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out-of-control · 3 months ago

Text

STRIP

PREV: WARMTH

NEXT: PRAYER

words: 2755

warnings: SEXXXXXXXXXX. and marijuana use.

summary: it's called slutweed. supposed to turn you into a rea

As the last notes of Suffer come to a close, Jim passes Jax the joint and lazily slips off the edge of the bed, impressively sluglike for someone so pointy. He crouches in front of the CD player, deftly pressing the lid so that it clicks and opens like a clam in a cartoon– it’s just that instead of a shiny round pearl, the machine spits out a shiny flat disc. Jim returns the CD to the correct jewel case, returns the case to the top of the menacing stack on Jax's floor, and runs his finger down the spines of the tower. Jax, splayed out on his back, tries to spy which ones Jim might be considering, but a good view would involve actually sitting up, and he's not really feeling that right now. Apparently finding one disc compelling enough at last, Jim carefully slips it out, feeds it to the CD player, clicks the lid back down, and squints at it from the floor. The opening ticks to Pretty Hate Machine begin to float through the speakers. Nice choice. Jax wouldn't have taken Jim for a synths guy. Jim nods at the CD player slowly, approvingly, and, once the synth kicks in, crawls his way back onto the bed, pressing his side against Jax’s. Jax blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and reluctantly hands the joint back.

Wordlessly, the two of them lounge on the bed together, as the album plays on and the smoke thickens. Wordlessly, that is, only until, “My head is filled with disease, my skin is begging you, please,” slips out of Jim's mouth, so pleasantly in sync with Trent Reznor that Jax’s brain takes a long moment to properly register what he just witnessed. One part of Jax wants to treat Jim like a rare bird that he doesn't want to spook: go quiet and hold perfectly still in the desperate hope that it will keep singing. The part of Jax that is high opens his mouth.

“Whoa,” Jax says, eloquently. “Dude, that sounded so good.”

Jim snorts. “You don’t have to flatter me, you’ve already got me in your bed.”

“No, seriously,” Jax protests, squirming to try and sit up to see Jim, and nearly sending himself off the edge of the bed in the process, “You can, like, sing, man.” He gives up on verticality and just rolls onto his side to face Jim instead. Jim says nothing, simply looking down at him. Then, as Jax’s brain kind of struggles to keep itself on track with all the various goings-on in his bedroom, like the sound of Trent Reznor semi-rapping and the little piece of fire between Jim's fingertips and the movement of Jax's own chest as his lungs push it around and the hazy pairs of shadows on the wall, Jim reaches out a hand and tucks Jax's sidelock behind his ear for him.

Jax goes very still. A fluttery sort of warmth spreads throughout his insides. Jim takes advantage of Jax’s paralysis by delicately placing the joint between Jax’s lips and slouching some more. Jax gets it. He’s feeling pretty close to melting into the box-spring himself. A few more songs slide in one of Jax's ears and out the other. The joint burns out by accident, but both of them are too lazy to relight it.

Jim lurches up off the bed and for a moment Jax gets really scared that he's leaving, but then Jim’s shoulder starts to roll a certain way, with his elbows and hips following suit, and Jax realizes that Jim isn't heading for the door at all; he's dancing.

Jax lies there, watches Jim, and feels insane.

Jim’s hair is swaying hypnotically in front of his face as his body moves, though Jax can’t keep his attention from shifting lower, to where Jim hooks a thumb in the hem of his shirt and slowly starts dragging it upwards, inch by agonizing inch. Jax barely catches a glimpse of Jim’s SLUT tattoo before he lets go, shirt dropping back down. Jim’s hand follows its trajectory, fingers splayed across his chest as it slides over the fabric, over his collarbone, up the side of his neck, and Jax can see the slightest smirk on Jim’s lips as he slips a finger in his mouth and playfully bites it.

He starts again from the top, this time with both hands picking up the bottom of his shirt, lifting slowly in a sort of rolling motion, back and forth with the beat.

And Jax, God help him, keeps staring. He feels frozen in place, curled up on his side like a comma, like maybe his brain is getting more fried with every progressive second. Maybe his dick as well. Because the way Jim's hip flexes as he sways has got Jax unable to say a word, unable to step into the role of either the smartass or the flirt. Right now, all he can be is the audience.

Jim's shirt clears his head, ruffling his hair before it's abandoned on the floor. His hands trail their way back down his torso, over his chest, over his hips, fingertips creeping under his waistband. They dip deeper, deeper, dragging his pants down until the first hints of hair slip into view. He pulls his hands back, grabbing the end of his belt and tugging on it until the buckle just barely releases. He pulls the leather the rest of the way through, letting it hang there, metal clinking. He pops the button on his jeans open. He pinches the tab on his zipper. He doesn’t move, staring at Jax, whose eyes are focused squarely on the trail of Jim’s body hair.

“Wow. No tip?” Jim remarks.

“Um,” Jax says. “I think my wallet’s in the kitchen.”

Jim shakes his head. “Clients in this place are terrible.”

“Well I can give you, um…” Getting a wisp of an idea, Jax flops over to the nightstand and rummages through the drawer clumsily. “A quarter.” He looks up at Jim, who simply raises an eyebrow. Jax turns back to the drawer. “...Some condoms. Safety pins…” He looks up again. Jim still seems unimpressed. Jax scrounges further in the back, retrieving a black elastic band. “...A hair tie? Thingy? I don't know why I have this,” he lies, even as he remembers the girl with bright purple hair unleashing her mane as she leaned over him. Can't have been more than six months ago, right? Feels longer. Feels like a lifetime ago. Why did he just lie about that? He's about to shake the thoughts free from his head and shut the drawer, when Jim sticks out his hand, urgently opening and closing it as he leans over the edge of the bed, saying, “Oh shit, gimme that.” Jax promptly hands it over as payment, relieved to have it no longer be his problem. Jim fusses with his hair a bit before ultimately tying it up in a little ponytail, the shorter wisps in the front falling free and framing his face. He puts his hands on his hips, fingers curling over bare skin, and looks down at Jax. “How do I look?” he asks.

“Pretty,” Jax says, because he isn't very good at self-censorship right now.

Jim simply repeats, “Pretty?”

And, for some fucking reason, Jax doubles down: "Um. Yeah. Pretty.” And the fucked up thing is he's telling the truth. With his hair tied back– save for those wispy tendrils floating around his face– leaving his high cheekbones and upturned nose on display, Jim does look disarmingly… delicate. Graceful. Pretty.

“Hm,” Jim hums to himself. “I like pretty,” he says, and sits down on the edge of the bed as the current song fades out and the next takes its place. He looks down at a hole in his jeans, and quickly gets distracted by a scab on his knee.

Jax blinks at the opposite wall for a few seconds. Then he clears his throat. “Um. Were you going to…?” He looks at Jim, who stops picking his scab in order to stare back blankly. “Nevermind.”

“What?”

Jax feels very sweaty all of a sudden. Also kind of frozen in place. “Um. I was just gonna ask if you were going to like. Finish.”

“Finish what?”

Jax is excruciatingly present in the current moment. “The um. The clothes.”

“Oh!” Jim says, “Yeah,” and he shifts onto his knees on the bed and hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and starts shimmying his pants down to the beat, centimeter by fucking centimeter.

Jax, lying on his back half propped up by the pillows to watch Jim, feels like he is falling through the earth and also getting a boner a little bit. This is, of course, exactly what he had hoped for, and yet he’s still a little gobsmacked. He has the feeling that maybe if he hadn't smoked so much weed he might have a little more game right now, but he can try his best. Wetting his lips, he rasps: “I would tip you again, man, but, uh. I don't have any more hair things.”

Jim doesn't seem too bothered by this. He simply grabs one of Jax's hands from where they're resting on the bed, and places it against his own stomach. Right where it meets his extremely low waistband.

A couple of seconds pass in incredibly stupid silence.

Then Jax struggles up into a sitting position, lurches forwards on clumsy limbs, misses Jim’s mouth entirely, and ultimately ends up just sort of hanging out breathing shallowly onto the side of Jim's face for a few moments, two fingers having somehow managed to hook themselves into Jim's waistband.

Jax is busy trying to figure out which body parts to move (and in what sequence) in order to most effectively proceed, when Jim turns his head ever so slightly and flicks his tongue against Jax’s cheek.

This time, Jax doesn't miss.

He’s still not exactly clearheaded; he can feel himself being messy and uncoordinated, graceless, but he tries his best, he really does, smoothing his hands all over Jim’s torso, pressing firm kisses against Jim’s mouth again and again like neither of them need to breathe. And the best part, the best part, is that he can hear Jim’s breaths and gasps getting all broken apart by smatters of giggles bursting through instead. The giggles especially are making Jax feel crazy.

It’s like there’s a glitch in his brain that makes him need to double check that all it’s really happening; he keeps glancing from Jim’s eyes to Jim's mouth and back again and back again. He runs his fingers through Jim's hair and slips the hair tie out and it falls to the bed and is lost beneath Jax's knee. Jim's hair falls around his face, but then Jax smooths it back with his hand and presses a dry little kiss against Jim's cheek. Jax was already shirtless and now Jim matches and that's really, just really awesome right now. Jax is inhaling Jim's skin just as much as he's kissing it. Jim topples over and Jax, holding him tight around the waist, goes right down with him, barely even pausing his attack. Jax sucks bruises into Jim's chest and he really, really hopes it's good for Jim. He tries to restrain himself, keep things on track, cultivate some semblance of foreplay rather than give in to his impulse to just start clumsily humping Jim to death because the fact is that it's only fair. Jim gave him a little performance. Jim showed him his best. Jax wants to do the same in return. It's what Jim deserves.

Eventually Jax remembers that he’d had vague plans earlier regarding some possible actions to take in addition to the kissing. Wrenching himself back on track, he devotes himself to the task of peeling Jim's jeans down enough for Jax to fulfill his destiny for tonight and finally just fucking get his hands on Jim's cock.

Jim lets out a blissful sigh, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back on the bed. Jax keeps stroking, kind of tentatively at first, eyes trained on Jim's face, hoping for probably the first time in his life that he’s starting to sober up, because he desperately wants his fine motor control to be working as well as possible for this. He does his best anyway.

Jim stretches out on the sheets, in a way that would make a lot more sense on a satin-encased California king than on Jax’s shabby little twin. From both that and the way Jim’s eyelashes are fluttering against his cheeks, Jax feels reasonably confident that by now, his motor skills must be at least passable.

Eventually, there does come a point where he remembers he has a dick as well. Pausing, he scrambles to unzip his own jeans and shove them down as fast as possible, not wanting to have his hands away from Jim for even a second longer than necessary. The instant he has them together in the palm of his hand, he goes back to kissing Jim, neck and jaw and cheek and lips. His mouth moves slower, more carefully than his hand is working, making sure each kiss lands in exactly the right place. He keeps his other hand snug against the small of Jim's back, dragging Jim's spine up and away from the mattress, and Jim just goes with it, nearly boneless.

The CD finishes and neither of them are getting up to change it anytime soon, so now it's just the sound of them filling the room: Jax's gasps interspersed with whines, and Jim's giggles cut off by moans. Soft wet sounds and the whispers of skin against skin. The only thing going on in the whole wide world is the two of them moving on that little bed. Legs tangled together. Jax's one arm caught between them stroking Jim off. Mouth wet on Jim's neck, his jaw, his chin.

Jax feels Jim's nails dig into his back and half-dreams of them going deeper, of Jim tearing him to ribbons. Even as his body speeds up, his mind seems to slow down, glacial pace, everything becoming crystal, refracted, hot and hyper-real. Jim's face is pink like a flower petal, like liquid soap in a bar bathroom.

Jim blurts, “Stop, fuck, I'm close, stop.”

Jax slows down at once, though not to a complete stop. “No,” he can't help but blurt out, and, worse, a pathetic little whine of, “Please, let me make you come,” spills out immediately after.

Jim's nails dig hard into Jax's thigh as a twitch rips through his body, and a small, achingly cute sound escapes his throat in his effort to keep himself balanced on the edge. Jax can feel him trembling, just a little bit. “Not yet, not yet, not yet,” Jim breathes hard, eyes shut tight, head tilted back against the bed, hair spilling onto the sheets.

Still pretty. Maybe moreso.

Jax lowers his mouth to Jim's throat, rolling his hips as slowly as he can bear. And against Jim's neck he whispers, coaxes: “Come on. Let me hear you.” Maybe even involuntarily, Jim whimpers in response, and Jax is struck by a blinding desire to eat him whole immediately. He settles for sinking his teeth into Jim's shoulder instead, and Jim gasps and bucks his hips up into Jax's hand.

“Fuck,” Jim whispers, over and over again, between the tiny whines that Jax teases out of him. He slides an arm down Jax's back– slips his hand under Jax's jeans and gropes his ass and Jax groans so pathetically into Jim's mouth in response. But he keeps his pace slow for Jim, just right for Jim, just how Jim wants it.

Because if Jim wants it to last longer, then it’ll last longer. If Jim wants Jax to press him down against the mattress with the crushing weight of his whole body. If Jim wants Jax to drag those fragile, precious noises out from between Jim’s ribs like it’s killing him. If Jim wants Jax to mark him up, sink his teeth into every inch of skin he can reach from jaw to hip and leave marks that last for days. If Jim wants Jax to kiss him ‘til he can’t breathe, ‘til he gets lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Then Jax is going to give Jim everything he wants. As if he could ever say no.

#words

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theyboldlywent · 3 years ago

Photo

Oh, hey, the same Heritage Auctions lot that features the medical tunic from Star Trek: The Motion Picture and Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan also has this remarkable piece: the phaser rifle used by James T. Kirk in the second Star Trek pilot, “Where No Man Has Gone Before.”

The description from Heritage is as follows:

Vintage original Phaser Rifle highly visible used by "James Kirk" (Shatner) in the third Star Trek episode aired on TV, "Where No Man Has Gone Before," on September 22, 1966. This was the second pilot which ultimately launched the series, and was the debut of William Shatner in his iconic role as "Captain James Kirk", replacing "Commander Pike" (Jeffrey Hunter) from the original pilot.

Constructed of unique carved wooden body finished in automotive quality metallic blue paint, with tooled aluminum barrel shaft emanating from a grooved conical turret and ending in a focusing-dish emitter tip. The central body of the weapon is bisected by 3-clear Lucite cylinders, each containing brass conduit embedded in multi-color ports. The wooden grip houses a tooled aluminum core with a working, spring-loaded trigger, there is a sliding switch representing force adjustment and the butt of the gun features a black grab-handle for added stability of user. The futuristic weapon is expertly finished with ornamental multi-color buttons, panels and grills, a telescoping antenna and even the nuanced detail of a serial number plate behind the grip on each side of the body. For the second pilot Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry wanted "a really big gun" to help amp up the action for his space adventure. The 33.75" x 14" x 6" Phaser Rifle is incredibly sturdy and solid considering the designer and manufacturer, Reuben Klamer, was only given 2-weeks to deliver the prop, from design to fabrication to finishing. In the episode, the Phaser Rifle was originally used by "Spock" (Leonard Nimoy) prior to Kirk using it to capture rogue "Lt. Commander Mitchell" (Gary Lockwood) and "Dr. Dehner" (Sally Kellerman). While the instantly identifiable prop was used in promotional materials leading up to the episode, as well as appearing on the early Star Trek lunch box, it was never used on screen again.

The prop is accompanied by its original custom wooden hinge-lidded case with fitted styrofoam interior. Labeled "Reuben Klamer Assoc," measuring 37.5" x 17.5" x 7.5." Also includes vintage original 22" x 14" schematic drawing of the final, Roddenberry-approved design, (7) pages of inter-department correspondence between Gene Roddenberry, Bob Justman, Bernie Weitzman and Ed Pearlstein discussing the commission and creation of the rifle - including 1-typed letter on Desilu Productions stationery from Roddenberry to Reuben Klamer, signed, "Gene Roddenberry." Also includes (7) 3" x 5" black and white Polaroid photos of the gun and (1) 8" x 10" production photo of "Kirk" holding the prop beside "Dr. Dehner" (Kellerman). This one-of-a-kind Phaser Rifle is among the very top "Holy Grails" of the science fiction collector's universe, as it helped sell Star Trek to the network, forever influencing the genre. The prop exhibits minor age, production wear and handling. It remains in vintage production used Fine condition.

The opening bid is $125,000.

#star trek #star trek props #star trek the original series #Where No Man Has Gone Before

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keilemlucent · 4 years ago

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: iii

(Mostly SFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii (epilogue)

word count: ~2.2k

Nothing ever really ends. It just grows in different ways with different parts.

warnings: description of post-injury, reader and hawks being traumatized but coping, a soft epilogue

the ending folks :’^) thank you for reading this far. here is something gentle for all of us, with some future, past, and the present for sweet starshine and keigo :’^)

enjoy loves 💞!!

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Keigo doesn’t break promises.

He loves white lies, the silly kind where he can rib you for a minute or two before soothing any ruffled feathers with quick kisses. He never leaves big wounds, nothing gaping or jagged, just loving pokes in your sides to get you to laugh and quip back at him.

He never goes back on his words that count.

His journeys out of the house remain short and rarely surprising. He never leaves without a goodbye, whether that’s a sleepy fuck or two, or a hand-written, tooth-rotting note on a scrap of paper next to a steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen island.

Keigo’s used to the open skies, rolling forever. The curve of the horizon is his primordial friend that he never got to say goodbye to, but he still chases it a few times a week. Little drives he takes by himself, hikes, and things that he let him feel a bit of that free wind in his shaggy hair.

It takes you a while, but you don’t look forlornly at the door anymore.

The awareness that of his absence from your little bastion lingers as you move throughout your day, but you know he’s good for his word. He always returns, bearing a toothy grin, and usually an armload of snacks or takeout.

It’s better, and you’re both a bit more alive.

...

Spring in the mountains reminds you of something you can’t place.

The memory of it is foggy, far-off and untouched. Probably a bit dampened from, you know, a year of trauma, but the feeling of it makes your quirk burst to light without fail.

It comes when you notice the little patches of wildflowers that spring up in new grass that rings around the porch. Heat flares in your eyes when you see the little seedlings you and Keigo planted into the window boxes begin to bud and flower.

The days get longer, sweeter, and the summer comes easily.

...

The bad days never cease, but you both learn to cope to some degree.

Your scar... cracks one day. You’re doing some half-assed stretches in the living room (mostly arching your back so Keigo gets a good peek of your ass) when it happens. Your right leg bends at the knee, and a resounding ‘crack’ and shatter echo off the walls of the cabin.

You both panic.

Keigo instantly urges you on the couch, trying to soothe your own panic with little coos from the back of his throat. You feel numb as Keigo shoves up your pant leg, looking for any damage.

The scar looks relatively unchanged. It hasn’t writhed since your days at the hospital, and its edges have only faded a shade or two with time. It’s long, obtrusive, and something you still avoid looking at.

All the same, Keigo traces the gnarly flesh, nimble fingers searching for the source of the sound. Any bit of pain he can identify and soothe, ideally, remove. The pads of his fingers drift to the crook of your knee, pressing against the shiny, black seam of the scar.

His eyes go wide before awe shines through, without a lick of fear.

He warns you to take a deep breath, ‘breath with him’, before pinching at the glassy center and pulling. There’s a bit of resistance as he pulls, you’re not sure what he’s doing, and you see ‘it’ before you really put it together.

Keigo holds ‘it’ up for you to see.

The inky glass of the scar.

Literal rock. Inky obsidian pulled from your flesh, about the size of your pinky and painfully jagged.

“W-what is that?” You asked, grabbing his wrist to examine the bit. “That’s... the scar?”

Keigo nods his head, scrutinizing it with you, pinching at it, “Weirdest scab I’ve ever seen.”

Scab.

You have never thought about calling the ugly root of the scar a ‘scab’ but looking at the way it so easily was pulled away, it makes sense. After a bit of examination and tender prodding, the tissue around it looks healthy, albeit thick and burned. The scar goes deep into your flesh, feels raw to the touch, but the skin that’s beneath it is somewhat alive. Maybe too alive, given how sensitive it is.

Nonetheless, you marvel at the little piece of volcanic glass that Keigo had pulled from you like it’s the most precious stone in the world.

...

It takes a long time to convince both of you.

Keigo never receives another call from Suits, ‘president’, what the fuck her name is. Thank fucking god. His snap seemed to have scared her and her crumbling organization away. You can only hope that it was for good.

The potential return comes from kindness rather than demands.

Calls from both Endeavor and Miruko, ‘Enji’ and ‘Rumi’ as they insist you call them. Rumi chatters on the phone for hours with Keigo every few weeks, puts the phone on speaker, and has you give your piece as well. You like her, she’s funny and loud and Keigo smiles when he talks to her.

Enji actually visits.

Once or twice, maybe more. You stop counting when the extra bodies in the cabin don’t have you breaking into a cold sweat anymore. It had taken a great bit of coaxing, but you opened your cabin up for the former pro and his entourage.

He brings along his daughter and the ‘Three Musketeers,’ as the media calls them. The boys train in the mountains nearby, never lingering too far based on the shouting from the blond one that echoes against the hills.

The rest of you settle into the walls of the cabin whenever they come to visit. It feels warmer than normal; it makes sweat gather under your arms and in droplets on your forehead. Even if you wanted to attribute the heat to the old flame hero’s presence, it wouldn’t account entirely for your thumping heart.

You work through it, slowly.

You like watching Keigo and Enji. They both look worn. Keigo’s a bit too young for grey hair, but Enji has more than his fair share around his temples. The beard around his jaw glints silver in the lowlight of the cabin whenever he tilts his head to sip at his tea.

They smile like old friends, talk like it too.

You end up in the kitchen a lot during their talks, distantly cooking and observing. You’re always listening to their stories, the banter. It’s hard to keep up with, a lingering vestige of Keigo’s old persona that clings to him and his mannerisms.

You don’t mind it, even if it feels foreign.

...

“Can you pass me that honey, dear?” Fuyumi asks, voice sweet and close.

You nod, sliding her the jar across the corner top. She carefully spoons a glob of the thick liquid into the four waiting mugs, humming just under her breath.

The cabin feels warm, and it’s not just the ambient heat Enji gives off.

The ‘three musketeers’ plan to camp in the mountainside and ‘rough it’. You couldn’t imagine the freshly-greened hills giving them too much trouble. They bicker, you have found, constantly. Blunt jabs from Enji’s son, met by explosive remarks from the blond one (why is his hero name so long? You can never remember it well.) Consider your growing aversion to loud noise, you like Deku the best. He seems like the peacekeeper (and peacemaker) of the trio and compliments your cooking. What a gem.

The guest room has been polished into an actual guest room. Fuyumi takes it, and Enji, bless his heart, takes the creaky fold-out couch. He doesn’t mind, he tells you, something about enjoying tending to the hearth at night.

