C*m-eating, historical fact jumpscare, ***, ***, ***, f*ck Tumblr censorship.

“You, uh… you happy down there?” Nathan goads warmth with a tender smile, holds a book in one hand and your cheek in the other, smile lines kind and traced in the barest flicker of demurity. He forces his eyesight back to script before your answer; his nerves obviously need distraction when your request needles beyond nudity. A proposition you had dreamed of since Nairobi.

He’s warm and gooey, and you respond with no treat, no reply but your tongue laving soft around the shape in your mouth. You love him in here. You always have. To the point of obsession, mindless, ravenous, lazy and dumb, you beg him when he claims there’s no time. He’s gross down there right now. Sam’s around, he’ll catch you two. And he won’t survive a goddamn minute if they just let him wander wild for however long she eats: a lonely little girl lapping and suckling his baby brother’s balls like the last water left on Earth.

Only because the iodine got lost in the shipwreck, you snort in facetious rationale to yourself.

But there’s no shortage of time, of air for gasps and moans when you gently pull back, and tug with your lips wrapped softly around, eyelashes fluttering dotingly up at him. He makes you feel like a dog— an overeager puppy begging for attention. Touch me. Pet me. Play with me. Let me taste you.

Let me make you feel something.

You snap to when his graveling baritone soothes over your shoulders in a hiccuping wave.

“Y-You know, you make me nervous when you’re this quiet.”

Your pussy stokes a fire, squeezes tight when he speaks. You know. And you like.

And you draw out further when you nuzzle deeper to suckle the fold of skin between his balls. Brush the tip of your nose teasingly along the underside of his shaft, just in the way you know he likes. You run races like tortoises and suck him so gently that he mewls in a breathy chuckle diluted of comedy and even less oxygen. Nerves. A man whose own pleasure still frightens him.

“Heh. But… uh, something tells me you like me when I’m nervous.”

Whose own weakness still surprises him with every day you wring it from your touch.

“Fucking def-in-it-lee.” You pop from your purpose below just to tell him, gasps in much needed breath and your joined spit still tangling below your lip. You damn held it in for long enough.

He laughs so beautifully at that, handsome features splitting open into intricate crows feet and pink, plump, pretty lips into grins. You love the way he smiles. You love the way he laughs— and you make sure to detach to smother it as fast as possible. This irony is not lost on you.

It’s a slobber at this point. But Nathan only meets you harder and clutches the back of your neck with a warm, meaty palm. Tugs you into him; isn’t afraid of anything. Big, gentle hands with strong grip that cradle your love and usher his second ball in your mouth everytime the first accidentally pops out.

“Why don’t you tell me some fun facts, smart cookie?” You tack a wet kiss to his cheek when he finally allows you to break. “You know how much I love the sound of your voice.”

“Oh.” And his residual shyness has your mouth watering. It always does, his heart baring open like rushing spring water and making you hungry for more. To sacrifice for his every satisfaction. “Sure thing… got any requests?”

But you’re already back home before your answer even grows wings. Glinting skin and bubbles popping wet where veins thread like delicate, splindling cracks in a pane of glass venture past your lips. You lost restraint forty five minutes back. There is no shame in your love. Your devotion. You’d suck him all day if you could: splashing South African summer heat in translucent coats down your cheeks, hollowed out in every place you’ve decided he deserves to have tighter. Harder. Wetter. Better.

He shudders. His hand abruptly clamps onto your own.

But no… lighter this time. Softer. Sweeter. He’s sensitive, especially down here, so you tread gentler paths with the tip of your tongue lapping in tickling hints, and his skin pulls up and up and up in adorable wrinkles with the motion. His taste: addictive. There once was a time when you would tease and complain at the oceanic sting, full body dips when he grew too lazy to tie the boat closer to shore and ‘Shit, it’s a hot one! A jump in the water sounds perfect.’ Without even bothering to take his clothes off first.

“Did you know that—” He wets his lip, a flicker, the tender pink point of his tongue. “Um…”

But those days are no more. Now, it’s a quest, a joy, a desperation to clean him. Everyday, you beg to. Please, Nathan, please let me clean you. It looks so lonely. I want it warm. I want it shiny. I want it inside where it’s safe. Where no one else can take it from me. And now, there’s a parameter for how long is not long enough. You don’t stop until you no longer taste the tang of sea against his skin. Not until he’s clean. It’s your duty.

It’s your devotion to him.

“Heh—” He recovers with a hand to your cheek and a kiss to his palm. You remind him there is no difference, only sensual circumstance. You asked for this. Prayed for this. “Did you know that Thomas Edison didn’t actually invent the lightbulb?”

…What?

“Hm?!” You squeak from your station. He chuckles in reply.