Keigo calls the nights where they fill the house ��sleepovers’, and he adores them.

They’re a bit overwhelming for you if you’re being honest. But Enji is far less intimidating now that you’ve seen him nodding off and slack-faced on your couch. Fuyumi has patience you’ll never fully understand, and babies you a bit, which you don’t welcome but don’t refuse either.

She does just that, scooping up three mugs after pushing your own toward you. You regather and sit next to Keigo at the kotatsu, slipping your legs under the thick blanket and sagging with the heat. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he presses you into his side, pressing a few kisses to the top of your head. It’s an idle action, habitual and welcomed as the conversation flows.

(Something about one of Keigo’s old sidekicks. Another about Endeavor’s agency, still chugging along with him at the helm, albeit not as an active hero. The new hero charts, the new rules established, legislation. Things are getting... safer, a semblance of order being re-established now that much of the League has been apprehended.)

(Things are settling, as horrifying as the change is.)

The thought of so much makes you sleepy, long-standing exhaustion heavy in your bones. You nod off at some point to the kind, safe voices.

Keigo coaxes you awake once the conversation dies down.

“Love,” he purrs, rubbing your side, “let’s get up now and get you to bed.”

You follow him, the way he rises and guides you to the bathroom to help you ready for bed. Enji is settling on the couch, tugging a few throws over himself on the futon. You give him a shallow wave with half-lidded eyes, meeting his own.

Eye contact feels hard, but you manage to hold it for a few seconds.

In the bathroom, you pop onto the counter and slowly brush your teeth. Sleep clings to you, and you know it’ll return quickly, but the process of moving and interacting wears you down so easily. Your toothbrush almost slips from your grip.

“Just a little more, and then you can rest, dove,” Keigo urges, reverent as he finishes his own routine in tandem. You watch as he splashes water on his face, wetting the tufts of hair that fall around his face.

The cabin feels warmer.

You notice it as you enter the bedroom, Keigo already hopping into bed to assemble the ‘nest’ as both affectionately refer to it. The old throw, a few extra soft blankets, and a buttery soft duvet must be arranged just right before he is satisfied.

Keigo knows it’s a remnant.

He carries plenty of them, little chunks of him that are old and worn, old and unused. He can shake them, can’t bury them, they just simply are.

The birdish ones are nice, he thinks. He likes that he can preen you. He loves that you can preen him. That you’ll indulge him in that way, running your hands through his overgrown hair. You detangle any knots, soothe the snarls and rub at his neck until he’s liquid in your lap.

He likes nesting. The cold of the cabin can be almost forgotten in the little nests he makes. The mountains of bedding and pillows that you both can settle in. It’s peaceful, and it's shared, and things are okay.

It’s all slow, and a bit tedious, things that the remnants of ‘Hawks’ scream and thrash at. But, really? Keigo has no reason to listen to a ghost. He tries not to let himself be haunted.

He indulges himself for the first time in his life, probably.

As Keigo nestles you into the sheets beside him, he gives you a bit of room to get comfortable. Adjusts your pillows how you like, tangle your legs together in the comfiest way. Your own version of nesting that makes his palms sweat and his words turn to mush.

You settle together, chest to chest, Keigo’s chin hooked over the top of your head.

“Did you have a good day?” You ask, soft and sleepy.

Keigo nods easily, “I did. Enji doesn’t seem to quite as much of a square as he was a few years ago.”

You snort, muffling a giggle into his chest, “He’s definitely a little bit of a square. But I like him.”

“He offered to host us at the estate if we ever want to go back.”

You swallow, thick and slow, and try to bury yourself deeper in him, “... Do you want to go back?”

“No.” He pauses. “Maybe. Not yet, and not anytime soon. But the offer is on the table. It’s nice to have, even if we don’t take it.”

It’s insurance, somewhere else to tuck yourselves away if the mountains stop favoring you.

The thought of the future makes your head spin, as it tends to. The scar aches, but maybe it’s a tad duller than it was a few months ago. The pains only last a few moments, only stab so deeply. The place where the little chunk of obsidian fell out doesn’t feel quite as tender.

You lay your cheek on Keigo’s chest, your breath coming in time with his.

“‘M tired,” You murmur into his chest. “Can I sleep?”

“Of course, starshine.” He pushes back your hair, clears your forehead to press his lips to the skin, lightly. Little kisses piling up on top of each other. “Get some rest.”

“You too, pretty eyes.”

You both need it. For more than just a day with the folks who stuck around. You and Keigo need more rest than a being can responsibly accumulate during a human life. There are things to be stitched, worn parts of you that need tending to, and burns that’ll need salve until the day you die. It’s not any less than it was in the month’s past.

But it’s easier to manage.

You snuggle into Keigo’s chest, drifting off to the thought of fresh coffee and crackling heat.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

thank you for reading!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #my hero academia #mha fanfic #mha x reader #hawks imagines #wow :'^)#thank y'all for reading

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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 3 years ago

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Surprise

Okay I’m soooo late, I’m sorry! This is my submission for @antoineroussel ‘s Summer Fic Exchange! I managed to dislocate my shoulder (again) and then get myself and half my house sick in the last week, so I’m so grateful for Demi and Emma’s patience <3 @leafs-forever , I hope you enjoy!

Rating: T (language)

Pairing: Kirby Dach/Reader

Words: 1599

Warnings: None

Summary: You and Kirby get ready for the NHL Awards.

Luckily, you had started getting ready before Kirby got home. You’re used to getting ready beside him, but it takes you longer to prepare for a fancy event. Getting dolled up isn’t as easy as people make it out to be.

By the time he gets home, you’ve already showered and are in the process of doing your hair. You keep it simple, just cleaning it up a bit and putting in some product to make it shine for the cameras. You can hear Kirby moving around, hanging up his bag and probably grabbing a glass of water. With the amount of water that boy drinks, you’d think he’d live in the bathroom.

“Hey, baby,” he greets when the two of you meet in the bedroom. He plants a lingering kiss on your lips, smile soft and relieved as he looks into your eyes. That look never fails to make your heart melt, touched by the way that he feels relaxed and safe around you.

You’ve been together for quite a few years, which is probably how you move around each other so easily. He strips and throws his clothes into the hamper on his way to the shower, and you take the opportunity to smack his ass as he passes by. He jumps and tries to give you a scolding look, but the smile glued to his face gives him away.

Needing to shower multiple times in a day has made him quick with it, so he’s out in time to zip your dress. You’ve already put your jewelry on, just a classy silver necklace-bracelet combo and a few different sized fashion rings. You like the way that they sit at different parts of your fingers, highlighting your hands and making your fingers look long and elegant.

You had tried to convince Kirby to wear something interesting, rather than just a plain black suit. It had kind of worked. The suit was still black, but it had a black satin trim with a subtle pattern that gave the whole look a little something special. The NHL Awards is supposed to be a fancy event, so he didn’t want to do anything too crazy.

You’d been to the award ceremony a couple times before, when teammates and friends had won honors. This was the first time Kirby himself was getting one, and you’re beyond proud. The Art Ross was a huge deal, and it was amazing to have Kirby officially alongside the likes of Gordie Howe and Mario Lemieux.

Once your dress is zipped, you head back into the bathroom to do your makeup. You know it’ll have to be a bit more dramatic and involved to show well on the cameras, so you take your time to get it right. You chat with Kirby through the door as he finishes air drying on the bed, sharing about your days as you usually do when you’re both home.

He’s half dressed by time you finish your makeup, fanning your face to make your setting spray dry faster. You head out into the kitchen to get yourself some water and kill a few minutes until Kirby finishes dressing and doing his hair.

“Can you grab my cufflinks, please?” He calls from the bathroom, “They’re in my bag.” You shout back an affirmative, making your way to the entryway.

His bag hangs next to yours, so you take it down, sitting on the floor to root through it. While your bag is organized neatly so that you can find things easily, Kirby’s backpack is a disaster. You take out clothes, push past empty Tupperware containers, finally finding a velvet box all the way at the bottom. It isn’t until you’ve pulled it out that you realize it’s far too small to be a cufflink case. Plus, you see an appropriately sized box leaning against a notebook at the bottom.

First things first, you grab the larger box to check inside. The cuff links are there, so you set it aside to bring to him. You take a few deep breaths to calm your suddenly racing heart. It doesn’t work. The weight of the small box in your hand feels immense, and lifting the lid is a Herculean effort.

The ring is silver, or maybe platinum or palladium. There are two gemstones as the centerpiece, a garnet and sapphire, entwined with a twisting infinity symbol that morphs into the band. His and your favorite stones, tied together perfectly. It’s beautiful.

That motherfucker.

Yes, you’re happy that he’s planning to propose, ecstatic even. Kirby is the love of your life, and you’ve intended to be with him as long as he’ll allow, ring or not. But yeah, the ring is a nice assurance.

Back to why he’s an asshole. He’s had this ring in his bag for who knows how long. Are you mad that he hasn’t already proposed? No. That he’s given no hint that this was coming? Nah. You’re mad because the ring you got for him has been sitting in your underwear drawer for weeks, and this jerk was going to beat you to the punch. Steal your thunder. Well, he’s got another thing coming.

You’ve been waiting for just the right moment to pop the question, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you’ve been procrastinating out of anxiety. Yeah, he’s your soulmate, but there’s still that annoying bit of fear that he could possibly say no. You’d thought about proposing tonight after the ceremony, or maybe behind the scenes after he received his award. You can’t seem to remember why you decided against it.

You pocket the ring box and shove everything back into his bag. Maybe you shouldn’t have sat on the floor in your dress, but you can always have Kirby dust you off if needed. Before you go to him, you open your top drawer as quietly as you can manage. You know exactly where the box is, so it only takes a second to grab.

Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest as you take another steadying breath on your way to the bathroom. He turns to you when you enter, hair fluffy and suit slightly rumpled. Even after all your time together, he still takes your breath away.

“Thank you, love,” he says when you hand him the cufflink case. He turns back to the mirror to check his hair one last time, before looking down to focus on getting his cuffs properly buttoned. You take a step to the right to ensure that you’re out of his line of sight, carefully adjusting your skirt as you go to one knee.

“You ready?” he asks, turning to where you were just standing. His left hand freezes where it’s tugging his shirt cuff into place, mouth falling open slightly when he sees you on the floor. You raise the box in your shaking hands, forgetting everything you’d been planning to say for the past month.

“Yeah,” you say instead, “I’m ready.” You open the box to present the ring, hoping you don’t sweat your makeup off in anticipation.

“Me too,” he replies, smiling as wide as you’ve ever seen. You’re glad that you don’t have your heels on yet, because you spring up from the ground to wrap him in your arms. Your smiles make kissing difficult, but you can’t seem to stop, anyway. You bury your face in his neck after, glad you’d used a lot of setting spray. A makeup faceprint on his suit would be kind of funny, but probably wouldn’t look the best.

“So, do I get that ring at some point, or?” Kirby teases. You punch his shoulder lightly.

“I don’t know, do I get an official yes?” you quip back, already taking the ring out of the holder.

“Yes, you do,” he says confidently, “And yes, I do.” You have to kiss him again for that one. The ring fits perfectly when you slide it onto his finger, hoping he can feel the garnet embedded into the inside of the black band. He kisses you once more afterward, and you can tell he’s squealing with joy on the inside just as much as you are.

“I have to go grab something,” he says, pulling away, “You’re not gonna believe this.” He doesn’t get two steps away before you grab his hand, turning him back toward you. You pull the second ring box out of your pocket, going for a smug smile but probably just looking like a dork.

“You mean this?” you ask, reveling in his shocked expression. Now it’s his turn to punch your shoulder, laughing brightly.

“You’re the worst!” he says, grinning nevertheless. He snatches the box out of your hand while you laugh.

“Turn around,” he orders, “I gotta surprise you too!” You only laugh harder at that, barely able to force yourself to settle as he turns you by the shoulders to face the opposite direction. Once he says “okay”, you turn back to him, giving the most over dramatic performance of your life as you act surprised. You’re both laughing too much for him to get much out, though you’re sure he had a planned speech too.

The ring sliding over your skin is an amazing feeling, but nothing compares to the way he wraps his arms around you once again, resting your foreheads together. You lose track of time looking into his eyes, amazed that you’ve somehow managed to find someone so perfect for you.

Now you have to call your mom so she doesn’t find out through an article. Oops.

#kirby dach imagine #nhl imagines #RI #andis coping mechanism #this is the only time I will ever write for the hawks #please do not ask me to write for them #this is a special circumstance 😂

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colossal-fallout · 4 years ago

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You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna request something. Erwin, first time fucking in a long while and it's also the first time he attempts to do it after losing his arm.

Whole again

Femreader X Erwin Smith

Warnings: NSFW. 18+ Smut. Creampie. Angst.

Fortitude does not merit misery.

One should not be punished for bravery, yet here he was; your commander, your lover, suffering beyond just the physical. To everyone else, he seemed to be recovering well. He’d finally returned to being that clean shaven, well presented Commander of the Survey Corps that everyone was so used to seeing. It annoyed you how eager other people were to forget that he’d lost his entire right arm.

But hey; as long as he was still able to lead the survey corps, right?

You bite the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicker over to him as he stands in all of his glory gazing out of the window - the tangerine glow of the sunset a reflection of the darkening days ahead. You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.

Eren had been rescued, but the enemy had fled. And now, only two nights prior to the mission to Shiganshina, every fibre in your being was telling you that the enemy was lying in wait. Coiled and ready to spring at you like a snake, it’s venom destroying more of your already hard life. Of course, Erwin and his sharp mind already predicted what would possibly lie in wait - going over countless scenario’s of circumstances and hazards.

“Don’t be so bitter, my love.” Erwin’s words of comfort echoed in your memories from two weeks prior. “I’m no different to any other Soldier. If I only lost an arm and not my life, it’s a blessing.”

You knew that, of course you did.

But you also saw things others didn’t. Like right now; his empty gaze out of the window pane, taking in the possibility of this being one of the last beautiful sunsets he’ll ever see. He’s had to come to terms with his own mortality, and it was a huge, bitter pill to swallow. He wasn’t the invincible Commander Erwin Smith of the Survey Corps.

He was human.

He wasn’t like the enemy. He didn’t have regeneration abilities and the means to transform into a destructive force so great, it could wipe out an entire platoon. All he had was his head, his bravery and his men.

“Erwin…” You call out softly, his mind too far away to hear you. You place your hand onto his remaining arm softly, making him flinch out of his trance.

“Erwin.” You repeat with a frown. “Are you okay?”

He replies with a single nod, his eyes closing in a soft smile. “Yes. No need to worry yourself.”

He was doing it again. Hiding behind his reputation, his resolve. You knew it deep in your soul he was suffering, yet there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.

Understandably, the two of you hadn’t been intimate for quite some time. Your touch starved body missed him and the feel of just his warmth under his shirt in your palm was enough to entice you into softly nuzzling into his neck, your lips caressing his skin and your breath tempting him into turning his head and rub his cheek into the top of your scalp.

He’d missed you too. His breath pushes out into a deep sigh, as he takes your hand and gently guides you over to the bed where he pulls you onto his lap. You feel the solid muscles of his large thigh beneath you, his arm snaking around your waist to hold you steady as he gazes into your eyes.

“I know you’re worried about me.” He utters with such soft syllables, it was enough to send a warm sensation cascade through your chest, down into the pit of your stomach. “But we both have known from the day we met, our time together is temporary. In this line of work… tomorrow is not a guarantee. You’ve forgotten that, it seems.”

Your eyes enlarge, filling with pain at his gentle yet sharp words. But you knew he was right. And yes, you’d gotten content in your relationship with him. But you couldn’t blame yourself. Erwin Smith was a compassionate, understanding lover who made you feel safe, loved and cherished. How could you not subconsciously cling to that so hard, it filters through into your delusional reality?

“I know.” You whisper.

His kind smile of empathy presses against your cheek. “I love you, my queen.”

“I love you too.” You furiously hold back the tears threatening your eyes. This was no time to be leaning on him. He needed you right now.

You hide your pain by visually shutting out his face, closing your eyes and pushing your mouth against his hungrily, your fingers grazing through his blonde strands as his grip on your tightens, his receptive mouth returning your affections. It didn’t matter how many times you’d made love in the past. Every single time was a new rush, a rush of adrenaline far richer than any from any battle you’d been in or training exercise.

He pulls away from your touch, eyebrows furrowing in hunger before clearing his throat.

“It’ll be the first time since I…”

“It’s okay.” You comfort.

Until he’d gotten accustomed to having only one arm, you were more than happy to do all of the work. In fact, how could you not after the months and months of him going above and beyond for you in bed, every. single. time?

You gently push at his solid chest, his jaw slackening as you lay him flat and straddle his waist, your kisses returning to his mouth as his hand paws at your form firmly. You feel his cock already stirring against your crotch through his trousers, his one arm still strong enough to push your hips back and forth, the friction of his crotch rubbing against your clit as your tongues entwine in a sloppy dance.

You heat up at the sound of his breath quickening, a sound you’d missed oh so much.

“I’ve missed you…” He grumbles as if reading your mind, his eyebrows knitting and eyes heavy lidded.

You respond by sitting up and removing your shirt, your perfect breasts spilling out into the open air, your nipples standing to attention. You feel his abs roll under you as he sits up slightly, encasing one into his warm mouth, kissing it as if your nipple were your tongue.

Teeth biting your lip you run your hands around his head, enjoying the feeling of his soft clean strands as he groans into your flesh his hand sliding up to your ribcage and squeezing you.

“Erwin…” You sigh, throwing back your head as his teeth start to nip and pull at your nub.

“It’s been too long…” His growl is guttural; his eyes hazed with lust as he slowly morphs into some sort of feral beast. “Ride me, princess.”

“Yes, sir.” You smirk as he lays back down, shuffling and getting comfortable as you pull down the top of his pants, his huge king cock springing free. Your mouth waters at the familiar scent of his pre-cum that rolls out as soon as the removal of material takes place, your hands hastily taking off your own pants, not able to move quick enough. You tremble as you balance on your knees, your hands ripping Erwin’s shirt open revealing his ripped, muscular body; his buttons flying everywhere as a low chuckle emits from his throat.

“I think you’ve missed too.”

“Of course I have.” You breathe, lining his huge gleaming head at your entrance that is coated with thick slick.

He groans loudly and arches his back, your mouth opening in a silent scream as you slowly lower yourself down onto him, his massive head squashing into your tiny hole. It’s slow progress to get him all the way in, your starved insides slowly ingesting him whole like some sort of Cobra with its prey.

Your name leaves his mouth, his eyes glued down to your pretty pussy splitting apart at his girth, the colour of your lips washing out from being stretched so beautifully wide.

“Mmm… that’s a good girl.” He praises with a hiss once you’re finally down at his base. “You take me so well.”

“Erwin...” You whimper; the feeling of being so full with him making your eyes roll as he resumes to move your hips with his hand, his fingertips digging into your flesh harshly. The grazing of his pubic hair against your clit as well as his fat shaft pushing against your g-spot was too much to handle, your nails desperately sinking into his pectorals with glee. Soft moans vibrate him as he watches your goddess form take so much pleasure from his dick, your arousal already leaking down onto his balls and pubic bone.

He can’t take it. He suddenly hooks his strong arm around you, pulling you down and smashing your mouth against his as he holds you in place against him, his hips thrusting up into you with force and speed, your loud cries only turning him more towards the realms of hysteria.

“God Erwin! Ah~! Ah~! I can’t take it… It’s too good!” You sob as he smashes into you even harder, his loud groans only accompanied by the sounds of his balls slapping against your skin and the bed creaking beneath you in loud thumps.

His eyes cross as he gazes into your very soul, his lips parted in awe and his cheeks flushing as he relentlessly hits into you over and over and over again.

“You’re so wet for me, darling.” He pants, his arm still hooked around over your back, his feet now flat on the mattress, taking as much leverage into you as he possibly could. “Do I make you feel good? Do I still know how to fuck my queen?!”

“Yes, yes, oh god yes!” You cry, your innards being well and truly scrambled into a sloppy mess. “It’s the best Erwin! Oh god… I’m so close!”

“I know…” He smirks’ your walls beginning to spasm around him, milking his length. “Squeeze me. Take every last drop I have.” He commands, his own orgasm swirling in the pit of his lower stomach.

“Yes, Erwin…” Your cognitive functions cease as you both implode, his thick cream surging out of him into you, as your insides certainly do juice him for all he’s worth. You’re both still cuming as his warm white liquid fills you so full, it’s already leaking out of your pussy, down onto his balls - his long loud and gruff groan too much to handle as you fall into the void together.

You were happy when Erwin seemed to want more sex after your recovery - that small glint behind his eye seemingly returning for the night as you both make love for the rest of the evening. Between sessions of fucking until you’re both sore, you’d laugh together and have pillow talk and even eat in bed. You had your Erwin remerge for you, his old confident and laid back self visible once again, you could hardly contain your joy. And all it took was for you to make him feel whole again. As the night drew on that was filled with your sweet laughter and a reignited hope for the future with your love; little did you know that beyond that horizon lay Shiganshina, waiting for your arrival.

And that this night together with your love would be your last.

#snk season 4 #erwin x y/n #erwin x you #attack on titan erwin #snk erwin #erwin #erwin smith #aot erwin #commander erwin #snk imagines #snk #snk smut #snk angst #aot smut #aot angst

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hqbbg · 4 years ago

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big and bad pt. 2

pairing: matsukawa issei x f!reader

summary: the woods are a dark place.

genre: fantasy

word count: 2.9K

warnings: 18+, dubcon in the beginning, oral (m. receiving), vaginal s3cs, slight size kink, breeding

author’s note: here’s part 2 of my HQHQ server collab! i recommend reading part one so you have plot because otherwise this is just,, pwp LOL anyways, hope you guys enjoy!

part one.

A soft whimper slips past your trembling lips as you feel calloused fingertips slowly trail down the side of your face.

“I already told you, sweetheart: I don’t bite. That is, unless you want me to.” Issei’s lips pull back into a devious grin and you feel your breath hitch. His large hand moves towards your throat and for a moment, you think he’s about to wrap it around but instead continues its trek downwards to follow the line of your collarbone.

“Stop,” you say, but your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“Hm? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” he teases as his hand moves closer to the slope of your breast. His elbow is still resting against the tree above your head, supporting a majority of his weight.

“I said, stop,” you repeat yourself, trying to raise your voice. Your hands are shaking at your sides, balled into small fists. You hesitate for a second before lifting them to push him away. He uses the hand that had been hovering your chest to grab your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Is that how you wanna play?”

You shake your head, struggling to move your arms. The bark of the tree scratches against your skin, though a splinter is not at the top of your list of current concerns.

“Let me go,” you say, trying your best to sound assertive. Hardening your gaze, you try to glare up at him, but he only looks back down at you in amusement.

“What if I don’t want to?” He leans in again and hovers his lips above yours once more.

You open your mouth, but can’t find the words within yourself to respond. He shifts his weight so your wrists are still pinned above your head with one hand while he frees the other one to hold your chin up.

Before you can process what’s happening, he presses his lips against yours and pushes his tongue into your mouth. Another whimper bubbles in your throat and you try to free your wrists, though Issei has no intentions of letting you go.

As he continues his exploration within your mouth, you find yourself responding and feel his lips curve upwards against yours. You’re right where he wants you.

He drops his hand from your chin and moves it back to your breasts, meeting much less resistance than the first time. You hum a soft moan when you feel him give the clothed flesh a firm squeeze, using his thumb to brush over the hardening bud of your nipple.

When he pulls his lips away, you’re breathless and panting, unable to help but lean your head back against the tree behind you for support. Issei begins to kiss his way down your jaw to your neck, leaving a messy trail until he finds the one spot that makes your knees weak. Biting your lip to hold back the moans threatening to slip, you try to turn your head but only give him more access to the newly exposed skin.

“There’s no one out here but us, sweetheart,” he hums against your neck. The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine and heat straight between your legs. “You can be as loud as you want and no one will hear you.”

You don’t miss the underlying threat, a reminder that you’re trapped and no one will be coming to save you from this.

Too consumed in your own helpless and pitying thoughts, you don’t even realize that Issei’s hand has already traveled further down between your legs until he presses a thick finger against your core.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” He pulls back to look at you. You look back up at him, trying hard to suppress any noise trying to fruition in the thick silence around you. However, your efforts are for naught when he presses his finger harder up against your clothed heat, applying pressure as he drags it back towards him.

“Please,” you whimper, unsure of whether you’re begging him to continue or stop. Despite your mind’s blaring alarm, you feel yourself arching your back to press harder against him.

“Someone’s eager,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice. He brings his finger up and runs it along your bottom lip before shoving the digit into your mouth.

Well, that’s unexpected.

“It’s not going to suck itself,” he says. Your eyes widen slightly as you look at him, meeting his half-lidded, expectant gaze. After another moment, you slowly close your lips around him and swirl your tongue, keeping your eyes locked on his.

He watches you, licking his lips with a dark glint in his eyes. You feel him slowly begin to pull his finger out, only to shove it back into the warmth of your mouth. He hums in approval as he repeats his actions until he seems to get bored. He pulls his finger completely out with a ‘pop!’ and you feel the embarrassment heat your cheeks.

Without giving you much time to dwell on it, he dips his head back down to capture your lips with his own. You respond quickly and continue to press yourself against him as much as you can, ignoring the burn that’s beginning to permeate the muscles of your suspended arms above your head.

Issei takes this time to fumble with your pants, unbuttoning them so he can shove his large hand under the fabric and cup your drooling sex. You gasp and can hardly control your moans when he teases the slit with a calloused finger, dipping it in shallowly to collect some of your essence. With the mixture of your saliva and slick, his fingers squelch as they easily slip in and out of you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he says against your lips as he continues to maintain a slow and steady pace. At this moment, you want nothing more than to lower your arms and weave your fingers through his hair, put your hands on his broad shoulders for support; anything that’ll keep you grounded.

Your thoughts are interrupted when he begins to pump his fingers faster, effectively stretching you and causing your knees to buckle. In that moment, you’re glad your wrists are being held up because otherwise, you’d be a heap on the forest floor.

“Oh, wait, there was something you wanted from me,” says Issei, pulling his lips away as he slows back down, denying you of the pleasure you find yourself yearning for. Your hands are balled into fists as you try to roll your hips, desperate for more friction.

“Please, Issei,” your voice comes out broken, nearly startling yourself at the dripping desperation. “Stop teasing me.”

“Oh, you want me to stop?” He smirks and you don’t like the coy tone of his voice. Before you can correct yourself, he withdraws his hand completely. He lifts it up between your faces and lazily examines how his fingers glisten under the dim moonlight before looking you in the eyes. “That’s right, you wanted to get out of here, didn’t you?”

You begin to shake your head as you watch him lazily lick his fingers, humming softly at the taste of you on his tongue.

“What a shame,” he says, “but I guess it can’t be helped. If you really want to get out of here, I can lead the way.”

He straightens himself up and you realize just how tall and large he is in comparison to your small frame. He releases your wrists and your arms drop back down to your sides, the blood rushing back all at once to make your fingers tingle. He raises a brow at you, the corner of his lips still tugged upwards, watching you for your next move.

All rational thought seems to flee your mind and you can hardly control your body when you reach for his shirt, pulling him down to kiss him again. He senses your state of hunger and matches your energy, now using both hands to explore your body.

Your hands loosen their grip on his now-wrinkled shirt, sliding down towards the waistband of his pants. When your fingers accidentally graze the tent he’s pitched, you gasp. There’s no way he’s that big.

Issei hardly seems deterred, simply kissing your neck again, though this time is sure to leave marks. Meanwhile, you make quick work to unbutton his pants and tug them down. His thick cock springs to life and you bite your lip in anticipation of what’s to come. Okay, so maybe he is that big.

You lift your hand up to nudge him away from his relentless attack on your neck, using the other one to wrap around his length as much as you can. He pulls away slightly and watches you as you bite your lip in hesitation. You can hardly meet his eyes as you begin to stroke him up and down, using your thumb to spread the leaking precum.

Though his face remains neutral, you hear his breath hitch and feel encouraged to continue. After several more generous strokes, you sink down onto your knees, grateful that you chose to wear long pants that gave your knees some kind of coverage from the coarse and rigid branches littering the ground.

Licking your lips, you take a deep breath. You’re intimidated by his size to say the least, but you’ve come this far and all sense of rational thought is practically out the window. You readjust your grip around him and give the bulbous head a couple experimental kitten licks.

“Fuck,” Issei hisses under his breath as he keeps his eyes focused on you and the way your lips begin to wrap around him.

Similarly to how you’d done with his finger, you swirl your tongue around for a moment before dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock. When you return back to the tip, you decide to take as much of him as you can in your throat, which isn’t as much as you’d personally like it to be.

Slowly but surely, you begin to bob your head and try to take more of him each time you press yourself forward, fighting the urge to gag every time he goes a little too deep. You use one hand to stroke what doesn’t fit in your mouth while the other massages his balls, earning a deep and guttural moan from him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. You’re doing so well,” he coos, using a hand to weave through your hair. When you move to pull away for air, he holds you there and begins to thrust his hips in a shallow pace.

You look up at him with tears beginning to sting your eyes, lungs burning in a silent cry for air. You can feel him hit the back of your throat several times, having to grip his thighs to keep yourself stable and balanced as he continues to fuck into your mouth. Your jaw is beginning to grow sore and you feel lightheaded from the restricted amounts of oxygen you’re given.

When you try to pull away again, he uses both hands to keep you there for a moment and gives one last deep thrust before you tear off of him, coughing and sputtering for air. He watches you with half lidded eyes and a smirk before offering a hand to help you stand. You go ahead and take it, though you’re very aware of the fact that you’d been unable to get him off.

“You could barely handle me in your throat. Do you really think you’ll be able to handle me between your legs in that tight cunt of yours?” Issei raises a brow as he watches you struggle to take off your pants.

“I’m sure you’d like to see me try,” you grumble, though it sounds loud and clear. Issei chuckles darkly as you finally let your pants fall to the ground, stepping out of them. You fail to notice the darker change in his demeanor, as if a switch inside of him has been flipped.

“You’re right about one thing,” he says as he places his hands on your hips. You think he’s about to go in for another kiss, so you’re surprised when he spins you around and pushes your back downwards so you’re bent over for him. “So, let’s see you try.”

A shiver runs down your spine, though you aren’t given much time to think it over as he rubs the tip of his cock between your slick folds. You’re practically dripping for him, clenching around nothing in anticipation. You whimper and reach out, leaning slightly on the tree in front of you.

In the next moment, you’re glad you have some type of support as Issei pushes himself all the way in, effectively stretching you and ripping a loud moan from your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut as he generously gives you a few moments to adjust.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he says, though his voice sounds slightly strained, as if he’s holding back his own moans.

You say nothing in response, simply opting to focus on relaxing your core so that Issei can bottom out within you. When you finally do, he’s quick to continue to push through. Your hands ball into fists as your lips tremble, trying to adjust to him as he goes. When he finally bottoms out, you can feel him practically kissing your cervix, buried so deep inside of you.

“I-Issei, please,” you whimper, trying to turn your head to look back at him.

He humphs in amusement as his hands grip your hips firmly. You expect him to say something, but he simply begins to pull out. Just before his cock completely slips out, he shoves his full length back in and another cry is torn from you as you face forward.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Issei grunts as he snaps his hips repeatedly against yours in slow, deep thrusts. “You just want me to fuck you like the dirty little whore you are, right?”

You can’t find the words to respond, hanging your head as you continue to moan at the view of his cock visibly stretching you. That doesn’t last for long, however, as you feel him grab a handful of your hair and yank hard, forcing you to arch your back. You wince at the sting, though the sensation of pleasure quickly overrides it.

He pulls you further back so you’re pressed up against his chest, allowing him easy access to use his free hand to reach around to begin rubbing your clit. You clench around him, earning a moan from him as he begins to pick up his pace. You lift your own arm and reach behind you, cupping the side of Issei’s face. You turn your head and press your lips against his, feeling yourself unraveling rather quickly.

“I’m close,” you mumble against him, feeling your knees begin to weaken.

In a few swift and fluid movements, you feel Issei pull out completely and you whine at the loss of contact, having been so close to your orgasm. He doesn’t leave you empty for long, simply turning you around and grabbing one of your legs, hooking his arm under it to keep it lifted. You lean up against the tree, watching as he grips the base of his glistening cock before he teases your entrance again.

“Issei,” you whine, growing impatient. “Fuck me.”

The smirk on his face should irk you, but you’re too focused on your own selfish sensation, begging to be filled again. Without sparing you a response, he sheathes himself inside of you and the new angle has him hitting a new spot within your velvet walls.

Your jaw goes slack as he begins a brutal pace, using his thumb to rub your clit in harsh circles. He finds that spongy spot inside of you, your eyes practically rolling to the back of your head. Gauging your reaction, Issei understands and continues his ministrations to reach the same spot as best he can until you’re clenching down on him and let out a cry of pure ecstasy.

Everything around you seems to flash white and you continue to spasm around him, muscles tensing and toes curling. You feel exhausted already, but what remaining energy you have is being depleted rather quickly; you don’t even have it in you to question what’s happening. Issei doesn’t seem to notice and if he does, he doesn’t show it.

“Fuck,” he grunts lowly as he feels himself hurling towards his own climax.

The last thing you remember is the warm feeling of his seed spilling inside of you until everything goes dark and your body falls limp in his arms.

When you wake, you find yourself in your bedroom. Memories of the events within the forest come flooding back and you jolt up, confused. You look down and see that you’re half naked. Maybe you just got hot in the middle of the night?

Unless everything was just a dream. A surreal, vivid dream.

You tell yourself that and feel only slightly put at ease until you hear a noise from the hall outside your bedroom door. After a moment, the door opens and you feel your blood run cold as you meet familiar gold eyes.

So many questions begin to flood your mind, but only one that passes your lips, “What are you doing here?”

Issei smirks as he walks over to the bed, crawling over you.

“You didn’t think I was done with you, did you, sweetheart?”

#haikyuu #matsukawa x reader #matsukawa issei #haikyuu smut #haikyuu!!#matsukawa x y/n #mattsun #matsukawa issei x you #mattsun x reader #hrnybbg

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years ago

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Only One Choice, Chapter 7

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Saturday brings an unexpected heat wave, the high temperatures uncharacteristic even for D.C. Dana has grappled all week with how to explain her Saturday evening plans to Ethan. Her instinct is to lie, to tell him she’s getting dinner with Missy or has to go into work for an emergency autopsy. But lying makes it impossible to tell herself that what she’s doing isn’t wrong; if she has nothing to hide, why would she be hiding it? In the end, she goes with vague truth and tells him that she’s meeting up with a colleague to discuss some interesting new research they shared with her. Never mind that said colleague is a very handsome and apparently very single man. Never mind that she feels a rush between her legs whenever she pictures his cocky smile. Meeting with a colleague. Interesting research. Nothing more.

She and Ethan spend the morning lying around in their underwear, too overheated to do anything else. The air conditioning hums and sputters, trying to keep up, but it's no match for the sweltering heat.

“Do we have ice cream?” Ethan asks, splayed out on his back against the hardwood clad in green boxer shorts.

“Nope, I ate it all when I was PMSing last week,” she replies from the couch, arms and legs draped off the sides so that no part of her body is touching any other.

They are quiet for a bit.

“Wanna have sex?” Ethan asks offhandedly, and she feels a flush of dread.

“Too hot,” she replies with an equally offhand tone, glad he can’t see her face.

They are quiet again.

“Are you okay, Dana?” he asks hesitantly, his eyes on the ceiling. She waits a little too long to answer.

“Yeah, why?”

“You just...you don’t seem like yourself. Since we got engaged, I mean. You seem kind of distracted. Distant, maybe?”

She takes a steadying breath. She knows he’s right. If she were honest, she’d tell him that she feels crushing guilt for being so infatuated with another man. That she feels like a horrible girlfriend, fiancée, almost-wife, for continuing to seek out interactions with him, but she can’t bring herself to stop. That she loves Ethan, so much, but can’t deny the pull that Mulder has on her. That she feels like she’s cheating when they have sex, because Mulder invariably takes his place in her mind. But she can’t tell him any of that.

She rolls to her side so she can look at him.

“I’m sorry, Ethan. I guess I’m just feeling overwhelmed lately, with work and the wedding. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

He rolls his head to the side to meet her eye.

“So you’re not having doubts? About getting married?” The pain and worry in his voice is like a kick in the gut.

“Of course not,” she implores, crawling off the couch and across the floor to where he lays. She gingerly throws a leg over his hip and straddles him, placing her hands on his sweat-damp chest and leaning forward to kiss him on the lips. “I can’t wait to be your wife,” she says with a soft smile, and the twist in her belly alerts her to the fact that this might be a lie.

They make love, there on the living room floor. She keeps her eyes open, not allowing her mind to wander from this moment, this man. Not allowing herself to admit that this is a consolation, an attempt to prove to them both that she is in this, with him, for the long haul. Her orgasm is weak and brief, not the same. Nothing is the same, anymore. Not since Mulder waltzed into the autopsy bay and complicated her life.

————————

The heat has abated only slightly by 5:30 as she’s preparing to leave her apartment and head to Mulder’s. She debates what to wear for an agonizingly long time; the temperature calls for a dress or shorts, but she fears sending the wrong message if it looks like she’s intentionally bearing skin. She finally settles on a black maxi dress, a compromise in coverage and air flow, paired with flip flops. Casual, not trying too hard, but not frumpy either.

As she makes for the door, Ethan stops her with a gentle grasp on her wrist, pulling her to him.

“You look beautiful,” he says with an affectionate gaze, and that guilty feeling in her belly is back. Their impromptu living room floor love-making seems to have assuaged his concerns over her demeanor for the time being, but it only served to deepen her own inner turmoil.

“Thank you,” she replies before kissing him on the cheek and escaping the emotional heat of their apartment for the temperate heat of the DC evening.

2630 Hegal Place is a stately brick building that has been decently maintained. It’s not as nice as her neighborhood in Georgetown, but it’s hardly the slum that Mulder suggested it was. She feels a little sick as she rides the elevator up to the fourth floor, taking in the dark wood trim against the yellowing walls of his hallway. She finds apartment forty-two and pauses outside the door for a long while. She has a feeling that walking through this door is a decision with consequences, one she shouldn’t take lightly. She realizes she’s not wearing her engagement ring; it’s likely sitting on the bathroom counter beside the sink. A simple oversight; she’s not yet used to wearing it. Certainly not a Freudian slip of the mind...she has the sudden overwhelming urge to flee. Perhaps she knows exactly what she’s doing after all. She turns to walk back to the elevator when the door swings open, startling her.

“Scully,” he says with a lopsided smile.

He’s wearing dark wash jeans, his top half bare, a bag of garbage in one hand. Her eyes immediately light on the broad expanse of his chest, smooth and dappled with a light dusting of hair. His abdomen is solid, sleek and defined. A swimmer’s body, she thinks with a sigh.

“I was just taking the trash out, you’re a little early,” he says with a hint of embarrassment, passing her to stuff the bag down the chute at the end of the hall.

“Oh, sorry, am I?” she looks at her watch; it’s 5:55.

“Or maybe I’m just running a little behind,” he replies sheepishly, then lifts his arm and gestures for her to enter the apartment, “please, come in.”

She enters a combination foyer and dining room, the kitchen tucked off to the left and the living room straight ahead. The ambiance matches the hallway, dark wood and yellow walls, the ceilings impressively high. The decor is sparse; nothing on the walls and only small trinkets littering the surfaces, a fish tank burbling near the window. She waits to see where he directs her to go. The dining room table seems like a suitably professional place for two colleagues to review work files. He brushes past her to the living room, the shower-fresh smell of him drifting into her nostrils; Irish Spring and Old Spice.

“You can take a seat,” he says gesturing to the couch, “let me just grab a shirt and the files.” He disappears through a door that must be his bedroom.

She sets her purse on his cluttered desk and sits on one end of the worn leather couch, looking around at his few furnishings. She startles when a black blur springs onto her lap with a high-pitched meow, and Mulder re-enters the room with a bankers box tucked under his arm, his torso now covered by a black T-shirt.

“Jesus, Priscilla, don’t assault the woman,” he says as he sets the box on the coffee table and plucks the cat off her lap. “Sorry about that, she has an affinity for pretty girls,” he continues, then directs his next comment to the cat. “We have that in common, eh, Prissy?”

She feels a flush to her cheeks and he takes the cat with him to the kitchen, returning with two beers in its place.

“I hope your boyfriend doesn’t mind me borrowing you for the evening,” he says as he hands her an open beer.

She looks at him with a mildly shocked expression, his mention of Ethan feeling out of place and somehow obscene. Noticing her discomfort, he changes the subject as he sits on the opposite end of the couch.

“This is all I walked away with, one box of the best, brightest, and weirdest X files I came across during my time. About half are those I investigated myself, the rest were left from the previous agents who started the division,” he slides the box down the coffee table towards her and she plucks the lid off carefully to see dozens of neatly labeled orange folders. She pulls a random one out from the middle and sets her beer on the coffee table, opening the file across her lap.

“So tell me why the X files division was shut down,” she says as she leafs through the pages.

“Well, the official reason is that an investigation into a man with green blood resulted in multiple deaths, which was just the last in a series of...mishaps. But the real reason is that I was too close to the truth.”

She lifts her head from the file to look at him. He has his bare feet propped up on the coffee table, his elbow resting on the arm of the couch. He seems so at ease all the time, so comfortable around her.

“The truth about what?” she asks, working to peel her eyes from his plush lower lip.

He takes a deep breath. “A lot of things, but namely a government conspiracy to conceal the existence of extraterrestrial life, even as they’re conducting experiments and research on said extraterrestrials. Perhaps even working with them.”

It’s that same even, factual delivery. Her mouth blossoms into a slow smile.

“Working with the aliens? To do what, open a KMart on Mars?” she teases, and he returns her smile with one that is so devilish it makes her pelvis twitch.

“Read on, Scully. The more you see, the less crazy it sounds.”

He stands and goes to the stereo, and after a few minutes of fiddling around she hears Radiohead begin to play. “You like Radiohead?” he asks, and she gives a half shrug, half nod. Doesn’t love ‘em, doesn’t hate ‘em.

“So this one appears to be about some kind of tree-dwelling insect?” she asks, reading over details of a dead man sucked dry of all fluids and bound up in a giant cocoon.

Mulder returns to the couch and sits beside her, much closer this time, their thighs nearly touching. The heat of his body on top of the warmth of the air makes new sweat prick at the back of her neck.

“Indeed, prehistoric insects that were released from the inner rings of the tree when they were logged. I nearly got eaten up by them myself,” he remarks, reaching over to turn the pages that lie across her lap. She shivers a little despite the heat.

“And what does that have to do with aliens and government conspiracies?” she asks, keeping her head down, knowing that if she looks up at him he would be close enough to kiss.

“It’s not that straight forward, Scully. There are things, many things, on our planet that are unexplainable, and having control over that which can’t be understood by science and intelligence gives you a certain degree of power. Unfortunately, it’s a power that’s most often used for evil instead of good.”

She does turn to him then, getting an up-close look at the greenish, almost-hazel of his irises, the pronounced bridge of his nose.

“There’s nothing that’s unexplainable on this planet, Mulder. Just because we can’t explain it now doesn’t mean we never will. Consider how much science has progressed in the last fifty years alone. Who knows what we deem unexplainable now that will be perfectly understood in another fifty?”

He tilts his head closer to her and her heart speeds up, her lips parting unconsciously. His smirk is devastatingly sexy, and she suddenly doesn’t trust herself.

“May I use your bathroom?” she asks abruptly, looking away.

“Of course, it’s through the bedroom,” he says, hitching his thumb to the door behind and to their left.

She carefully makes her way into his bedroom, which contains a queen size mattress on a mahogany frame, a dresser, and not much else. He’s a man of simple means, it would seem. The bathroom is clean and devoid of skid marks and stray pubic hairs; the seat is even down. When she returns, he’s placed several of the files in a neat stack on the coffee table.

“These are the ones I’d recommend you read. At least they may be the ones you find most compelling,” he says as she returns to her seat, inching just a bit further away from him than she’d been before.

She takes the first from the stack and opens it. “So how’d you get into all this, Mulder? Have you always been into aliens, or did you see E.T. too many times when it came out?”

He doesn’t answer and she looks at him. He’s considering her, pondering. Deciding whether to tell her something.

Continue Reading here

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files #xf fanfic #alternate universe

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

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Long Lost Love // Part One (D.M.)

Summary: Two piles of twelve letters, hidden away in the bottom of a trunk, browning with age. Twenty-four letters in total, all addressed to him.

A/N: This is my entry into @teheharrypotter‘s two weeks of angst! I just really want to take a moment and say that I am so proud of this fic and how it has come out, like ridiculously proud of it. I would really appreciate some feedback on this - reblogs and comments are so important. There is going to be a second part where all the love letters will be compiled into one long post. However, I think not giving too much away only adds to the suspense and angst. Also, the ending... I love it and I think you’ll all hate me for it.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Warnings: this is a lot of angst combined with hurt/comfort but there’s a lot of growth in Draco (I think?)