“I know, right?!” His words jeer agastedly, giddily, eyes twinkling. “Isn’t that crazy?”

Giggles form in place of a needless answer. The things he says, the way he is, even his desire for a reply at all, to hear your voice beside his own: they only make you want to please him more. Wetter. Tighter. Better.

Man, that shit’s crazy.

History is so cool.

“It was actually Warren de la Rue, almost f-forty years before Edison…”

You swoon into his wet folds and he stutters when you settle into the warmth, the wet. The place you call home. You love your man; fucking sue me. Hungry palms wrap ‘round the meaty, milky skin of his thighs without warning, toasted sun-kissed tan like roasted smores in between campfire kisses, soft nudity and plains begging for hickies.

“He was just the one who p-perfected and p-p-patented it.” His cheeks swelter over roasting red when you lean further to tongue at the soft skin of his perineum, stutters for air in a swiftly fogging tent you both refuse to unzip. You like the way your love changes the color of his skin. “S-something about bamboo fiber…”

“That’s amazing, baby.” But your lips are already back on his before he can elaborate amongst filaments and time periods. You swiftly ponder if he can taste his own precum on your kiss. A deeper press, a swift curl of your tongue against his, slobbery and wet, salty and sweet. Just to up your chances. Every fact he shares your way, every sense you share in return. “You’re so fucking smart.”

And you worship his body in the only interruptions you find no shame in speaking.

He moans thick and molten below you when you wrest one hand around his neck, the other around his shaft. Force him to keep kissing you in the minute space where he tries to break for air. And your pussy clenches around nothing but the imaginary when he groans in place of resistance of another. The control and capture his every delicate sound inspires beat your man to dust.

You wring your wrist around his head, and he chokes out despairingly.

“Honey… Do you want me to—?” He’s finally able to split, chest heaving hard against your own, your mouth itching to taste its suffocating heat, his collarbone beading with sweat, pleasing arcs in place of jewelry. An answer feels pointless.

“Yes-yes-of-fucking-course-I-do-are-fucking-kidding-me—” But you give him what he wants, anyway. His mouth tinges in laughter.

Because you always give him what he wants.

He makes it impossible not to.

“I fucking love you.” His lips meet yours head-on, but this time, starvation sets in. You two gasp and bite and tear right through each other. His fingers fly to the back of your neck, his arms swallowing your body into his. And you twist your purpose further down so the world knows who he belongs to.

You’re not sure if it’s the sweat, the humidity, his taste, or simply your own gaping awe that requires your wrist high to collect a drool of spittle when you first watch it bloom. Red and raw and beautiful, just like him. A single placed hickey.

You both decided unspoken that Sam could fucking deal with seeing them. Just jealous he’s not getting them, too.

“Oh, hun.” You swear it’s your entire fucking soul that swoons when Nate’s voice resounds, little trembles like tinkling glass. He breaks beneath your touch. “My precious, little angel.”

Your tongue darts across the sharp slant of his neck before delving in for seconds. He’s so pretty, and so perfect, and so… free. Your heart can’t stand it. You’re not strong like he is. And so a second bruise quickly joins the first: higher this time, the crux of his jaw. Proof, ownership, protection. You love him too much to leave him empty, markless, unwon. There is no strength in the love you have for him.

He cries, breath releasing hot against your cheek when you roll and nestle his sack into your palm. It’s still wet with spit, stuck with sweat in every place your chin dipped a little too low. Your thumb smoothes straight down the middle, presses into his skin like a thumbprint. His whines make your mouth water against every mark. Pink, red, purple, yellow. The ones you left on his sternum on Monday, the couplings beside each nipple on Sunday, magenta on his folding tummy, yellow and pink alike on the insides of his thighs.

You kiss each and over again. An encore. A map.

I belong here.

“Honey…” He sings so sweet. His grip, his thumb grazing at the base of your neck even as you ease back down to lave your lips over his skin. He’s heavy below. Full and warm. You’ve tasted him dozens of times before; and you know he’s a giver. You instinctively flinch from your spot below in wild anticipation when he thrusts in briefly-presumed release. Despite the shy bastard being too polite to ever try it.

But tonight, you swear you’ll remedy.

You twist left to sink your teeth into the plush skin of his thigh, swallow Wednesday’s accompanying bruises like fresh berry, and he bucks masochistically.

And you’d give more, you’d brand him with your fucking name if you could. If he could so forgive. In every place you call him yours.