Word count: 5.4k

It had been fifteen years since the end of the second wizarding war; it had been fifteen years of healing and working on himself, of repenting for his family’s crimes during the war. Draco Malfoy had aged in that time; his hair had grown past his shoulders, tied back with a black leather hair tie, and there were lines on his face that had not been there when he was an eighteen year old running away from the castle he classed as his home.

He had lived a lifetime in those fifteen years. He had seen the world before training as a Healer; working his way up the ranks to become head of the emergency department of the only wizarding hospital within Britain. He had trained Healer after Healer; many of them going off to establish clinics in their own community, all of them sending cards at Christmas, regaling him of their successes.

Draco had lived a lifetime. He lost his father first. Lucius had never truly recovered from his time in Azkaban, and though Draco had tried his hardest to form some semblance of a relationship with his father, Lucius had remained cruel until the end. Truthfully, Draco doesn’t want to think about what it was that killed him in the end. Whether it was the spite that had poisoned him for years, or whether it was something else. Draco doesn’t dwell on it; instead, he leaves white roses on his father’s grave every Sunday like any loving son would.

Narcissa hadn’t lasted long after Lucius passed. She had been distraught. Whilst Lucius was not a doting father, he was a doting husband and he adored Narcissa until his very last breath on this earth. To Draco, her tears started that day and didn’t stop until she passed away in her asleep. Her heart, the coroner said. She had died of a broken heart.

A feeling Draco knew only too well.

Despite achieving so much and traveling so far, he had only ever been in love once. There had only ever been one moment in his whole life that had been filled with the kind of love read about in books, sang about in songs, and played out in films. Draco had fallen in love with you when he was sixteen years old and entering what would be the darkest period of his life. To him, you had been the light in the dark. The answer to his constantly asked question: will there ever be a happy ending?

Nothing had ever happened; nothing could happen. You were the epitome of goodness; the very incarnate of its definition, and he… he was the opposite. In those days, his self-hatred ran so deep that he would argue he was the Hades of the story. Doomed forever to the underworld only to fall in love with the Goddess of Spring and hope for retribution that would never come.

However, in this version of their well-told myth, Hades and Persephone never fall into a relationship. In this version of events, feelings were known and reciprocated, but letters that pleaded for a chance either never arrived or were never answered.

So for fifteen years, Draco Malfoy has been working hard on repairing his family’s tattered reputation whilst coping with the depth-defying grief that comes with losing both parents within the span of a year as well as never truly dealing with the heart wrenching grief that accompanies a relationship that was never given the chance to bloom.

--------

It was a bright, clear day in the middle of March when Draco decided to clean out the attic. He had woken with the urge to clean; with the urge to organise his life and start to work through the piles of his parent’s belongings. He hadn’t been able to touch them in the beginning; the most he had been able to do was relocate everything to the attic and then shove the very thought to the back of his mind where it began to fester like an open wound.

Bright and clear was the day when Draco chose to enter the long forgotten attic in the Manor. Bright and clear was the day when he had to hold a handkerchief to his face to stave off the inevitable sneezes from the dust floating in the air.

Looking around the old and dusty attic, Draco takes in the first of the mess. Trunks line the wall; some ancient – locks worn down with time, almost rusted from their exile to the attic; others are much newer such as his parent’s belongings. Their trunks remain almost new; their initials still painted onto the lids in bright gold paint.

The majority of the morning is spent creating two piles; one to be thrown away, one to be donated. Expensive gowns and suits were to be donated. Anything that reminded Draco of his allegiance in the Second Wizarding War was to be thrown.

As he goes through the belongings of not just his parent’s, but also his grandparents, Draco begins to feel conflicted. With each addition to the bin pile, he feels lighter, he feels one less burden. However, he cannot help the guilt that unfurls in his stomach as he thinks of his mother’s kind face and her forever painted red lip.

By the time Draco makes it to his mother’s final trunk, he feels as if he has been in battle once more. Weariness hangs heavy over in shoulders, settling in his bones. His body slumped, not just from the tiredness from lifting heavy trunks and boxes, but from the emotional weight of memories freshly unleashed upon him.

Draco’s movements are slower as he opens the lid to this final trunk. He thinks back to the day he filled it; piling his mother’s correspondence and personal effects in here – separate from the clothes he knew he would one day get rid of. He slides his hands over the emerald green lid – a Slytherin till the day she died, Draco thinks as he smiles to himself.

At some point, he lets a few tears fall. It’s the sight of Narcissa’s handwriting, he realises. He hadn’t seen it in so long – not having received a birthday card or a Christmas present this year due to her death. Seeing her strong cursive brought tears to his eyes; he remembers being a child, sitting by her desk, watching her write away and wondering who on earth she could be talking to. If Draco focuses hard enough, he swears he can still smell the fresh ink drying on the parchment and the melted wax being pressed with Narcissa’s signet ring.

At the bottom of the trunk, Draco notices a latch. Frowning, he flips it open to reveal a false bottom hidden away. Uneasiness spreads through him, turning his stomach to lead as he reaches inside to feel two distinct piles.

The uneasiness turns to heavy anguish when Draco realises just what he is holding in his hands.

------

Two piles of twelve letters, hidden away in the bottom of a trunk, browning with age.

Twenty-four letters in total, all addressed to him.

They now sit on his kitchen counter; the ageing paper a stark contrast to the obsidian black of his counter top. Draco leans back in his chair, huffing out a long sigh, running a hand down his face as he does so. It had been fifteen years, but he would recognise your handwriting anywhere.

It had been fifteen years and he hadn’t had any contact with you. He wondered for so long why his letters had gone unanswered to the point where he stopped writing altogether, feeling the keen sting of rejection.

Fifteen years and he now had his answer.

Hidden away in a trunk; squirreled away in the hopes that he would never find them. The hope that he would forget about you and move on. He never had; he just kept his feelings silent, caging them up in his heart along with everything else he kept from his parents.

Anger surges through him. The first emotion he has felt since he opened that damned trunk.

He lets out a choked scream; the intensity of his anger surprising him as he slams a fist onto the counter top, wincing slightly from the pain now radiating up his right arm.

How dare they, he roars. How dare they keep this from him? How dare they keep you from him? Did you not fit their ideal – a pureblood from a well off family? Did you not meet their needs visually? Your hair perfect, your face just the same.

There was no good reason he could think of. Draco pads over to the bar, tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. There, he pours himself a knuckle’s length of the amber liquid, knocking it back with a hiss. The whiskey burns as it goes down; burns just like his emotions, like his anger.

Draco’s lip curls in distaste as he hears his father’s voice: a distraction, Draco, that’s all.

Lucius Malfoy had never uttered such words in Draco’s presence, but Draco was well aware of his father’s distaste of you.

Reading over his home address once again, Draco is hit with a sense of helplessness. He doesn’t know where to go from or what to do. He reads over your home address, neatly written in the top left hand corner of the envelope.

Sighing, he runs a hand down his face, still uncertain what his next move is going to be. He runs through the options in his head once, and out loud after.

To no-one in particular, he argues:

“I could reply. I could write a letter back, apologising for the absence of replies with a brief sentence or two about meeting up after so much time has passed.”

Draco waves that option away; his tongue too tied up to even think about coherently writing a letter out now. He moves onto option two:

“I could show up. I could apparate to the address right now, knock on the door and ask to speak to them.”

He shakes his head; immediately ridding himself of the idea. For starters, what if you had moved, and he finds himself knocking on the door of an unknown family? However, what if you still live there, and you answer the door? What is Draco to say to you then after such a long time apart?

He imagines the situation; forces himself into shoes that he could possibly be wearing in the near future. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Not a word, not a whisper, not an apology.

So he ignores option two.

Draco knows its cowardice that drives him to the third option, but to go fifteen years without a reply to a letter declaring love… it is too long of a time to expect any form of forgiveness, and he supposes that is what he is most afraid of. Draco’s terrified of not being worthy enough for your forgiveness.

So he goes with option three:

Do nothing.

------

Draco does the only thing that makes sense.

He takes the letters to work.

Draco slides the letters into his satchel, latching the buckle afterwards and taking a deep breath. Already, Draco feels the twenty four envelopes burning a hole through the soft, worn leather of his bag.

Their presence continues to haunt him: placing his bag in his locker and grabbing his lab coat, walking towards the admit desk where Martha – the head nurse – smiles at him before handing him a cup of coffee.

The emergency room is swamped. It is full to capacity with even more waiting in triage. They work as hard and as fast as they can, but it takes time to cure burns from potions and injuries from spells gone wrong.

It gets to the point where Draco needs to take a step back. He has to take a step back and re-evaluate. His personal life is shot; the love he had found at sixteen a dead end until this last weekend. His professional life is all that he has going for him, but on days like this, when he isn’t feeling entirely himself for the shock from the weekend, Draco does find himself being short with patients.

He escapes to the break room; the familiar bitter scent of coffee already relaxing the tense muscles in his shoulders. He settles into a chair at the rickety table, head in his hands as he takes a deep breath.

Draco represses the urge to cry. He pushes it down; deep, deep down inside him where he can deal with it another day. At this moment, all he wants is a hug from his mother and the age old promise that everything is going to be okay. It’s her fault’ it is Narcissa’s fault that he is like this.

That he is a husk of a man.

He feels like a therapist’s wet dream. Blaming his mother, his parents as the source of his problems, but he cannot help imagining how different his life would be if those letters had been delivered to his hands.

He would be with you. He would have given it all up for you.

His lineage; his inheritance; his name; the pureblood mania that infected his parents.

He would give it all up for you.

Fifteen years later and he would still give up every aspect of his life, every part of him that makes him him.

Draco would drop it all in a heartbeat for you.

“What’s gotten into you?” A feminine voice questions. Draco turns in his seat to see his closest friend and confidant, Alexandria Delphi, leaning against the door with a smile on her face.

He cannot help the smile that grows on his face at her presence. He shrugs, hoping he appears nonchalant, “What do you mean?”

Alexandria pushes herself off the door, coming to sit next to Draco at the old rickety table that has been at home in the break room since before time itself. She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at his obvious aversion. She gestures to his entire being, “I mean this. You’ve been off all day – not as attentive to patients, not your usual flirtatious self with the nurses which I know they are missing very much. What’s gotten into you, Draco?”

Draco sighs, knowing very well he could never hide anything from her. Alexandria and Draco had known each other since their first year of training; an unlikely friendship forming between them, but a friendship nonetheless. Thirteen years later, they had been working in the emergency department of St Mungo’s the longest – second only to Martha, the Head Nurse.

“I was cleaning out the attic over the weekend. Getting rid of some of my parent’s things.”

Alexandria frowns, reaching for Draco’s hand over the table. “You should have called me. I would have come and helped you; you shouldn’t have had to that alone.”

“I know,” Draco starts, running a hand down his face, “I know you would have but I think I needed to do it alone.”

Alexandria nods, releasing his hand at last and bringing it to the coffee mug sitting in front of her. Draco smiles at her before standing, opening his locker and grabbing the letters that call to him from his bag.

Sitting back down, he slides the two piles of letters in Alexandria’s direction, all the while saying, “I found these in my mother’s trunk. It had a false bottom, and they were sitting there.”

Her deep brown eyes widen, “How scandalous! They’re addressed to you?”

Draco nods, “When I was at Hogwarts, there was a girl.”

“Isn’t there always?” Alexandria quips, rolling her eyes at the dramatics of her colleague.

“Anyway,” Draco comments pointedly, “I was in love, or at least, I was as much in love as you can be when you’re sixteen years old. I still am, I think.

“Anyway, my parents didn’t approve of her; they never would so when war started brewing and I went home, I never imagined I would get letters. I never got letters. Turns out, she had been sending me letters all along and my parents had kept them hidden until now.”

“Bastards,” Alexandria spits; furious at people long dead.

“What do you think I should do?” Draco asks earnestly, his eyes never leaving the pile of letters.

“Have you read them?” Alexandria asks; her eyes fixed on the two sets of letters placed between them on the rickety table.

He shakes his head, refusing to meet Alexandria’s eyes, “I think I’m too scared.”

Alexandria smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She sighs, “You aren’t going to know what to do until you read them. Reading the letters should give you the answer you are looking for.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“When you made me Attending,” She quips, yet there is still no heart behind it – none of her usual heat that tends to come out when Draco baits her slightly. She shakes her head, standing from her seat with her coffee in her hand, “I want to see you back out there soon. I don’t care whether you’re the head of the department.”

He raise an eyebrow at her in challenge; she simply smirks. He shakes his head at her antics, already rising from his seat, “I’m on my way.”

“Good, I have plenty of patients for you to see.”

Draco doesn’t reply, he watches her leave with a fond smile on his face.

Alexandria leaves the break room. She leaves as it is the only way that Draco will not see the sorrow and the longing reflected in her eyes. Alexandria doesn’t let him see the jealousy over the letters; the very emotion gnawing away at the ever growing pit in her stomach, only making it deeper as she replays the story of Draco’s first and only love.

She remembers when she used to look forward to coming into work; to help those in need and be a source of comfort for those she couldn’t help. Now, she struggles to make it through the door with the knowledge that she has been in love with the same man for years and nothing had happened.

That’s the thing about loving someone who doesn’t love you back – it turns you into a ghost of your former self.

------

Draco finds himself reaching for the first letter in the pile on a Friday night in the middle of April. If he had to be honest with himself, it had taken him a whole month to work up the nerve to read them. Draco had come home after the conversation with Alexandria and dropped the letters on the side table where they have taunted him ever since.

He knows he isn’t in the right frame of mind to be reading them; a bad shift with too many deaths combined with the two half full tumblers of whiskey consumed creates the equation of self-destruction. However, Draco reminds himself, he’s had fifteen years of internal self-destruction – what’s one more night when you tear yourself down so regularly despite the accolades attached to your name?

Draco hesitates, holding the first of the twenty four letters in his hand. He hesitates; unsure as to whether he is ready to read the handwriting of someone whose notes through class not only made him happy, but hopeful.

Releasing a shuddering breath, he tears open the seal and begins to read.

------

The letters are not long. They aren’t pages and pages of eloquent syntax over your feelings for the blonde haired, cocky teenager he once was. The closer he gets to the end of the pile, the less is written as if you had grown tired of such an act and not getting a reply.

Draco keeps his favourite close to him. It’s tucked away in his inner coat pocket, on the left hand side close to his heart.

The letter has been with him a month now. A month of one letter being read and reread too many times a day; to the point where Draco is reciting it in his sleep. It’s creased beyond recognition, but he still takes the risk every day to take it out and read it.

He misses you. He misses you. He misses you.

Now, Draco unfolds the paper. He unfolds the paper and reads the opening line: do you remember that night in the greenhouse? Writes your neat handwriting; the letters perfectly formed on the now browning parchment.

How could he forget? Draco closes his eyes, letting himself fall into the memory perfumed with compost and night blooming evening primrose.

*****

“Name two purposes of Valerian Root.”

“To help someone sleep as well as to ease anxiety.”

“Very good,” You laugh, moving quietly between the rows and rows of plants. You turn to him suddenly, “What is one danger of Black Henbane?”

Draco pauses, eyes already searching for papery flower with spidery black veins. He finds it nestled towards the back of the greenhouse, hidden away from sight and away from the wandering hands of children. Draco follows you closely; remaining near you as he says, “As a member of the nightshade family, the plant can be toxic if used in large quantities.”

The sight of your smile takes his breath away. You rush to him; toothy grin and loud laughter as you nod your head. “Madame Pomfrey was right,” You splutter, “You’re going to make an incredible Healer, Draco Malfoy.”

He doesn’t need to see the blush to know it’s there; he can feel the heat creeping its way up his neck to his cheeks. “I don’t think I’ll get there if I don’t have you.”

A satisfied smile replaces the happy grin that was on your face only moments ago. It was as if you were waiting for those words to fall from his lips; the reassurance within those words spreading over your worry like a balm over a wound.

How many more nights would they get like this? How many more nights would they have together?

Somewhat foolishly, Draco hopes he has forever. He hopes he has an eternity and a day with you, but he can feel the changes in the air, and he knows it isn’t good. Draco can see the tension at home; more and more people arriving, each just as secretive as the last, and Draco suddenly knows he only has a short amount of time before he’s inducted into the same fanatic group as his parents.

He’s on limited days with you so he’ll take the nights.

He’ll take all the nights.

-------

The shoebox had remained untouched under his bed for years now. Draco had shoved it there in a fit of anger and despair and he hadn’t looked since.

Reaching for it now, Draco represses the growing anger directed at his parents. He ignores the growing resentment surrounding the fact that they hid your letters for years and never thought to whisper a word of it – not even on their death beds.

The shoebox has aged; not unlike himself, he thinks as he wipes the dust from the top. The thick layer drawing a sneeze from him before he can open the box.

It doesn’t matter how many years it has laid unwanted under his bed; it doesn’t matter how long it has remained there, untouched and not thought of – Draco, to this day, can still recount for every little thing in there.

Notes that have now turned brown with age; old photos where youthful faces glance up at him; a chocolate bar wrapper from Honeyduke’s.

They each line the bottom of the shoebox. Draco’s memories of you out there for him to finally confront, to see. He sinks down onto his childhood bed; almost blinded by the force of the wave of nostalgia washing over him, threatening to drown him with the strength of his memories.

The memories hadn’t plagued him for some time though you played on his mind constantly – even more so since the letters.

They’re silly memories, but memories, nonetheless. Ones that he adores; ones that he cherishes.

It was the letters that triggered this. The letters that have brought the ghosts back from where they had been hidden, haunting him quietly until now.

Draco runs a hand through the trinkets in the box. He smiles at them, thinking of Hogsmeade and how he had surprised you with a bar of your favourite chocolate. The grin on your face worth all the jibes from Crabbe and Goyle when he got back to the Slytherin common room that evening.

Draco falls back onto his childhood bed with a huff.

He has a decision to make, and he doesn’t know where to begin. He has a decision to make, and he doesn’t have the guidance he so desperately needs.

Draco wants to see you; he needs to see you, but what if you don’t want to see him?

----

“I heard you handed in your notice,” Draco states as a way of breaking the ice.

Her notice of leave had landed in his hands not even three hours ago. He had spent the time since in a panic; rushing about the hospital to find Alexandria and to question her, to find out why she would leave after so long.

Why she would leave him.

Alexandria nods, “I have. I leave in two weeks.”

“Why?” Draco all but demands, “You love this place.”

“You’re right,” Alexandria sighs, “I do.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because I can’t do this anymore, Draco. I can’t sit here and listen to you talk about those letters and sigh dreamily, or date someone else. I can’t do it,” Her voice breaks, “So I won’t. I want a fresh start, so I’m going to get one.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“If I had known…”

“What? You’d have loved me?” Alexandria laughs mirthlessly, “Love me, Draco! Love me.”

“I can’t,” He whispers; the words the death knell to any scrap of friendship remaining.

Tears fall down her face, “And that’s why I have to go.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek; lingering for longer than what was probably good for her. When she pulls away, she can see the wetness of her tears on Draco’s cheek. “I hope you find her, Draco. You deserve a love story.”

-----

The cottage is small, but it is perfect. Ivy covered walls with a neat front garden; every inch showing the love and attention being paid to it. From the red roses that makes Draco think of his beloved mother to the intense scent of lavender that reminds Draco of the perfume you wore through Hogwarts. Looking up at the cottage, Draco realises that he had never seen a house look so much like a home.

He pauses at the gate; eyes focused on the bricks of the cottage and nowhere else. He doesn’t let the hope grow; he doesn’t let himself dream of what could happen. He’s thankful he has made it this far.

That he’s made it back to you.

The black gate creaks when Draco pushes it open. He winces at the noise, praying it doesn’t give him away and that you answer the door unexpectedly.

He needs this.

He needs the time.

It’s been fifteen years and since he found your letters months ago, he thought he would be ready by the time he found you.

Now Draco is thinking, perhaps he isn’t ready.

Will he ever be ready? He asks himself. Will he ever be ready to confront the very person he has been in love with since he was sixteen years old?

Draco doesn’t know; he doesn’t think he’ll ever know until he steps through the gate.

Draco’s hands shake as he rushes down the well-worn footpath to your dark brown front door. His hands continue to shake as he raises a single fist to knock on the door, three times.

He’s about to turn away; he’s about to walk away and never enter your life again. He will go away and never think of you again; of what could have been.

But then the lock clicks, and the handle moves.

“Hello?” A sweet voice calls out; your voice calls out.

“(Y/N)…” He breathes, and suddenly his nerves are gone and so is his worry. Suddenly, Draco is back at Hogwarts, the feel of your hand in his as he presses you into walls and steals kisses behind statues. He’s back to being sixteen years old and feeling the unrelenting agony of teenage love for the first time along with the merciless fear to do with the rising tensions.

“Draco,” You whisper, bringing a hand up to your mouth. Shock reflects in your eyes; your eyes that show no signs of aging other than the lines that are now forming in the corners.

Draco can’t help himself; he runs his eyes over your body, taking in the changes that becoming an adult has brought. It means nothing; he would love you regardless, but he cannot seem to help himself from drinking it all in.

From the realisation that he in fact stood in front of you.

You are there, and he is here with you.

“How have you been?” He asks; more out of politeness than anything else.

You shift awkwardly, “I’ve been good, Draco. How have you been?”

Draco nods, “I’ve been good too. I know you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

You laugh, tucking yourself slightly behind the door, “That did cross my mind.”

He smiles; a large grin that he hasn’t felt on his face in a long, long time. Less than five minutes with you, and you’re already bringing out a side of him that Draco had long thought was extinct. He reaches into his coat, grabbing some of the letters that he keeps there. He holds them out to you, “I’ve only just found them.”

Audibly gasping, you instinctively reach for the letters. Your fingers brush Draco’s and he swears his heart skips a beat at the small touch. “I sent these years ago.”

Draco closes his eyes, “I know, and I cannot apologise enough to you for how long it has taken. I thought a reply in person would be better.”

Tears line your eyes as your fingers brush the worn paper; the crease marks more than evident from where Draco has folded and refolded the letter to read. “I always wondered what had happened…” You trail off, lifting your gaze from the letters to meet his eyes.

“My parents,” He whispers; voice pained. He takes a moment to collect himself, but you put a hand up to stop from saying anything else.

“I understand. You don’t need to explain more, Draco.”

“Thank you,” He replies, smiling softly. Then he launches into his tale, “I was cleaning out their belongings; cleaning in general really when I found a false bottom in my mother’s trunk. When I took it out, I found your letters… and I read them and reread them. I practically memorised them. I don’t think there are enough words in the English language to convey just how sorry I am.”

“Draco…”

“No, let me say this… please,” He whispers, adding on the last word for politeness. You fall silent, your eyes begging him not to say out loud what you know he is going to confess.

“Until the last star fades and we succumb to darkness, I shall love you. I have always loved you; from being a scared teenager to being a just as scared adult. My feelings haven’t changed. I’ve thought of nothing but you for fifteen years,” He pauses, drawing in a shuddering breath, “I love you.”

Silence falls over you both. Draco’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches the emotions flicker over your face in a pace he didn’t think was humanly possible. Acceptance, happiness, relief and then finally, sadness.

He furrows his brows; surely this would be a happy event no? Draco has tracked you down after a fifteen year absence. He has found his one true love at last, and now he stands before you wondering the cause of such sadness on your face and in your eyes.

“Draco…” You trail off, holding up your left hand, “I’m married.”

******

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen @theweasleysredhair @harrypotter289 @kalimagik @heloisedaphnebrightmore @nebulablakemurphy @figlia--della--luna @idont-knowrn @lunalovegxxd @big-galaxy-chaos @black-lake-confessions @annasofiaearlobe @imboredandneedalife @levylovegood @mytreec @haphazardhufflepuff @teheharrypotter @chaoticgirl04 @accio-rogers @starlightweasley @dreaming-about-fanfictions @lestersglitterglue @msmimimerton @obx-beach @izzytheninja @slytherinprincess03 @bbeauttyybbx @acciotwinz @kashishwrites @slytherinsunrise @kylosleftbuttcheek @remmyswritings @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @ria-rests-here @superbturtlemakerathlete @inglourious-imagines @ithilwen-lionheart @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @ilovejjmaybank @phuvioqhile @moatsnow @storyisnotover

Draco Malfoy taglist: @the--queen-of-hell @obxmxybxnk @obx-beach @sycathorn-slush @dracomalfoyswifey @kashishwrites @justmesadgirl @detroitobsessed @reaganwonders @aspiringsloth20 @just-a-belgian-girl @lahoete @minty-malfoy @fallinallinmendes @ravenclawbitch426 @ochrythum @beiahadid @gryffindors-weasley @dracosathenaeum

#Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco x reader #draco malfoy imagines

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flyingkiki · 3 years ago

Text

A Very Merry Christmas (4/4)

We're ending this little series with a steamy little Christmas celebration for our favorite little birbs. Thank you all for following this series. I had a lot of fun writing this story.

Chapter Three of A Very Merry Christmas is here.

I'll focus on a few other TimRae projects and finishing a few other stories. Would you be interested in an AU?