“W-w-where do you want it?” This time it’s his hand that changes for your own on a jerking ring around his shaft. He bears a teasing pace, even as his fingers clearly twitch for more. His second hand comes to cradle your head when you return, and you twist quick to press another grateful kiss into his palm before he replaces it. He’s an instinctual nurturer at the best of times: his touch warm and steady. And somehow, despite every insanity, every pitfall, every obnoxious joke and even more obnoxious beauty— he grounds you. He keeps you safe.

He’s home.

You want him to brand you, too.

“Anywhere.” You mumble with his gifts in my mouth. Your answer is a lie.

“A-anywhere?”

Even in sex, he’s the same: searching for answers, proof. But he doesn’t stop jerking himself, quick and smooth, whining as he cups his hand across your cheek and thumbs over where the corner of your lip drools. Holds you where he wants you. You plead you already know where he wants it.

“God-you’re-so-pretty.” It’s fucking heaven he speaks. Your pussy throbs, fucking sings; you feel the wetness through your poor excuse for shorts. The ones you wear for him. Minimal coverage so he has more room to pull the stripe of stitch of fabric aside whenever he needs it. You love him, you love him, you love him, you love him. “So-fucking-pretty.”

And so you are cruel to him. You clamp monstrous nails into his pink, plush skin and keep him trapped, grounded, no way from escape, from shame, from want when you speak—

“Nathan, please—” “Sh-shit—!”

But of course, in your time of need, you both interrupt in the same mundane way you always do. You look up with love. He jerks himself empty. And he’s coming hard across your face before you can even give him permission to do it.

Four times. Four begs til’ he finally obeyed your pleas: a fucking record. Fucking finally. To be branded by him. And even as the warmth and wet slathers over the bridge of your nose, your forehead, the cusp of your hairline where blonde meets brunette, you’re not thinking of how dirty it is. How guilty and hysterical he’ll certainly be about it afterwards. How you have no fucking clue how you’re going to be able to sneak all the way down to the river to wash up without being caught by a Shoreline guard.

But instead, as you move further down to wet his balls in grateful kitten-licks, and desperately pursue his prolonged pleasure, you’re only swimming in the hazy and the humid— in the impossible idea that someone so pretty could think you were pretty, too.

He huffs for air, eyes squeezed shut, body quivering and thighs shaking, even as you hold them down. His voice breaks even, beautiful, only makes clearer the stark, pretty lines of his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. He’s always so pretty.

And only prettier— your heart wrests in affection bordering on pain— when he forces his eyes back open just to watch you. The way he releases his only sound of pleasure, shyness submissing beneath that beautiful voice you love so much, it almost makes you believe:

“...Wow.”

That someone so lovely could think you were lovely, too.

As if the sight of your own devotion surprises him.

Then again— you think as his trembles begin to slow, your kisses ease the highward trail up his chest— he’s always surprised. Because his deepest gift has always been uncovering— every day, before every map, every sunburn, every bruise you’ve placed— another hidden reason to love the world. And he’ll never go unsatisfied, unfed again.

Thomas Edison didn’t invent the lightbulb. Nate only knows that because he loves.

His movements finally come to a certain stop, and all the oxygen he’s must’ve ever breathed in his life comes rolling out. One last dying gasp before he registers your mouth hovering before his. His eyes: desperately blue. His lips: pink and shiny, no longer lonely, your heart pangs swooningly, purposefully. And his fingers reach to cradle your jaw, steer you into a brutally romantic, death-defying, earth-shattering—

He twists your face away at the last second, so where you expect his lips upon yours, you are instead met with his tongue down your cheek.

Another stripe. Wet and clinging. And your pussy throbs manic with want. Because he’s cleaning you.

He’s eating his own cum off you.

And you get to taste it together when he finally plunges you forward into a kiss, grip steady behind your neck, heart racing against your own. His other thumb mindlessly smears the leaking remnants of spit and cum down your chin and presses his lips to yours. Passionate, aching, hungry. And you share. You always share everything.

“Fuck, that was soooo hot,” You gasp once you part for air.

But Nathan isn’t thinking about a need for air, not even at all. Because the first words that leave his lips:

“Your turn.” Without even a pause in-between.

You’re already falling back into nylon before your thighs are immediately yanked apart, and your seeping shorts, those god-damn nearly non-existent shorts, the tan ones he’s already stained with a frantic quickie and a near-hysterical apology (they were one of your favorites; they still are) and you’ve had to cuff even higher to hide, are torn down your legs.

And when next you come— with the adorable, pink flat of his tongue and his affectionate eyes gazing up from my horizon— the only thoughts that cross my mind are how deeply you love him.

How deeply he shares with you.

And how he makes you feel something.

#uncharted #nathan drake #nathan drake x reader #uncharted 4 #uncharted 4: a thief's end #uncharted x reader #my work #another super old piece if any folks out there need some soft sweet lovin (I know I do </3)

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