Here's a steamy Christmas celebration, my loves!

~~~

Christmas dinner was a sin, really. It was the most delicious meal Raven ever had in her lifetime – Alfred truly did wonders in the kitchen. She still silently marveled at the normalcy of the Wayne family celebrating Christmas with a Christmas ham, creamy mashed potatoes, and array of vegetable dishes and sides, and a delirious amount of desserts. It felt strange to watch Bruce Wayne carve into the ham and gingerly place a rather large slice of ham on an annoyed Jason’s plate. The emotions in the room were strange – hurt still bubbled low and raw underneath the surface, but there was a level of protectiveness, forgiveness and care she could feel all at once with the family.

While everyone was still full and dutifully placing dishes into the dishwasher (“Alfie should not wash dishes, you little shits,”), Raven, Cass and Alfred carefully portioned off leftovers into containers for everyone to take home tomorrow.

The house smelled like Christmas as Cass steered her back into the sitting room where the large Christmas tree was bright and warm. If she blinked, Raven thought she was in an old Christmas movie as she watched Dick and Bruce settle a few more gifts under the Christmas tree. Their movements ruffled a few sprigs of the tree and Raven could smell the fresh scent of pine.

“Presents time,” Cass whispered into her ear and pushed her into the plush rug next to Tim, who easily caught Raven by the elbow and helped her settle in next to him. Cass pushed a plate stacked high with desserts into Raven’s hands, “Eat,” before bounding up to the couch to settle next to Bruce.

Raven stared at the gingerbread men and colorful thumbprint cookies warily before shooting Tim wry smile. “This is so much food,” she whispered to him, while watching Tim chuckle and pluck a colorful peanut butter Christmas cookie, his favorite, off her plate. Alfred had taught her how to make them, which thankfully turned out passable by Alfred’s standards. Tim didn’t seem to mind the burnt edges.

“We’re growing superheroes, we need our calories,” Tim said teasingly before quickly devouring the cookie.

Raven leaned into Tim, pressing into his side as they settled comfortably against each other. Curling her legs under her and feeling just a tiny bit drowsy from all the food, she carefully balanced the plate on her lap. “I don’t think I’ll fit into my uniform after all of this,” Raven breathed in resignation and took a careful bite out of a gingerbread Batman.

Tim made a dismissive sound and grabbed another peanut butter cookie while the rest of the family was busy pouring themselves glasses of eggnog and hot cocoa. “I definitely do not mind you out of your uniform,” he whispered discretely into her ear, earning a blush and exasperated eyeroll from Raven.

“Shut up,” she shoved Tim lightly, and she smiled at his amused chuckle as he plucked another cookie from her plate and crawled towards the large coffee table to grab them some hot eggnog. He carefully crawled back to her, half a cookie in his mouth, balancing two glass mugs of eggnog in his hands. Raven accepted the small glass mug and took a careful sit and immediately felt the warm rush of alcohol and spicy, creamy sweetness coat her tongue. Delicious.

“Okay, presents!” Dick announced after Alfred finally joined the family, not after depositing a large Christmas log on the table much to everyone’s delight. Bruce dove right in and began handing out slices.

Raven settled back and watched in a mixture of fascination and amusement as everyone eagerly handed out gifts. Bruce received a Green Lantern shirt from Jason, much to his chagrin. Damian received a new easel stand from Bruce. Jason got a new holster with tech upgrades from Tim. New ballet shoes for Cass from Dick. Alfred received some incredibly fancy pair of gloves from Damian. Dick chuckled in amusement at the Hufflepuff scarf he received from Cass (Both Dick and Cass seemed to have taken quite a liking towards Harry Potter).

There were more gifts that were passed around and opened and Raven took great pleasure to take in the domesticity of the scene in front of her. She ignored how her stomach leaped and warmed at the occasional ‘Thank You’ and the hug she received from Cass for the ballet tickets (“We can go together!”). She still was not entirely used to having this kind of doting attention directed towards her. This year she and Tim signed the tags of all the gifts for the rest of the Wayne brood with their names together. It was a surreal act, a first in their relationship (since last year they just kept to themselves), making this feeling of inclusion into this little bubble very real. She watched as Damian carefully unwrapped the silvery wrapper of their gift for him, her gaze briefly catching sight of the familiar tag she and Tim meticulously cut out and signed. She felt her heart leap briefly and marveled how a simple strip of paper could affect her.

They gifted Damian with leatherbound sketchpad and graphite pencils which Tim had carefully picked out for the younger boy. She watched as the corners of Damian’s lips curled slightly into a smile as he lifted the large sketchpad and inspected the lettering of Damian Wayne carefully pressed into the leather. She knew that Tim and Damian were not always at best terms, but Tim still was very thoughtful of his younger brother’s interests.

“Thank you, Raven, son,” Bruce smiled kindly over at the couple, holding up a large leather satchel. Tim had mentioned that Bruce needed a new bag for work, so he and Raven tried to find one and worked on customizing it with a few more hidden panels and locks.

“Welcome, B,” Tim beamed and quickly went through the codes and panels with the older man.

Raven was busy making plans with Cass to catch a performance at the New York City Ballet Company for their Spring season with the promise to use a portal to pick the younger woman up in Gotham. Tim returned and sat down next to her and gently pressed a small present into her lap.

“Oh,” Raven looked at the small red package in surprise. She caught Tim’s bemused smile and playfully rolled her eyes. “Wait, let me get yours,” she said and hurried towards the tree and grabbed the medium-sized gift. “Here,” she offered him a stern look. “Don’t shake it,”

“What is it?”

Raven settled next to him and placed her own gift into her lap, curiosity piquing slightly at what could be in the box. “Just open it,” she nudged him gently while watching his fingers pull at the ribbon and meticulously unwrap the giftwrap.

“Oh,” Tim pulled out a Sigma camera lens from the box. He blinked and stared at the new model, surprised at the gift. They briefly talked about getting new lenses for his camera a few months back, Tim was touched that she even remembered that conversation. “This isn’t even out on the market yet,” Tim marveled.

Raven shrugged and smiled mischievously. “I have my ways,”

Tim carefully returned the lens into its box. Leaning in he pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, Rae,”

Raven hummed, a warm blush dusting her cheeks, and she ducked her head. Focusing on her gift, she unwrapped the gift carefully and stared curiously at the grey box. Carefully lifting the lid, a small smile spread across her lips as she stared at the little note she found on top of a pair of very fuzzy blue socks. ‘For your cold feet.’

She released a soft huff of laughter and pulled out the impossibly soft and fuzzy socks. She shot an amused look at Tim, who quickly returned hers with a familiar boyish grin of his own. Pushing aside the colorful box stuffing, she pulled out a portable mug heater and a beautiful kabuki mask from his last trip to Japan.

“Thanks, Tim,” she pressed a soft kiss onto his cheek.

“There’s one more,” Tim gentled nudged her shoulder, prompting her to look back into her gift box and rummage through colorful paper before fishing out a small velvet pouch. She cast Tim a curious glance, before turning back to the little pouch and carefully opening it. Turning it upside down, she knew it was jewelry when she felt the light weight of a chain slide down the pouch and drop into her hand. “Tim,” she breathed.

It was gold necklace with a little bird in flight pendant. The pendant looked delicate and finely made, Raven could see the details of feathers on the little bird’s outstretched wings. The little pendant slid down her palm as she shifted her hand in the warm light, the delicate weight of the necklace tickling her palm. She never really thought much of jewelry, but her heart warmed at the thoughtfulness of the gift.

“Do you like it?” Tim asked carefully, leaning into her space, and gaging her reaction. He knew that he shouldn’t be all too worried over her not liking the gift, he already knew that she appreciated small tokens and trinkets. Early on into the relationship Tim learned that Raven did not seem to care over expensive and lavish things, but she enjoyed simple treats and gifts from his business travels and missions. She did the same by bringing rocks or other strange trinkets from her off-earth missions. Yet the little golden necklace seemed to unwittingly rattle him just a little bit, he thought.

Raven smiled and nodded. “It’s pretty,” she mumbled, careful to keep the little conversation between them as the rest of the Bat family busied themselves with their own presents and conversations. Leaning into his space, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You shouldn’t have,”

“Well,” Tim chuckled and took the necklace out of her hand and gently pushed her shoulder to turn her around for him to put the necklace around her neck. “I would have wanted to get a bat pendant, but that would have been weird,”

Raven released a huff of laughter as she pushed her hair out of the way and allowed Tim to fasten the necklace around her neck. The little gold bird settled against her red reindeer sweater. Absently fingering the little pendant, before turning back to Tim to show him how it looked. She smiled as she watched him beam at her, blue eyes bright in mirth. He looked happy and content, bathed in the warm Christmas lights and wrapped up in his dorky Festivus Christmas sweater. Raven’s heart warmed at the sight, the Tim she met so many years ago was so different – much darker, and she enjoyed seeing this new light in him. Leaning in, she kissed Tim. “I love you, you dork,”

Tim hummed and offered a mumbled ‘I love you’ back before gathering her into his arms for a quick hug. Aware of others around them and the curious glances they shot their way, he released her and pressed a quick kiss to her temple before they settled next to each other. While Raven busied herself with Cass, Tim caught Bruce staring at them, his gaze warm and there was a small smile on the older man’s lips. Tim felt a little flustered at being watched but felt relieved to find himself in a better place with Bruce and the rest of the family. Offering the older man a small smile, Tim was glad that he and Raven decided to spend Christmas together with the family.

“We should take a family picture,” Dick announced, his Gryffindor scarf clashing terribly with his cat Christmas sweater. There was a loud cacophony of agreements and grumbles (“So many dramatics, dickface”) as Dick herded people to the small couch by the Christmas tree and had everyone settle around Bruce and Alfred.

Raven blinked, suddenly unsure where to place herself in the middle of people moving around the living room for the family picture. She awkwardly stood up and made a grab for Tim’s camera. “I’ll take the picture –”

“No!” Cass jumped to her knees and stopped Raven from picking up the camera from the table. “You sit with us,”

Raven felt heat rush to her cheeks at the invitation. “But I –”

“You’re one of us now,” Dick chirped from his perch on the couch’s armrest. His arm was slung over the back of the couch behind Alfred and he smiled warmly at Raven.

“Sit,” Tim mumbled warmly into her ear, gently pushing her lower back towards the couch. He easily caught on her sudden discomfort, catching the way her brows drew together in worry. Smiling gently, he gave her another gentle push before he took the camera and worked on setting up the tripod and timer.

“Come sit with us, Raven,” Bruce said while wrapping an arm around Damian next to him. Bruce easily caught her flustered glance and tilted his head towards the side where Cass had settled down next to the Christmas tree.

Raven tried to hide her surprise and embarrassment as she ducked her head and hurried to sit down next to Cass by the foot of the Christmas tree. You’re one of us now settled low in her stomach and surprisingly sent warm jolts up her spine – she had not expected that invitation. She felt Cass’ hand wrap around hers and she looked up at the younger woman in surprise. Cass offered her an encouraging smile and nudged her shoulder. Raven offered a small one in return as she allowed these new feelings to settle in.

“Hurry up, Timbers. Let’s get it done within this year’s Christmas maybe?” Jason’s annoyed voice drifted through the living room and Raven listened to Cass giggle next to her. “My hot eggnog is getting cold, and I’d like it warm, thank you very much.”

“Hold on, one sec,” Tim mumbled. He was busy tinkering with the camera settings, making sure that the lighting was perfect, and the exposure was just right. After making sure that everyone was in frame, Tim pulled out his camera remote. “Okay, got it.”

Hurrying towards Raven and Cass, Tim settled down on the floor next to Raven and gave her gentle smile. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to his side, he squeezed her shoulder encouragingly. “Okay, everyone. On three, smile. One, two, three!”

“Wait now? Or on three? Or after?”

“On three, Dickface!”

“Boys!”

“Three!”

As the sounds of the camera shutter filled the room, Raven smiled and leaned into Tim. Whatever discomforts and flustered feelings she may have had early on, seemed to have slowly dissipated – like a weight she had been carrying on her shoulders had lifted. She belonged. Leaning into Tim more and feeling his arm just tighten a little bit more around her, Raven basked in the warmth of belonging.

The picture turned out great.

They all settled into their own rooms later that evening after everyone had their fill of eggnog, hot cocoa, and the Christmas Yule Log was miraculously eaten up. (“When you raise boys, leftovers are rare,” Bruce told Raven with a chuckle) A round of ‘Merry Christmas’ filled the living room followed by amusingly stiff yet warm hugs among the men (except for Alfred, who warmly hugged his brood) and a promise of Christmas leftovers for breakfast for everyone.

Raven and Tim silently shuffled back to their room carrying their gifts. Raven was surprised she even received gifts that evening considering that none of them even knew that she would be coming. The cashmere scarf from Alfred was beautiful (“I wasn’t sure who Master Tim would bring, but I would think every young woman would need a beautiful scarf”) and the Christmas-themed Batman sweater was funny (“We didn’t know who you were,” Dick shrugged apologetically). Bruce gifted her with a first edition Mark Twain book, undoubtedly pulled out of his personal library, but she loved it. (“You’re welcome to come and visit the library, or our home, anytime.”). Damian surprised both Tim and her when he silently offered them a thick rolled up paper before scurrying back to Bruce’s side and stuffing his face with cookies. When she and Tim unfurled the paper, they were surprised to see a beautifully drawn pencil drawing of both of them asleep and curled up into each other in one of the many sitting rooms of the house. It was beautiful.

Just as they carefully deposited all their gifts on Tim’s study table, Raven heard a little huff and scuffle by their door. Titus’ head peaked through the open door, obviously on his way to Damian’s room down the hall. The large dog whined, begging for Raven’s attention. Leaving Tim to change and get ready for bed, Raven released a soft chuckle and went over to the large dog.

“Hey boy,” she whispered and knelt to offer some scratches. Titus huffed loudly and promptly plopped down on the floor and rolled onto his back for some belly rubs. Raven eagerly complied, rubbing the dog’s soft fur.

Raven chuckled as Titus gave a low huff and whine as she scratched just the right spot. She heard Tim move in the background and slowly appear next to her, watching them in amusement. “Titus is going to miss you,” Tim chuckled while rubbing his face with a towel.

Raven hummed and she briefly looked up at Tim, noting that he had already changed for bed. Taking that it was her turn to get ready, she gave Titus one last pat on the belly and finally stood up. “I’ll miss him too, but not his sheer force of a dog,” she said with a small smile and stood up. They both watched Titus whine and get to his feet, watching Raven curiously. With a sneeze and a huff, he sat by their door. “Night, boy,” Raven gently patted the dog on his head before gently nudging Titus out the door and closing and locking it.

Pressing a kiss to Tim’s temple, she slowly shuffled off towards the bathroom to wash her hands and get ready for bed. She could hear Tim climb into bed and tinker with his phone as she heard the distinct tapping of keys, she was sure that Tim was busy checking emails and some work-related project from WE. She could feel the gentle push of his stress and it was a little surreal how well she knew Tim. While admittedly, there was still so much to learn from each other, Raven oddly caught herself surprised at how well they complemented each other despite the physical distance between them at times.

Despite her earlier hesitations of coming to meet Tim’s family officially, Raven was glad they made this trip. She understood his hurt a little bit better. She got a glimpse of how much he cared for his family, despite the tension that often bubbled low beneath the surface. She understood and saw Tim more, a rawness she was privileged to see, and her heart unconsciously warmed to have shared those moments with him.

Frank Sinatra’s ‘Have yourself a merry little Christmas’ crooned softly from the bedroom and Raven smiled. Feeling warm and full, Raven was glad she was here with Tim. She silently hoped for more of this. These quiet, raw, moments between them. Funny how she now found herself wanting this kind of raw intimacy.

After washing her face and brushing her teeth, Raven stripped down to her underwear – thankfully a matching lacy black pair. Not bothering to change just yet, she slipped out of the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe as she listened to Sinatra’s voice and watched Tim frown at his phone screen.

“I’m not sure Frank Sinatra will appreciate you frowning so furiously at his singing,” Raven teased, while playfully crossing her arms.

“There’s just a report –” Tim paused and openly stared at her figure, drinking in the black lace. “Oh,” He sat up, leaning against the headboard and watched her move towards the bed with piqued interest. “Hey,”

“Through the years we all will be together…”

Raven released a soft chuckle. “Hey,” she replied, lips curling every so lightly as she felt the familiar press of desire and attraction press against her. Drinking in his own boyish grin and the way his muscles rippled as he carefully placed his phone on the nightstand while not breaking eye contact with her had her own desires pool low in her stomach.

“Merry Christmas,” Tim said as Raven reached his side of the bed.

Raven hummed playfully. “Merry Christmas,” she replied and climbed into his lap, Tim’s hands immediately settling on her thighs as she sat down.

Tim grinned up at her boyishly and ran his hands up her thighs and over the swell of her hips. Fingers teasingly hooked into the sides of her lacy underwear and his lips curled further into a smile as he caught her amused stare. “May I unwrap my Christmas present?”

Raven released a thoughtful hum and ignored his fingers press into her hips. Leaning over him, she instead slipped her hands underneath his grey shirt and teasingly tugged it up his body while pressing a kiss to his neck. “I was hoping I could unwrap mine?” she mumbled into the underside of his chin as she pressed her body into him and felt his hands splay over her hips and butt. She tugged at his shirt once more and they fumbled to remove it while Raven lay over him.

They kissed languidly, both basking in a warm Christmas glow that settled low in their abdomens and left warm tingles up their bodies. Fingers were needy and gentle as they pressed into familiar curves and scars.

Raven felt nimble fingers run up her back and make quick work to unfasten her bra as she kissed him deeply. With a soft inhale, Raven sat up on Tim’s lap and allowed the garment the slide down her shoulders. Raven raised an eyebrow playfully as she caught Tim’s heated gaze, watching her remove her bra and drop in on the floor. For good measure, she teasingly rocked her hips into him as she felt his erection press against the apex of her own growing need.

Inhaling sharply at the steady rocking of her hips, Tim’s fingers dug into her hips and slowly slid up her waist for a steady trek up her chest. “Definitely the best Christmas, I must say,” Tim announced, hooded eyes eagerly drinking in Raven’s naked form.

Raven teasingly raised an eyebrow and ran her hands down his abdomen, watching in satisfaction as the muscles contracted in contact. She hooked her fingers into his sweatpants. “I still need to finish unwarp—”

Titus’ loud snuffling interrupted them as he sniffed the bottom of their bedroom door. Raven paused, lips lifted into an amused smile, and they both curiously watched as the silhouette of a large nose danced across the small crack at the bottom of their door. There was a low whine and a lot louder snuffling.

Tim shot an annoyed-amused look at this door. “Go away, Titus. You’re killing our Kinky Christmas mood,” he said, which of course did not achieve anything with the silencing charm still in place in the room.

Raven chuckled. With a little spark of magic that danced through the crack, Titus released a loud huff, before scurrying away from their bedroom door. With purple eyes dancing in amusement, she turned back to an equally amused Tim. “We should get a pet,” she said, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully and she regarded Tim’s surprised expression.

Tim blinked, surprised at the announcement. Scooting further up against his pillows to sit up better, he dragged Raven closer to him on his lap. The pads of his fingers pressed into her waist. “A pet?” he repeated, curious at this sudden announcement.

“Yes, a pet. An animal,” Raven rolled her eyes and squeezed his left forearm playfully.

Tim paused, gaging where this was going. He watched Raven curiously, waiting for her to explain but she seemed to wait patiently wait for his reply. He blinked. “Uh, okay? But we’re rarely together as often as we’d like in one location. So maybe a,” Tim paused and drew his eyebrows together. “A fish?”

Raven released a soft huff of laughter. “I’m pretty sure a fish needs just as much care as any other animal,” Her gaze softened a little bit as she took in Tim’s curious look and the corners of her lips curled up. “You always said you’d like a cat and I thought we could get one together?”

Tim’s chest warmed at Raven’s explanation. She remembered their conversations of wanting to own a cat as a child but never having been able to. Tim smiled warmly up at Raven, as a rush of emotions spread across his chest. It was always so easy to remind himself why he loved Raven because of her simple acts of kindness and thoughtfulness. “I’d like that,” he said. Curious, he pressed on. “So, it moves around with us? A few months in Gotham and Jump at a time? How do we –”

“I could be more in Gotham,” Raven cut in, tilting her head thoughtfully as she looked down at him.

“Oh,” Tim breathed, as realization slowly dawned on him. A pet – something they’d share together, the feeling of permanence bubbled low underneath his skin and the thought left him just a little bit breathless. “More time in Gotham?” he repeated, sounding terribly like an old record, but he needed to confirm what he was hearing and what it meant.

The corner of Raven’s lips lifted slightly, and she shifted in his lap as Tim sat up fully to lean against the headboard. Fingers pressed into the dips of her waist, and she felt a blush spread across her cheeks and neck as she felt his warm press of emotions against her – want, love, happiness.

“Yeah,” she replied and absently traced an old scar along Tim’s right forearm. “I’ve been thinking of getting a degree at Gotham University, have a life more outside of the Titans,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “I’d still help where I can, but –” Raven blinked thoughtfully and stared at Tim. “I’d like to have a life as Rachel as well,”

Raven watched as a smile grew on Tim’s lips. She returned his smile, her own emotions a whirlwind in her chest as she thought of the different prospects of the future. “That’s an excellent plan,” breathed Tim, eyes shining and his grin wide with excitement and happiness.

“Yeah?” Raven asked, unconsciously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. They occasionally talked of the future and their current arrangements, but her plans offered unspoken possibilities they both seemed eager to explore. “That is, if Batman is okay with having a half-demon resident in Gotham?”

“Fuck Batman,” Tim huffed and pressed forward to kiss Raven, muffling her bark of laughter. Pulling away from the kiss, he smiled “So, a cat?”

“We should look at shelters,”

In a rush of emotions, Tim kissed her again. The promise of so much more between them seemed to teasingly dance in front of them and he was eager to take what he could get. He felt Raven hum and melt into the kiss, leaning deeper into his embrace.

“I love you,” he breathed after finally pulling away and gently pressing another kiss to the corner of her lips. Basking in the joy of the moment and the unspoken promise of what lay ahead for them, a cat and so much more, Tim pulled away and carefully leaned towards his bedside table. “I have another Christmas gift,” he announced and with unusually clumsy fingers, he pulled the small item out of the bedside drawer.

Raven’s brows furrowed as she curiously watched Tim blindly fumble through the items in his drawer. She kept her balance on Tim’s lap, as he twisted and tried to keep his balance over the edge of his bed as he rummaged through the drawer. “Here,” Tim announced and turned back to her a little too quickly, eager to present to her what he pulled out of the depths of his drawer.

“What – oh!” Raven felt her heart stutter to a halt and her breath was knocked out of her lungs. She stared at the small black box in front of her with a wild mix of emotions. She blinked, wondering perhaps she was seeing things, but yes – the little black box was there. Her heart jumped into her throat. “Tim.”

Tim blinked at her tone and jumped as his own thoughts and stray emotions seemed to catch up with him. “It’s --- ah,” he breathed, and Tim was sure he could barely hear his own thoughts over how loud his heart was hammering in his chest. He shifted in bed, bringing Raven closer to him. Her eyes were wide, staring at the little box in his hand.

“It’s not an engagement ring,” Tim quickly explained, catching the panic and surprise that crossed her face. “I --- ah, yet.” He quickly added, heart beating like mad in his chest and he watched in relief as Raven released a soft huff of laughter and the confusion on her face disappeared.

He pressed the little box into her hands with a nervous laugh. “It’s not an engagement ring,” he repeated and offered her a small reassuring smile. “Yet – we didn’t talk about that. But --- yeah,” Tim wrapped her fingers around the small box and held her hands. “It’s just a ring I thought you might like,”

There was an inexplicable warmth that spread through Raven at the unspoken promise of something deeper. They had never really talked about how their future may look like – their work offering little stable foundation to a permanent future. But this tonight – these little promises and pictures of what may potentially be ahead of them painted a much clearer picture of the future for the two of them. It left Raven breathless. They were getting a cat, together, and they had this now – this little warm bubble they shared.

“Oh,” Raven opened the box and stared at the silver infinity knot ring perched in the velvet case.

“I thought you might like it,” Tim explained gently, taking in Raven’s surprised reaction. “I just – I like this, us, and everything we have together. It was a dangerous mission, but Lisbon and getting shot and getting paired with you was incredibly lucky for me – well, minus getting shot and losing a lot of blood, but,” Tim shrugged and watched as Raven chuckled softly. “I’m so lucky to be with you, and I honestly don’t think I deserve you or everything that you’ve given me. You’re the kindest, most loving person I know. The last year has been incredible and yeah --- I want more of this. These moments of us together, it’s been incredible. I love you, Rae,” Tim felt his stomach twist and he smiled gently at Raven. “I’d really like that cat with you,”

Raven laughed; eyes filled with unshed tears. “I love you too,” she breathed and dipped down for a deep kiss he eagerly responded to. There was a jumble of emotions that seemed to catch up on her – she honestly wasn’t quite sure if they were hers or Tim’s, but the feelings were pleasant, and she was in no rush to dissect them.

She pulled away when air became scarce and a deeper hunger pressed into her as their hips slowly rocked into each other and fingers pressed into the dips of her ribcage and brushed just under the swell of her breasts, a reminder of their nakedness. Sitting upright under Tim’s watchful gaze, she pulled the ring out of its box and slipped it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. Looking down at Tim’s face, she quirked her lips up teasingly. “Are you sure you didn’t just propose?”

Tim laughed and leaned forward to press a kiss onto her cheek, he felt her grin widen. “I want you to be my cat partner,” he teased and ran his hand down her bare back, enjoying how her warm skin felt against his hands. There was a little window that offered a little glimmer of being more than just cat parents that they both seemed to acknowledge but they did not bother to speak about – yet. “Besides,” he mumbled against the underside of her chin and teasingly ran his hand over her waist. “I’d rather propose somewhere else, not with a 200-pound dog standing guard outside our door and the rest of my family in the house,”

Tim flipped them over, Raven released a soft laugh as she was pressed into their bed and Tim hovered over her with a teasing smirk. Fingers teasingly hooked into the waistband of her underwear and he grinned boyishly at her, long hair falling into his eyes as they twinkled playfully. “And I’d like us to celebrate very loudly all over our apartment and not worry over nosy neighbors,” he said and playfully tugged at her panties. Pressing down for a breath-stealing kiss, Tim nipped at her lower lips and pulled his body flush against hers and gently started to tug her panties down. “For now, we celebrate us being cat parents. I’m going to unwrap my Christmas gift,”

“Yes,”

With a final tug, black lacy panties were thrown off their bed and Tim quickly dipped his head between her legs, tongue eagerly licking wet folds and burying into an addictive warmth. Raven gasped loudly, back arching off the bed, just as hot electricity shot through her body and desires pooled low in her abdomen.

“Tim!” she gasped, her thighs straining against his forearms as he pressed them wide open. Raven’s world seemed to turn into a blurry haze as heat just ignited her skin. Blindly grabbing the sheets to anchor herself and her reeling world, Raven buried her right hand into Tim’s hair and gave it a sharp tug as he hit a particular delicious note in his ministrations. Groaning, Raven felt her titter dangerously out of control.

Enjoying watching her coming undone, Tim continued with his careful ministrations of measured licking and strokes. Humming in delight as he felt her sharp tugs in his hair, he peered up at her and watched in satisfaction as continued to writhe in delight. Spreading her wider open and digging his fingers into her hips, Tim’s tongue buried deep within her and eagerly stoked a fire that made her sing.

Raven felt the world melt away as she felt herself quickly tumbling over the edge as Tim continued to stroke and suck, quickly sending her into oblivion. With a cry, Raven felt her body tumble over the edge. The world seemed to explode as she fell through the sky and her body roared at lick after lick after lick – continuously stoking flames and propelling her into the abyss.

The world came back around her slowly and the first thing she heard was her unsteady and rapid breathing. Her senses came back one of after another, her skin hot and sticking against the sheets despite the cold winter air that brushed over her legs. She lay spread eagle, all her limbs weak, and she gasped for breath as the heat within her belly still roared and her core throbbed deliciously.

“Fuck,” she breathed, blinking up at the old wooden ceiling and thanked the gods for their common sense of using a silencing charm.

“Hmm,” Tim made a humming sound of agreement from below and Raven lazily lolled her head in his direction to catch him still draped over her thighs and hips. He looked like the cat that ate all the cream – quite literally with the way his chin glistened. Raven blushed at the sight and her desires roared lowly for more. Nimble fingers danced over her heated flesh, dancing across her inner thighs and dangerously close to her throbbing core – teasing her with each stroke. Raven involuntarily bucked into him. Fuck.

“That was the best present to unwrap tonight,” mumbled Tim with a soft grin. He watched her sigh softly as he ran his hands up her waist. “Need to do one more thing before we move along,” he announced and quickly began kissing and nibbling on her hip bone.

“What are you doing?” Raven asked in between breaths as Tim nibbled and sucked on her hip bone, teeth scraping against heated flesh. She gasped as teeth dragged across her skin and she felt herself buck into him, cashing the delicious friction.

With a wet pop and a satisfied grin, Tim looked up at her, catching her blown blue eyes over her heaving chest. Tim felt his emotions hum in satisfaction, he loved watching her come undone and loose herself. “Just leaving a little mark to celebrate the occasion,” he said, eyes trailing back to her hip bone.

Raven’s brows furrowed together in confusion before releasing a soft huff of exasperated laughter as she saw the blossoming red bite mark on her skin – on her hip bone. “You didn’t,” she threw him an accusatory smile.

“Oh, I did,” Tim kissed her rib cage as he crawled up her body. Pressing a kiss to the side of her right breast, he dragged himself up her body and enjoyed the silky press of her skin against his. Pressing into her and enjoying the subtle roll of her hips against his own, he kissed the underside of jaw. “Thought it’d be a good touch to celebrate our Kinky Christmas,”

Tim had lost his sweats at some point earlier and Raven felt him brush against her inner thigh. Chasing the silky heat and his hot emotions, she laughed and wrapped her arms and round his shoulders, drawing him flush onto her. “You sap,” she whispered and caught his lips for a kiss. Feeling him brush against her, she whimpered softly and wrapped her left leg around his waist.

Tim rolled his hips against her teasingly, his cock brushing against her entrance and he released a breath he was holding in anticipation. Teasingly, he kissed the corner of her lips and smiled. “You like it, admit it,” he said while grabbing her leg around his waist and digging his fingers into her thigh. He grinned at the soft mewl and how their bodies rocked into each other.

“Yes,” She whispered, slowly loosing herself again. Her fingers danced over his shoulders and traced old scars. Rocking her hips against his and chasing the heat that was building up, Raven tapped his shoulder and hungrily brushed up against the silky skin of his cock. “But,” she whispered and her breathing stuttered as Tim started to kiss her neck and continued to teasingly rock into her. “I – I’d rather,” she mumbled, and she felt him nibble at the junction of her neck. “You fuck me into oblivion to celebrate our cat parenting future,”

Tim dragged his teeth along her pulse point and listened to her stuttered breathing. Allowing a fire to consume both of their desires, Tim promptly crawled over her and grinned down at her wolfishly. Rocking his hips into hers and brushing against her entrance teasingly, he spread her wider for him and pulled her in for long, bruising kiss. “Gladly,” he growled and all but impaled himself into her hot heat in one fluid motion.

“TIM!”

Much later, when they lay spent against each other and basked in the afterglow of lovemaking, they’d agree that this was perhaps the best Christmas they ever had – the promise of more Christmases together, as a cat family, seemed to glimmer teasingly.

#TimRae #tim drake #raven roth #teen titans #young justice #batman #No Beta we die like robins #TimRae Fanfiction

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seokmingiggles · 4 years ago

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powdered sugar.

@ofrosesandteacups requested on 201220: "Would you do a fluff Yoongi one shot where he goes home for the holidays with his girlfriend for the first time (but he's previously met her family when they've come for a short visit) and although he's nervous, he finds that since his girlfriend is the youngest of her family with a wide age gap between her and her siblings (like 8 years older) she gets babied by them/gets them to do things for her by being cute/whining which he's seen bits of in Seoul but she usually independent and tends to take care of him and the rest of the boys so he teases her for it? Also I really enjoyed 'Comfortable' and I'm excited for whatever else you create!"

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader

Genre: fluff, established relationship, holiday season.

1.85k words

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol consumption, (dialogue heavy).

On the drive home from your parent's Christmas Eve dinner with the rest of your family, your boyfriend enjoys hearing you whine as he reminds you of the way you're coddled by your older siblings. Later on, he continues to pamper you when you return home. Alternatively, Yoongi wants to baby you every once in a while because you're just so darn cute.

A/N: Thank you for the request (and for all the support you've shown for me so far)! This one was a bit tricky for me to think about since I am the eldest of my family. I tried to put myself in my step-sister's shoes (who is younger than me by nine years) to come up with how the reader would feel being the youngest. I hope it turned out okay! I kind of made it turn into something else near the end (it felt like I was around 600 words for a long time, and then it suddenly became 1.8k). Please enjoy :)

•• "Wait, no, when Jun got hit when we opened the champagne! That was the highlight of dinner, I swear. My cousin is hilarious."

You laughed again just picturing your tall relative hiding in the corner of the kitchen behind your (much smaller) aunt, but still getting the cork to his head despite his efforts.

"Yeah, Junhui is something else, that's for sure," Yoongi grinned, keeping his eyes trained on the road ahead of him. One of his hands was on the steering wheel, while the other encased in yours. "Do you want to know my favourite part about seeing your family again?"

You glanced over at your boyfriend, interested in what his opinion was, "I bet it was the turkey my mom made. I know you love her cooking."

"Well, yes, that's a given," Yoongi silently thanked your mom again when he remembered the delicious care package she put together before you left, "but actually, I love seeing how different you act when you're surrounded by your siblings."

"I should have known." You rolled your eyes despite knowing he wouldn't see the action under the passing streetlights.

"It's true! I keep forgetting you're the youngest when it's just you and me. You always insist on taking care of me and asking how I'm doing, so it's funny to see your siblings pull that stuff on you when you're all together." Your boyfriend's face was illuminated crimson from the traffic light. He glanced at you, "You're the baby. The little, tiny baby-"

"Ah, stop it!" You smacked his hand situated on your lap.

"Be careful, (Y/N)-ie, that dish just came out of the oven!" Yoongi ignored your gentle warning and continued to tease, quoting what your siblings had said earlier, "Let me do it. You can go sit down at the table."

"Now you're just as bad as them, Yoon."

The light turned green.

"You just rile them up when you walk around all cute and pouty. I'm scared to open the champagne bottle. Can someone else do it for me, please?" Now he was quoting you.

"And I had the right to be scared of it! You saw how it hit Jun's forehead!" You still couldn't get over how the cork managed to find him. "Are you telling me that I'm not normally that cute around you?"

Yoongi scoffed, "You already know I think you're cute. It's just that you're so different around your family."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No, not at all. But it catches me off guard. They're all so cautious about their youngest doing things on her own." Another stoplight. "But little do they know what a big girl their baby sister has become!"

He had the audacity to poke your cheek as he laughed; a cold sensation on your skin warmed from the champagne—you’d had both yours and Yoongi's portion as the boy knew he'd have to drive you both home afterwards.

"Yoongi," you dragged out, "please! I could be teasing you at how stiff you were when you first walked through the door tonight."

"That's not the same."

"Isn't it? It's nice to see you again, Mr. (L/N). I swear you corrected your posture as soon as my dad opened the door."

Now Yoongi was whining out a complaint.

"They like you already; my family has for a while. I don't know why you still act so proper around them."

"I'm only being a good son-in-law."

"Say that again after you propose, Min."

"Yes, ma'am."

You finally were met with silence, a nice change from your boyfriend's loving teasing. You leaned your head against the top of the passenger seat and watched the colourful lights pass by. The radio was quietly playing in the background; a Christmas hymn barely heard over the noisy car, crunching over the gravelled-down streets.

"Do you want me to propose?"

You almost missed Yoongi's words from your ears being tuned to the gentle orchestral arrangement playing from the speakers.

"Of course I do," you cooed. "I love you, so yes. Without a doubt, one day, when we both feel ready to take that step."

"You know we've been together for years now, (Y/N). It'll be our sixth in the spring. Maybe it was because I saw your siblings with their spouses tonight; it got me thinking about it all. Your eldest sister already has a daughter too." He paused, eyes still focussed on the snowy road, "It made me wonder if you'd want that too someday. With me."

You couldn't help the smile that formed across your face at picturing a lifetime with the boy next to you. You squeezed Yoongi's hand intertwined with your own.

"That sounds perfect, Yoongi. Any future with you sounds perfect."

The car finally reached its designated parking spot in front of your condominium unit. Yoongi put the vehicle in park and removed the keys, but you both remained in your seats with hands still laced together.

You turned your head to the side to see Yoongi already giving you a fond gaze.

"I love you," he whispered. Anything louder would seem deafening under the delicate snowflakes beginning to fall, instantly melting as they hit the glass of the car's windows. "Merry Christmas, (Y/N)."

"Merry Christmas, Yoongi. I love you too."

The two of you exited the car and collected the cards and small presents arranged in the backseat that your family so graciously handed to you after dinner. Of course, also not forgetting the leftovers your boyfriend was so enthusiastic about too.

You unlocked the door to your home as Yoongi had the assorted gifts held tightly to his chest with the oversized Tupperware of food in his hands, carrying it like some prized possession.

He walked over to the small decorated tree in your living room to add the few new additions of prettily wrapped boxes beneath the shrubbery after dropping the food in the fridge on his way. He plugged in the lights and admired the way the tree sparkled.

He found himself looking beneath the tree at one small box in particular. "Hey, could I give you a gift tonight, love?"

You were in the entryway hanging up your jackets and putting away your boots. Once finished, you made your way to see Yoongi sat on the floor next to the tree: his portrait glowing from the gleaming lights.

You smiled at the view; your boyfriend never failed to take your breath away. "I don't know, technically it's not Christmas yet."

"It will be in ten minutes."

"Hm, I suppose I can let it slide just this once."

You made your way closer to Yoongi, taking a seat in front of him on the carpet.

"Can you close your eyes for me?"

You obliged his request, but quipping, "Your idea of a gift that can't wait until tomorrow better not be a kiss, Min Yoongi."

You felt a soft peck on your lips.

"You know me too well, love."

But you also felt something small placed in your hands.

"You can open your eyes now."

As your eyes fluttered back open, revealed to you was a small box. It was no bigger than your palm; black velvet with a forest green ribbon decorating it, turning into a delicate bow resting on its top.

You looked back up at Yoongi, who only nodded his head to encourage you to open it.

Pulling at the ribbon, your breath hitched when you carefully opened the lid.

It was a necklace. In the shape of a heart, it looked even more golden from the warm-toned twinkling lights of the tree next to you.

"Yoongi, it's beautiful," you gasped, already removing it from its container.

"It's a locket," your boyfriend commented, taking it from your smaller hands so he could show you.

Upon opening it, you were met with two small photos on each half of the heart. The left side had a tiny family photo with you, your parents, and your siblings at your graduation a few years back, and the other side contained an old photo of you and Yoongi around the time you first started dating.

You almost felt like crying; the gesture was so thoughtful.

"Your mom found these photos buried away and gave a few to me. I know how much your family means to you, so that's why I chose this one," he pointed to the one with you grinning in your cap and gown and smushed in the middle of a hug by your siblings, "and I'm fairly certain that I also mean a lot to you, so I wanted to include a photo of us." Yoongi brushed his thumb against the right half of the heart housing your younger faces.

"This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever received, Yoongi." You released your grip on the velvet box and moved to embrace the boy, "I can't thank you enough. You're so wonderful to me."

"Merry Christmas, my love," Yoongi returned the hug, smiling into the top of your head. "Would you like my help to put it on?"

You reluctantly let go and sat in front of him once again. "I think you've spent too much time around my siblings, Yoon. You know you don't have to treat me like a baby the way they all do. I'm capable of doing things myself even if they say otherwise."

"I know you can, (Y/N), but you're my baby. I think there are different rules. Here, let me help you."

You sighed with a smile and shook your head at Yoongi's persistence, but turned around in your spot nonetheless. He carefully maneuvered the necklace around you, fiddling with the clasp until the sides hooked together properly.

You spent a little while longer in the gentle ambiance of the decorated tree and watched the dainty snowflakes fall from the sky. It was past midnight now; the world was quiet. Silenced by the powdered sugar fragments drifting down from the heavens and covering the earth in a blanket of icing white.

You fiddled with the chain around your neck, leaning back into Yoongi's warm chest, having moved from your spot on the floor and to the couch.

You felt him press a kiss onto the back of your head, his protective hold around you tightening ever so slightly. Maybe it was from the coziness being in Yoongi's arms, or possibly from the big dinner you had a few hours ago—you felt yourself beginning to drift off, not fighting the all-encompassing tranquillity.

It was only at the sound of your breathing becoming heavier when Yoongi realized the predicament he found himself in. He smiled, wanting to coo at how cute you looked asleep in his arms, but he chose not to wake you.

Instead, he planned on bugging you about it when you inevitably woke up, saying something about how his little baby didn't even make it to the bed because she was so tired.

Yes, like your siblings, you were his baby too. Until you had your own, and maybe even after then as well, you'd be his baby.

••

#min yoongi #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi imagines #yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagines #bts #bts x reader #bts fluff #bts imagines #bts fanfic #request

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asteriismos · 5 years ago

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alone together - stanley barber

warning(s) : eighteen! stanley barber, smut, oral ( male recieving ), cursing

authors note : i was listening to fleetwood Mac and joy division while writing this so there are a few references lol but its stanley barber ofc there’s going to be good music references

words : 1.4k

request :

hiiiiii!!! can u do a stanley barber one where you get caught giving him head lol? it can be by anyone, like syd or even your parents when you thought they were gone for the night? thank u🥺❤️

it was a saturday night. and in usual saturday night fashion, you and your boyfriend stanley barber got high.

his dad was never home so you two would always hang out at each others house, and your parents didn’t really mind where you were anyways. even before you guys were dating you two would hang out almost every saturday and do god knows what.

listen to music, drink sparingly, dance around like idiots, talk, smoke . . . the options were endless.

“oh god! i love this song!” stan exclaimed, standing up from his previous seated position and going to turn up the music on his record player. earlier today you two stopped by the record shop that was on the outskirts of town and searched through the endless piles of records that was there.

instead of looking at the new music selections that were in the front of the store, you two made your way to the back of the store and looked through the piles of discarded records labeled ‘clearance records.’ stan always said that the best records were the ones tattered and worn, and you couldn’t agree more.

dreams by fleetwood mac lulled throughout the room, record player on it’s loudest volume. you turned to watch stan sway his body around in a stupid dance definitely brought on by the weed in his system.

“sing it, stevie nicks!” stanley exclaimed, a goofy grin splaying across his face. he sung along to the chorus, walking towards you and grabbing your hands. he pulled you up from your seat, you giggling profusely, and dancing around with you.

you allowed your body to sway to the music, letting yourself let go and enjoy the good music.

the record played on, going through all the songs on the rumors album. neither of you guys stopped dancing, instead enjoying each others company as your bodies swayed together. stan even serenaded you with gold dust woman, to which you called him an idiot, but you had to admit that it was kind of cute. you two loved saturday nights, where you could just be together alone and not have to worry about being judged or embarrassed.

somewhere in the middle of silver springs, you two started kissing. it was a slow song that set the mood. according to stan, it was a good song to make out to.

the song ended and stan pulled away from you. you were laying on your back on the floor, him on top of you and your hands in his hair. “why’d you pull away,” you whined, lifting up your head to try and chase his lips. but stan just laughed and pushed himself onto his feet.

he walked back over to his record collection and started sifting through the records. his hand grabbed a solid black one ( from what you could see ) and took the vinyl out. the sounds of a drum solo and then a guitar riff filled the room. “music babe, it makes making out so fucking hot.”

stan came back over to lay on top of you, curls falling onto his face which you brushed away with your hand.

“joy division?” you asked, cocking your eyebrow up. the sound of disorder by joy division filled your ears.

he shrugged his shoulders and pressed his lips against yours again, deciding not to talk. he’d much rather be kissing you. you felt the same.

and you didn’t know if it was because your judgement was clouded by the weed or because you were feeling extra ballsy tonight, but you nudged his chest and put your hand on his side. without detaching your lips from him, you pushed him onto his back so you were on top of him, legs on either side of his hips.

your hands reached down and played with his belt buckle, trying to get it off as fast as you could. with your lips trailing down his neck, he said, “wow, maybe i should get you high more often.” his hand ran through your hair while you giggled.

you finally were able to get his belt unbuckled and unzipped his pants, pulling them down with his help by raising his hips. once the pants were pushed past his hips, you came back up to kiss him, pulling him out of his boxer shorts.

he made a sound into your lips, watching you pull away and shimmy your way in between his legs. your hand pumped up and down on him, giving him an innocent look.

“fuck, y/n,” stanley muttered, hands carding through your hair and gripping it tightly.

you flashed him a smile before leaning in and giving an experimental lick on his tip. a drop of precum landed on your tongue and you hummed. stanley’s eyes were on you, half lidded while his bottom lip was in between his teeth. anticipation was killing him, you were such a tease.

mouth opening wide, you guided him into your mouth with your hands. your tongue was flat against his shaft as you pushed him all the way to hit hte back of your throat. you breathed in through your nose, not moving and just listening to his heavy breathing from above you.

pulling him out, you gave him a few more pumps and then went down on him again, bobbing your head up and down and pumping the part you couldn’t fit in your mouth.

while he was filling your mouth to the hilt, his hips involuntarily bucked up, causing you to gag on him a little bit. with wide eyes you pulled away, still pumping while he went to apologize.

but you beat him to speaking, saying, “do that again.”

that was definitely not the reaction that he thought you were going to give, but stan wasn’t going to argue with you.

you took him in your mouth again, eyes looking up at you as if to tell him go ahead. he got the memo, and tentatively, stan pushed the hand in your hair against him, pushing you down farther onto him.

the sounds eliciting from his mouth was heaven as he fucked your mouth, hand not letting go and forcing you to just go up and down on him. you breathed as much as you could through your nose, feeling yourself getting wet just of the thought of him using you like this.

his hips met your mouth halfway and then he let go of your head and let you breathe for a moment. but you didn’t want to breathe. you knew he was so close and he just needed a few more pushes until he would come undone.

you pulled him back into your mouth and went even faster this time, feeling him twitch in your mouth. and then without hesitation, he finally reached his peak, spilling into your mouth.

you didn’t allow yourself to choke or gag on the white liquid, instead continuing to pump him in your mouth slowly as he rode out his high.

as soon as he was done, you pulled away and swallowed the rest in your mouth, feeling the hot liquid slide down your throat. stanley looked down at you with wide eyes, red cheeks, and swollen lips from biting them so much.

the two of you looked at each other, the high starting to wear off and the music still played, illeviating the silence in the room until -

“stan! y/n! you guys there? dina and i wanted to ask if you guys wanted to go eat.”

syd.

you and stanley scrambled to no avail, since syd was halfway down the stairs enough to peer into the room. luckily, stan had grabbed a pillow from the couch just in time to cover himself. but it wasn’t enough to conceal what had just occurred.

syd gave you two a weird look, then looked at the pillow pressed against stan’s lower abdomen then to you - who had wide eyes at your friend catching you two.

“oh my god, fuck sorry, i really should’ve knocked i’ll just-”

“wait! just go back upstairs and wait with dina, we’ll be up in a second,” you said, standing up.

syd just nodded, laughing at the sight and then making her way back upstairs.

stan stood up and pulled himself back into his pants, zipping them and doing the belt. you waited for him to turn off the record player by the stairs. he walked closer to you and kissed you, hands on your face. he pulled away and gave you that classic stanley barber grin, then winked.

“like I said before, maybe i should get you high more often. because goddamn, was that hot.”

#stanley barber #stanley barber x reader #stanley barber smut #stanley barber imagine #i am not okay with this #sydney novak #dina

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19red · 4 years ago

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hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face. It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy. “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

#belle #i KNOW i have a tag for my writing #but rn i'm blanking #??????#stuff i wrote

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curiosity-killed · 4 years ago

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evidence of a lost past part 4

(chronologically WAY after parts 1, 2, or 3 BUT i wanted to write kissing so i wrote kissing)

cw: mentions of internalized acephobia and generally wonky feelings about sex. no actual on-screen sex, just a lot of making out

story tag

Xie Lian slides to his knees from the penche and drops his head to rest on Hua Cheng’s chest, groaning in laughter. All the rest of the piece is coming together, but this transition still feels sticky, clunky, like they’re missing a step. Burying his face in Hua Cheng’s t-shirt, he huffs out a laugh. They’ll figure it out. It’s right there, just out of reach. For once, not being able to do it perfectly doesn’t feel like a failure or calamity; with Hua Cheng’s little huff of laughter underneath him, it feels like they’re trying to chart a new path through undisturbed woods, hand in hand. He likes it, the challenge, the back and forth, the bright spark of epiphany when it comes together.

Groaning, he props himself up to grin at Hua Cheng.

“San Lang,” he says and then stops.

Until he looked up, he hadn’t realized how close they are. It’s not the first time they’ve been pressed chest-to-chest—between the choreography itself and slips in lifts or turns, they’ve been spinning within each other’s orbit for all of this—but Xie Lian looks up and realizes that he’s draped across Hua Cheng, arms bracketing his ribs, hips caged by his thighs. And Hua Cheng— Hua Cheng is looking at him so steadily, lips a little parted and cheeks dusted pink.

At the academy, they discouraged dating as a distraction. Students were supposed to be focused on their studies, on excelling in both school and auditions, not making out in the backseat of a teenager’s old sedan. Jun Wu had been blunter.

“You can tell,” he’d said once, amused and a little condescending.

He’d pointed out company members with careless ease, making Xie Lian flush with mortification. When he said Feng Xin had been experimenting, Xie Lian had been relieved to find out that Jun Wu’s insight wasn’t infallible—and then, they’d been back in their little shoebox apartment three blocks from the studio and it had come up and—

For months, Xie Lian had walked around the studios with a prickling over-awareness of his own skin, as if everyone could know every secret he hid from just one look.

But now, Hua Cheng is looking at him and there’s no judgment, no smug curl. He looks at Xie Lian like he sees him, all of him, and wants it, blood and blisters and all. Xie Lian hesitates, drawing his bottom lip under his teeth as he tries to wrestle his panting breath back under control. Hua Cheng’s gaze dips. He swallows.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian says, quiet, like a secret, “I—may I—“

“Yes.”

A burble of nervous laughter escapes Xie Lian, and his fingers tighten in Hua Cheng’s t-shirt.

“Ah you don’t even know what I was going to say,” he scolds. “I could’ve said anything—“

“Gege,” Hua Cheng interrupts firmly, “yes.”

“Oh.”

He holds back a moment longer, his breathing finally settling into a natural rhythm. Hua Cheng waits, hands flat against the marley and gaze trained on Xie Lian. Biting his lip, Xie Lian takes a breath and leans in.

Hua Cheng always feels cool—his fingers are often ice-like and his silk and Dri-fit tops stay sleek and chilled even out in the summer smog.

He doesn’t now. His lips are soft and warm when Xie Lian meets them; the mint of his chapstick stings against Xie Lian’s lips. Pressed this close, Xie Lian can feel the rabbit beat of his heart, the heat radiating from his chest. Pulling back slightly, Xie Lian releases a shuddering exhale and blinks his eyes open to find Hua Cheng staring up at him, hunger in his eye.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian says.

“Gege,” he answers, gaze dropping back to Xie Lian’s lips before he drags it up again.

Xie Lian can’t help smiling, a sudden, heady rush cascading through him. It doesn’t feel like a distraction or disgrace. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to find how their bodies fit together in this dance, too.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian says, “say my name.”

Hua Cheng pauses a moment, watching Xie Lian with open hunger. His breathing has picked up again, and Xie Lian feels a smug sense of satisfaction. He did that. He did that with just one kiss.

“Xie Lian,” Hua Cheng says. “Xie Lian.”

He curls up as he says it, hands finally leaving the floor to grip Xie Lian’s waist. There’s no hesitation in this kiss, and Xie Lian closes his eyes on a sigh as Hua Cheng takes the lead. He chases Xie Lian’s sigh, tongue slipping against the seam of his lips, and Xie Lian opens to him. For once, Hua Cheng is greedy with him, his hands mapping out Xie Lian’s back and sliding up to comb into his hair. He kisses as if he’s drowning and Xie Lian is a breath of life, and Xie Lian can’t help but cling to him, awash in pleasure and delight.

They’re both panting when they separate, and they’re still pressed so close that their breath is shared in the slim space between them. Hua Cheng’s eye is half-lidded, his cheeks pink and lips slick, and Xie Lian gazes down at him with slack wonder. His hands are still tangled in Hua Cheng’s t-shirt, tight enough they’ve drawn the fabric up to bare a pale stripe of his belly. Releasing one, he reaches up to brush Hua Cheng’s hair from his face, and his hand slides down the curve of his cheek to cup his jaw.

He leans in, gently guides Hua Cheng toward him, and kisses slow and long and sweet. The hand in his hair tightens briefly, and Xie Lian hums low in pleasure before it releases, slipping away from his nape to smooth his hair back from his brow. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes; he trusts Hua Cheng’s hands to hold him steady.

The strained elastic in his hair slides out with Hua Cheng’s absent combing, spilling his hair around them like a curtain, and Xie Lian can’t help giggling at the way it tickles his neck. He pulls back just a little, just enough to tuck the front section behind his ear. Beneath him, a grin dawns across Hua Cheng’s face—bright as sunlight, slow and sweet as spring. He reaches up to run his fingers through the length, knuckle brushing the side of Xie Lian’s neck, and a shiver runs through Xie Lian at the touch.

“Xie Lian,” Hua Cheng murmurs, soft as prayer.

Smiling, Xie Lian shifts so that his forearms rest on the floor by Hua Cheng’s head and lowers himself to lay flat across Hua Cheng’s chest. The motion makes Hua Cheng’s breath hitch, and he grins even as he draws Hua Cheng’s hair back from his face and presses a kiss to his lips.

“San Lang,” he murmurs without pulling back. “San Lang, San Lang, I never knew kissing could be so nice.”

Hua Cheng laughs, his smile curling against Xie Lian’s featherlight kisses. His hands have returned to Xie Lian’s back and hips. Restless, they travel the breadth of his shoulders and knead the dip of his lower spine. Even now, they stay above his baggy t-shirt, rumpling the fabric and never slipping to the skin beneath.

“Only with gege,” Hua Cheng promises inanely, and Xie Lian laughs as he leans in to kiss the tip of Hua Cheng’s nose.

Reaching behind himself, he curls a hand around Hua Cheng’s wrist and guides his hand under the rucked up hem of his t-shirt. Hua Cheng stills, shifting back to look at Xie Lian searchingly.

“Gege?” he asks.

“I trust you,” Xie Lian answers, letting go.

Hua Cheng’s hand stays flat and still against his lower back for a moment, as if waiting for a trap to spring. Xie Lian exhales, lets his body go slack and heavy against his and kisses him soft and chaste. Finally, Hua Cheng seems to believe him, and his hand drags up the muscles of Xie Lian’s back in a long, light stroke. His fingertips are still cold, a startlingly contrast to Xie Lian’s overheated skin, and as they skate against Xie Lian’s back, a shiver chases after them.

Pressed together as they are, every little shift and brush sends heat pooling low in his belly, and for once, he can’t spare a thought to be embarrassed. He’s always thought this was something he couldn’t have—all of it, any of it. He didn’t mind, mostly, but a quiet, bitter part of him had been sure that this was yet another of his failings. When he thought of dating, it was always chased away by the spectre of looming confrontation, of his not being willing enough or experienced enough or being too shy altogether. He didn’t want to mislead someone, let them think he would want everything they did only to turn around and deny him.

But that shadow can’t endure Hua Cheng’s unyielding light. He knows, down to the core of himself, that if he pulled back—if he stood up and said that this was just an experiment and he never wanted any more—Hua Cheng would let him and wouldn’t leave him. He’d stay, and he’d never ask for it or suggest it or slip half a step beyond the boundary Xie Lian sets.

Xie Lian doesn’t deserve such care, but he presses into it and holds tight.

He loses track of time, tangled together on the floor. Hua Cheng’s legs have tightened around his hips, and his hands trace frostwork shapes against his skin, just enough to have Xie Lian’s whole body trembling with not-quite-enough. He presses down more firmly and swallows the low moan that escapes Hua Cheng’s lips.

The door creaks.

“Hua Cheng, the— Uh.”

Xie Lian freezes, eyes flying open. Under him, Hua Cheng goes suddenly stiff and still. His hands freeze where they’re spread across Xie Lian’s back, one trapped under his shirt and one just above the waistband of his sweats.

Behind them, Yin Yu clears his throat.

“My apologies,” he says. There’s the metallic squeak and quiet thud of the door swaying back into a body, like he’s turned away to give them some privacy. “The second company is all here.”

Mortification flushes Xie Lian’s entire face, and he retreats to hide in Hua Cheng’s chest. Hua Cheng’s hands slip out from under his shirt to draw him close in a protective kind of hug, like his arms can hide Xie Lian away when they’re blatantly making out in the middle of the studio floor.

“Go ahead and start warming them up,” Hua Cheng says after a moment. “I’ll be there shortly.”

There’s a small pause.

“Perhaps I should inform them you will just be joining us for rehearsal?”

“Yin Yu,” Hua Cheng snaps, tone a warning.

Based on the quiet laughter Xie Lian hears as the door swings shut, it’s not a very successful one. With his face still pressed to Hua Cheng’s chest, he tries to calm his heart and beat down the heat scalding his cheeks. Hua Cheng continues to hold him as around them, the quiet ticking of the studio comes back into his awareness. Beyond it, Xie Lian can hear distant chatter and laughter, the company as they prepare for class. The walls are thin enough here that they should have been able to hear the front doors opening and closing if they weren’t so distracted. His cheeks burn hotter.

“Gege?” Hua Cheng asks after a few moments.

“Hmrf,” Xie Lian mumbles into his shirt.

Hua Cheng waits. Dragging up his tattered dignity, Xie Lian finally pulls his face from Hua Cheng’s t-shirt, though he still can’t meet his eyes.

“Um,” he says. Swallows. “Ah San Lang, I’m sorry, that was—inappropriate.”

His stomach twists as he says it, shame finally catching up to him. He knows Hua Cheng likes him, cares about him. He doesn’t want to ruin what they have.

“Gege can be inappropriate with me,” Hua Cheng says. Xie Lian looks up, startled, to find a hint of a blush still lingering on Hua Cheng’s cheeks. “I liked it.”

“Oh,” Xie Lian says intelligently. His cheeks heat up again, but this time when he ducks his head, he can’t help smiling. “Um. I—me too. I mean, I liked it, too.”

A grin breaks across Hua Cheng’s face, and Xie Lian’s unease dissipates from the force of it. As the shame fades, he can’t help picturing Yin Yu, and he drops his forehead to Hua Cheng’s chest, laughing.

“Ah San Lang, poor Yin Yu,” he says.

“Serves him right,” Hua Cheng says sourly. “He could’ve checked the room first.”

Xie Lian snorts, his shoulders shaking with laughter. He can only imagine what they looked like, tangled together like two teenagers who were too desperate to get their hands on each other to wait for an appropriate space. He can feel Hua Cheng’s laugh escape him in a breath, and one hand sets to smoothing up and down Xie Lian’s back in long, easy strokes. He stays above the shirt this time, which is probably for the best.

“Ah, I should let you go teach,” Xie Lian says, even as he shifts to lay his head flat against Hua Cheng’s ribs.

His heart thuds steady and strong under his ear, and Xie Lian smiles at the reassuring drumbeat. Hua Cheng combs Xie Lian’s hair back, tucking it behind his ear.

“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal. “Yin Yu can deal with them.”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian scolds, laughing. He sits up to look Hua Cheng in the face. “If you don’t show up, his imagination will run wild.”

Hua Cheng’s eye narrows.

“He better not think of gege like that at all,” he says, low, and a funny sense of delight chases down Xie Lian’s veins at the possessive rumble in his voice.

Biting his lips, Xie Lian breathes out a laugh and finally scoots back to kneel instead of draping across Hua Cheng. Hua Cheng follows, sitting up with his arms folded over his knees. Xie Lian hesitates a moment, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt.

“I should let you go,” he says again, “but ah would you want to maybe come over tonight? I can cook dinner and we could just...hang out.”

He cringes as he says it, feeling like a middle schooler who’s never had a crush before. It doesn’t matter that he really hasn’t liked someone like this before. He’s twenty-five, he should be able to ask his—well, whatever Hua Cheng is to him—to come over without sounding so lame.

“How could I say no to gege’s cooking?” Hua Cheng replies with a smile that crinkles up by his eye.

Breathing out a laugh, Xie Lian reaches up to rub at the nape of his neck.

“Ah alright,” he says. “Yay.”

It escapes him weakly, but Hua Cheng’s grin grows. He looks so bright like this, so larger than life in his happiness.

“Yay,” he echoes. “It’s a date.”

The words send a nervy trill through Xie Lian, but he can’t help smiling back.

“It’s a date.”

#tgcf #hualian #tgcf au #tgcf fic #heaven official's blessing #dance au #my writing #story: evidence of a lost past

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vercopaanir · 5 years ago

Text

Because We Were Lost

Lovely Moons, Chapter 21

Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Blind!Reader

Summary: You reconcile what it means to belong with a Mandalorian.

Words: 6.5k

Rating/Warnings: M for sexual themes. It’s in the last fourth of the chapter, and though not explicit, does not contain any major plot so you don’t have to read it if you’d prefer not to.

Notes: I have to extend such a sincere thank you to everyone who sent me encouraging messages and left me such wonderful, thoughtful comments and reviews on my last chapter. I truly was very nervous about it, and all of you were so kind. I hope you like this installment, too! There is a slight nod to one of my favorite fictional exchanges in this chapter, and I hope y’all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

AO3

You’ve never felt so relaxed, and you think it must be obvious.

Lounging back on the cushions piled on the sleeping pallet, with the baby in the crook of your arm and Venka and Corde on either side of you, nothing could move you from this spot. Your gift from Din is propped against your legs, and you read aloud about sentient plant species of the planet Ryyk. All three children are enraptured with how your fingers moved over the raised markings on the pages, their eyes growing heavy as your voice turns something so dry and scientific into a wondrous, mythical story.

You are not paying attention, though.

No, your gaze, heavy lidded with satisfaction, is arrested upon the shadow of the Mandalorian sitting with his back propped up against the wall across the room from you. He’s cleaning his blaster-or rather, he had been, but he seems disinterested in it now, his visor trained upon your form. You are acutely aware of how bare your legs are beneath your dress, how the children playing with you earlier has left the hem rucked up around your knees. You are completely modest, but that stoic, unflinching visor leaves you feeling bare and wanton.

Physical acts of passion are not altogether mysterious to you. Living as a handmaiden on a large estate had exposed you to spying various servants return from chores, giggling and flushed. Hearing washerwomen complain about their own husbands’ stamina, or the lewd, indecorous comments stormtroopers would make when they patrolled the palace. You were always kept at a distance, safely beside the Moff’s wife to attend her, but you instinctively knew what drew heated gazes and wandering hands.

You shiver, and it is not from your slow-drying hair from your bath. There exist steamy pools beneath the covert’s floors, hot springs that ease your muscles and wash the sweat and passion from your skin to help clear your mind. But now, back in the warm quarters you share with the man who’s gazing at your bare knees, you feel that gentle, amorous ache return.

The Mandalorian moves suddenly, quiet as a whisper, and stands. His armor is already removed, polished and gathered neatly upon the table where the children’s pencils and papers still lay. He moves with the languid stride of a hunter and crouches beside the pallet, balancing on the balls of his sock-clad feet. His Helmet tilts to the side. “I think,” he whispers, sliding his hands around the infant whom you realize has fallen asleep against your abdomen. “It’s time for bed.”

You let the book close, glancing down at the other two children who have nodded off on either side of you. Unperturbed, you lay your head back, watching as the shadow of the bounty hunter moves slowly through the warm room, murmuring something to the gently fussing baby on his shoulder, too low for you to hear. He rubs the infant’s back, speaking quietly and holding him until he settles back down. Pressing the hatch open of the pram, he carefully lowers the baby into the warmth and safety within. There’s a moment where he situates the blankets inside, making sure to tuck the child in before closing the shutters once more.

Turning back, you smile when he returns to pick up Corde, carrying her like a little bird in his strong arms. You situated several of the cushions, large and overstuffed as they were, across the room through a small archway in a vestibule connecting the quarters. Din lays her on top, placing Venka beside her before covering them with one of the thick furs that had been left for your use. It isn’t a surprise the Mandalorians had prepared for the chill. The tunnels are glacial in their emptiness.

Beneath his armor, Din wears only a black tunic and trousers, but he has many just like them. You’ve mended various articles of his clothing over the months you’ve stayed aboard the Razor Crest, even though he insists there is no need. The ones he wears now are newer, with no holes or patches, sturdy and warm.

He has already removed his belt and boots, and now, as he circles the room, quietly extinguishing all but one of the lanterns with his fingertips, you take the opportunity to admire his form and shape. He left you earlier in the evening after showing you where the women’s bathing rooms are, and by the smell of sage and sea salt that greets you as he sits down, you know he must have found respite in the hot showers too.

Sitting heavily beside you, you hear his deep sigh that seems to come from years of tireless, thankless work. You reach your hand forward, feeling the clean fabric of his shirt as you rub your fingers in soothing circles between his shoulders. The shoulders your legs were draped over just a few hours before. You blush at the thought.

He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move at all save to drop his head forward. A far cry from just a few months before. A thought occurs to you, and your hand lays flat against the middle of his back. You can feel his heartbeat against your palm.

“You’ve taken your helmet off to sleep before,” you whisper, mindful of the children across the quarters, sleeping deeply in the connecting room. “Why don’t you do it here? It must be more comfortable.” When he says nothing, when he doesn’t move, simply allowing you to rub his back, you take a deep breath. “Unless…unless you can’t in front of them-in front of me-”

“I can,” he finally murmurs, stopping and turning to look at you over his shoulder. The smoky glass of his visor is that of a dying star, and you hold your breath as you watch his every movement. His hand, bare, rests between your bodies on the bed like a bar of gold. “I can remove it…before a wife and child.”

You feel all the air leave your body, the room, the world, and you stare at the shape of his helmet’s profile against the lone lantern lit in the corner. Neither of you speak, and what is not said is heavy, thick in the air. Your fingers flex on top of your legs, and you swallow hard, slowly sitting up on your knees until you’re knelt beside him. A show of good faith, you decide, is the natural next step to be taken between you together. Taking the hem of your dress, you shuffle it up the length of your body, pulling and tugging it until it escapes your hair, then your crown, and you shake your arms from your sleeves.

Beneath, you still wear more clothes than some people wear in public. Your chemise falls just above your knees, made of simple cotton and breathable for the desert. It bares your arms, your neck, and more of your chest than you are used to showing anyone, though, and you blush deeper when the Mandalorian suddenly raises a hand out towards you.

You suck in a breath, watching the shape of his hand hesitating to touch you. Unsure of what his intention is, you bite your lip and wait, only for him to reach upward to touch the side of your face with a tender sweep of his fingers. When he speaks, his voice is a rasp, hoarse and dry as a dead leaf.

“Do...do you know how pretty you are?”

The question is sincere, but it almost makes you laugh. The smile it brings to your face and the bashful shake of your head as you sit back making you feel like a girl. “Do you say that to all the people who take care of your children?” you tease, finally looking back up toward his visor. His helmet dips a bit deeper to the side, and you smile, shaking your head again. “What?”

“You...you really don’t, do you?” The realization in his voice is soft, heartbroken, and your own smile slips away, looking down at your hands. You shrug lightly, picking up the fabric of your dress and folding it meekly before laying it aside. “You haven’t seen yourself since you were a child.”

“Appearances are simple accidents.”

“Even if beauty were something to be gained, Cyare, you would still have men falling to their knees.” Your eyes drift up to his visor, wide and still, thinking of how willing he was to kneel before you, under you, and you don’t dare to breathe as his thumb traces over the plush flesh of your lips. “Mesh’la.”

The corner of your eyes squint and your lips curve into a soft smile against the tips of his fingers that hover near your chin. “Beautiful,” you murmur, the realization like a gentle hum thrumming in your veins. “That’s what it means, doesn’t it?”

His hand lowers carefully, and he nods once. You catch his hand between both of yours, appreciating the difference between the tone of your skin and the soft golden hue of his own. You lose yourself in feeling the smoothness of his palm, the curves of his fingers, your mind trying to drudge up the first time he spoke that lovely Mando’a to you. Your eyes fall closed, pressing your forehead against the gentle curve of his shoulder, and you smile when his other hand reaches up to touch your hair with reverence.

“Lay down,” he whispers, sinking his fingers through the thick tresses at your neck. “Be still.”

Your body seems to move of its own volition, and you gently lean back until you lay upon the cushioned bed. After a moment’s pause, you turn, angling your body away, and slide your arms beneath the pillow under your head, closing your eyes. The Mandalorian sighs, deep from within his chest, and there’s a long moment of silence before you hear the familiar hiss of the helmet, the catch releasing, and the quiet settling of metal upon the floor. The bed dips beside you, and he shuffles close, tucking his knees behind yours and laying his arm over your waist atop the thick fur keeping you warm.

His thumb strokes the skin of your arm exposed to the air, and you become aware of the strong, clean scent of his hair. It must still be damp from his shower, you think, and you smile when he presses his face into the pillow of your own locks.

“Karga gave me another bounty,” he whispers, his voice so low that you feel it more than hear it.

“Mmm?”

Sleep is encroaching on your state of mind, lulling you between dreaming and wakefulness. The only thing keeping you anchored in the present is his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. He is quiet for so long that you would suspect he has fallen asleep, save for his gentle touches. His hand drops away, coming to lay his palm flat over your heart which jumps beneath.

“It’s dangerous,” Din whispers, his lips now pressed to the back of your neck. You feel the slight tickle of his facial hair, the brush of his tongue as he speaks against your skin. The sound of his voice fades as you fall asleep, too warm, too comfortable, too safe to pull yourself back. “And...and I need to ask you something before...”

Yes, you think. Yes, yes, yes.

But now he has fallen away, and you are far gone. In the air, you can taste dust and blaster residue. The child is crying in your arms, his beautiful little face scrunched in fear and his ears drooping with desperation, silently begging you to turn back, to go back. You have both left something behind, but you know that there are monsters near, barrels trained at your back.

I’m sorry, my love, ner ad’ika, but we can’t.

We can’t.

Light flickers in the darkness before you, and you feel as if you’re about to fall, your toes tipping near the edge of a crevice in the earth. Beneath your feet lay battered, broken bits of armor, Mandalorian helmets too many to count, and you want to run.

But you can’t go back.

And so, you fall forward, curling around the child before your body breaks against cold, unforgiving beskar beneath.

The undeniable crack of bone rings in your ears, a phantom of dreams that propels you straight up in bed. Sitting still, you stare into the darkness before you, your heart thundering louder than a battle, sweat slicking your skin and sticking your long hair to the sides of your face, your neck, your back and arms. Briney tears crust over your cheeks, and you breathe heavily when you feel the shift of a warm body beside you.

The lone lantern that had been left alight to glow on the small table isn’t enough for you to make out the Mandalorian’s face. When you turn to look at him, tousled in sleep and at peace, you still. His face is turned away from you into the pillow, dark hair long and curling on the ends. His shirt has rucked itself up around his middle, displaying beautiful golden skin that is greatly misshapen with jagged, uneven scars. You reach out a trembling hand, tracing one particularly deep line that mirrors an animal’s bite over his hip, and the colors remind you of the gold lacquer used to fill the cracks of broken, priceless treasures the Moff has collected.

You look away, standing upon shaky legs to slip from the bed silently. His cloak lays on the table, and you wrap it around yourself, the familiar scent of cool woods calming your roaring heart.

Venka and Corde sleep soundly at the opposite end of the quarters. They’ve kicked off their shared fur, and the little girl has somehow completely changed her position so she sleeps upside down. The pram floats silently nearby, and the urge to open the shutters nearly makes you vibrate. Your finger brushes over the locking mechanism, but you remember feeling the blood leave your mouth, the pain disappear, and the child fall into your arms. You pull back.

When you step into your boots, you’re unsure where you plan to go or what your intention is, but as soon as you enter the passageway, the frigid air blows your hair from your face and cools the heat of your skin. You walk down the path, drawing the cloak around your arms tighter. You can hear the reverberating snores of other warriors behind you as you leave the tunnel.

There is a possibility you will get lost, but you think it is less terrifying than returning to what woke you.

As you move, silent save for the quiet whisper of the Mandalorian’s thick cloak, you become aware of a great and terrible sound. It is as if the stone walls have become the crypt of your dream, and you can hear its heartbeat. When the rhythm continues, a high peal of metal, you begin to follow it through the passages of stone and rock until the alcove of the forge lights your vision.

You lay your hand upon the threshold, leaning around the side in time to see the Armorer bringing her hammer down. It sends up sparks of gold and blue which ripple into brilliant red moments after they kiss the air. Whatever she holds into the forge is turned before she brings it out with tongs, setting it upon a cooling rack.

And then she turns her golden horns upon you, and you swallow.

“I often work when I cannot sleep,” she says pointedly, setting her tools down with a deliberate slowness you think might be for your benefit. She steps around to the front of her forge, holding out a gloved hand to the small table. You see, as you approach, that there is a cushion, and you sit down with a quiet thanks. She turns away, moving to the far side of the room. Blinking in the near darkness, you think you can make out a curtain separating the alcove and another space near the back. It’s a long few moments before she returns through it, bearing a tray. “What do you do, when you cannot sleep?”

You open and close your mouth, watching as she sets the tray upon the table between you. There is one clay cup full of a steaming dark drink, and on a small plate lay a round, flat cake that could sit in the palm of your hand.

“I don’t usually struggle to sleep,” you confess, folding your hands in your lap. She nods once to the cup, and you take it with another quiet, polite word of gratefulness. The ceramic is warm between your hands, and when you lift the rim to your mouth, the scent is earthy and sweet. It reminds you of digging your hands into black soil, smelling honeysuckle just beneath your nose, and it fills you with comfort when you take a drink.

“Only the innocent, the safe, and the dead keep that luxury.” You still, your pale eyes drifting up to the golden shine of her helm as she inclines it to watch you. “Which are you?”

Her words chill you deeper than the air around you. It’s your instinct to shy from confrontation, but something inside, a still, small voice whispers to you that this is not a battle. You take a steadying breath before sipping deeply from the drink. You set the cup down, fingers shaking as you draw them back to rest on your thighs. You think of the Moff’s wife, of your parents. “I don’t know if I have earned to claim any of those things.”

A quiet hum comes from beneath her helmet, and she relaxes her shoulders, resting her gloves on her knees. “You doubt your place here, in the covert and in the world.”

For some reason, the gentle tone of her accusation spears you. Tycho’s strike across your face had not hurt so much as her gentle words, and you have to take a steadying breath. “Have you never felt lost?” you ask, squinting in the near darkness of your vision. “Or do all Mandalorians know their place?”

“We are Mandalorians because we were lost.” She reaches forward and begins to break the flat cake in pieces, putting them before you. With careful fingers, you pick up one of the tiny pieces and take a bite, tasting sweetened syrup, fruits, and nuts. “Each and every one of us, even those born into the Tribe will question their place. You must decide what will allow you to take yours. Is it the approval of your clan? The acceptance of the Tribe?” She pauses, her hands stilling before looking up at you. “Or ridding yourself of your fear?”

Your mouth is dry after the cake, so you take another sip of the warm drink, your heart beating heavily in your breast. “I...I think it’s all of those things. I cannot imagine being happy without all three.”

“A Mandalorian is both hunter and prey. You must not allow yourself to be consumed by lesser beings if you wish to walk the way of the clan.” You frown, opening your mouth because who or what could be lesser than a slave? Or a Mandalorian who cannot fight? Being given your freedom was more than you had ever hoped for, but now she spoke as if you had a right to claim part in their Tribe. “You are the right hand of your clan, and you fear you may crumble because you are not a mountain.”

Your lips tremble when you smile at her. “If I can’t be strong for...for him, for the children, what use am I?”

“They don’t need your strength. They need you.”

The simple truth brought you to a quiet within yourself you’d never experienced. Thinking on it, you knew what she meant, because it is what you feel for the Mandalorian. There is not one part of him that you care for more than the rest, and there is not one part that is more important than any other. It all makes up the man who’s held your heart for you ever since he stroked your hair in the sunshine. It is all contained within the beskar, warm and alive, and the quiet revelation that this is what he has been trying to tell you, of what you bring to the clan is yourself, leaves you shaking with heat.

The Armorer seems to sense the shift inside you, and she nods once. Her words, which are not a question, implore you when she says, “You will find your way back now.”

Your feet pad quietly but swiftly against the stone passageway, the cloak snapping behind you as you turn the corners, taking you back to the sleeping quarters. You don’t need to look to find it because there is a gentle warmth from that end of the enclave that is found nowhere else in the underground. Parting the curtain, you step inside to find nothing changed since you left, and you drop the cloak back onto the table, your pale eyes settling on the sleeping man at the far end of the room.

Dropping your boots silently near the foot of the bed, you crawl atop the fur, clumsy in your haste to get beneath and put your hands on the warm body that has not moved an inch since you departed. Your hands are cold compared to his warm skin, sliding your palm up to cup the smooth, clean shaven jaw resting upon the pillow.

“Din,” you whisper, your thumb finding a small, thin scar on his cheek. His name tastes lovely on your tongue. “Din.”

He puffs a breath against the pillow, turning his already shadowed face into the fabric, but his hand captures yours, holding it against his chest protectively. You slide down further beneath the fur, your heart beating steadily faster. You aren’t sure what you can say, what you need to say. Sliding your leg gently between his own, pressing your knee forward, you push yourself against him until your lips steal beneath his ear, the sweet bit of skin on his neck tasting of soap and salt and heat. “Din.”

You know he is waking when his other hand finds its way against the small of your back, heavy and firm and hot through the thin material of your chemise. You close your eyes against the brush of dark, curling hair, and you smile, whispering his name softly until you know he is well and truly awake.

“I need you to wake up,” you whisper, your lips trailing up along the shell of his ear. You feel a shiver work its way down his back, and you let your hand drift down to the hem of his shirt, still bunched around his middle. Dragging your palm over the pleasing dips and curves of muscle and softness of his body, you can feel the marks left behind from dragging your nails against him earlier. You hadn’t realized you’d marked him, and you turn your lips to find the crinkles near his eyes.

“Why?” The question is merely a breath, sleepy yet content.

“Because I am without you.”

You feel him tense, his back growing tight with caution, but you know inherently it is not fear that stills him. Slowly, his hand at your back circles the fleshy curve of your waist, gently leaning you back and beneath him so he can look down upon you. He is nothing but shadow, the stone ceiling above cast gold from the meager light of the lone lantern. You shift beneath him, eyes closing when you part your legs to welcome him closer, and you feel him hold his breath when he settles closer against your heat.

“You’re never without me,” he whispers, one hand drifting up to cup the side of your face. His palm is large, dry, and warm, and when his thumb caresses the apple of your cheek, you turn your face towards his fingers, kissing the smooth skin. He holds his breath as you draw your legs upward, your knees pressing into his flanks. He says your name, so soft and full of concern that you open your eyes again.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back, lifting your hand to touch the side of his neck. Your other splays against the middle of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer. There is too much space, too much air between you. He needs to know what you know now so completely, and you don’t know if there are words for it in any language that exists.

When he presses his forehead against yours, you slide your hand up from the side of his neck to the nape, cupping the back of his head softly. He follows your every whim, pressing his mouth against yours without fault or hesitancy, and when you curl your knees upward, he is eager to rock against you. You part your lips, welcoming him into the warmth of your mouth with a sweetness you’ve never known, but when his hands come to bury into your hair, you break away gently.

You stare up at him, bold with honesty, soft with wanting, and you know he sees in your face a conviction that has been out of your reach before coming to the covert. He does not question you, and you think you must love him for that.

For you do love him. You know that now.

Both hands drift down, fingering the hem of his shirt until he bumps his nose against your own. You think the end must be slightly hooked, the way it rests against your own, and you smile when his mustache tickles you. Lifting his shirt slowly up from his sides, then over his back, he bows his head to let you peel it off, dropping it somewhere above your head.

Though you lay on your back, he only follows your movements, letting you lead his mouth to your lips, your neck, your hair. Your fingers crawl up to your own shoulders peeling the edges of your chemise down your arms. The neckline catches over the swell of your breast, and you can hear the gentle hitch of his breathing. He must be able to see more in the dark than you expected, and you feel yourself blush as he draws smooth, uncalloused fingers down from your throat. He traces the neckline with his thumb, brushing over your tender flesh and drawing the flimsy fabric down, down, down until it slips and pools around your waist.

When he lowers his mouth to the soft skin above your breast, pressing with lips and teeth and consecration, your eyes flutter closed. You feel like the drink you consumed, swirling and dark and hot, and with every kiss and press to your flesh, he sips more, deeper, longer. You don’t realize you are panting until you feel his own heavy, humid breath moving down the slope of your stomach. His fingers inch the fabric upward as he moves lower, and when his mouth comes to the delicate skin of your belly, you make a noise between a whimper and gasp. You try to swallow it, but he tenses anyway.

He couldn’t possibly do this a second time. Could he?

His hands flatten against the sides of your hips, and you are grateful when he doesn’t stop, when he doesn’t hesitate to curl his fingers in the top of your underwear because you don’t have the words, the air to beg him to continue. The slow pull of the fabric down your legs does nothing to disguise his want or cool your own, and you bite your lip on a giggle of surprise when he nuzzles his cheek against the inside of your knee.

He’s beneath the thick fur, but nothing could hide the smile he presses to the top of your thigh. You flinch only once, your instinct to close your legs powerful, but a quiet whisper of your name from below you grounds you against the bed.

When he puts his mouth on you, it is unlike any feeling you have ever experienced. A drumming, strumming electricity that snaps in your belly connecting to the pit of your chest, and you suck in such a sharp gasp that his hand shoots up to smother your noises, palm strong against your lips. He is gentle but fervent, kissing you open until you feel like you are living heat. His tongue trails up, pressing firm against something that has your body rolling like a cresting wave. It occurs to you as his hand keeps you quiet, the other is busy lower sliding up the back of your thigh to lead it over his back.

And then he moans against you, and your hand comes down hard against his back again. Nails dig desperately into the hard flesh of muscle against his shoulder, and he buries his face between your thighs until you are slick with sweat, with desire, with need. He presses his thumb up the curve of your thigh, the firm pad of his digit deepening against you while he drags his mouth up to kiss wet and desperate along your stomach.

That familiar heat, the tightness coiling like a well oiled spring, becomes undeniable when he returns his mouth to the sweetest spot on your body. Your blood sings to the drum of your heart, and the hand not anchored on his back covers his own that keeps your noises muffled.

When his cheeks hollow with his furnace of a mouth supping between your thighs, you do break. Your vision blurs, blacks, and you can’t control your body. It’s ecstasy and fear, seizing in such joy that tears slip from the corners of your eyes to dampen your hair. It feels like a fight when your legs curl over his shoulders to hug him against you, his dutiful strokes bringing you ever higher rather than easing you down. You have to jerk away from him, arching your back and sobbing beneath his hand before he will relent. He only comes up when you sink your teeth into the flesh of his palm, the thick fur falling down his shoulders and back and leaving his hair tousled.

His forearms rest on either side of you, his large, warm hand petting your sweat dampened hair back from your face while you lay beneath him, panting in the humid air and trying to regain what little sight you have. Your eyes feel heavy lidded when you open them, and you can see a flash of white teeth when he smiles.

“Cyar’ika,” he whispers, leaning down to press wet kisses against your salt slicked neck. The back of his knuckles brush against your belly as he shifts above you, drifting down until his fingertips find your warmth. A pathetic sound like a wounded animal tumbles from your lips, and you press your cheek into the pillow, turning your face away from the feeling he continues to draw out of you. It’s almost too much, almost hurts, but you bring your knees up higher along either side of him in welcome.

His tongue draws itself up the side of your neck, tasting and kissing in a languid pattern, combining with the gentle strokes of his hand between your thighs until you feel like you’ll burn from the inside out. Shaking, your hands find the back of his neck where the familiar soft curls tangle around your fingers. He moans at your touch, and you let your nails lightly tickle his skin until he shivers.

He draws his face up to your own, nuzzling noses and pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your lips part, sharing the same breath and turning your mouth closer to kiss him. The taste is unimaginable, and when he dips his tongue in your mouth, you both groan together when his fingers fill you. First one, then a second, moving in time with his lips until you're gripping his hair so tightly, you’re sure that you’re hurting him.

You whisper his name against his mouth, and he gently presses his forehead against yours, nodding in some unspoken understanding. It’s a feeling that only comes from a song or a prayer, you think dreamily, only barely cognizant of him drawing his hand away to touch himself. You smile, one hand cupping the back of his head while the other tickles his flank, stroking up and down his side. You feel his lashes against your eyebrows before he draws his lips up to kiss between them. At the same time, he rocks forward, entering you with a smooth, short push that drags all the air from your body. Suddenly your nails are digging into the firm muscle of his back, surely leaving marks like the moon, and you grit your teeth, bearing them like the animal that is your heart.

“G-Go,” you whisper, tugging at his back and his neck until he groans, burying his face in your hair and filling you with one more push. Your legs draw up around his waist, tense and tight. You’re trembling, a thrashing, crashing of blood in your veins interchanging between bliss and-and-

He kisses your eyes, soft and sweet and one at a time. His hands, warm and kind, frame your face, and he draws his thumbs over both your cheeks until you open your eyes. Your chests are pressed together, making breathing a labor, but you can feel him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Squeezing your knees together, you blink the shape of his nose into your line of sight, and you think you can see him grimace.

“Does...does it not feel good for you?” You can’t imagine or remember a time when you felt so whole. Everything is close and warm and complete, and you think you might fall apart if he so much as separates from you in that moment.

But he laughs suddenly, his chest shaking with breathy chuckles as he drops his forehead back against yours. “Alaar manda,” he whispers, gently tilting his hips back before rocking forward again, and everything within you blooms, the joy you’d felt unfurling and growing like a ripple on water. Your heartbeat quickens when he does it again, and again, and it burns you like fire catching on kindling.

There is a slight discomfort, an awareness that you haven’t previously experienced before, but with every gentle touch, every firm, possessive kiss, you’re able to meet each sweet movement, every unhurried, pleasing roll of his body with your own. Your eyes drift open and closed, feeling drunk on the warmth shared between you. When his other hand moves to slip down your thigh, cradling your hip just in time to thrust into you with a heavier intention, both of you bite down to muffle your groans. He drops his mouth to your shoulder, dragging his teeth over the flesh and muscle that leads to your neck, and the feeling of his warm breath has you sinking your nails into his back, raking them upward to pull him closer.

The growl that vibrates in his chest is buried in your hair, and you have to cover your mouth when he begins to quicken his pace, muffling your whimpers and gasps. The faster his hips meet yours, the harder you begin rocking together, tears pearl in your eyes in absolute bliss. The hand cupping your hip slips lower to brace beneath your bottom, and you suck in a breath when you feel him press down even harder, his other hand stealing below to touch that same lovely spot he lavished attention on before. The stunted, rocky rhythm desperately increases, and you sob against your hand when you feel sweat drip from one of his curls, landing on your cheek like a tear.

His thumb circles and rubs in tandem with every hungry and insatiable thrust, and it’s only when he bows close and grunts in your ear that your entire body arches off the bed beneath you.

Your eyes are wide open, but all you see is white.

Everything feels tight and hard and impossible, and you can’t draw enough air into your chest to muster a whimper. You only focus on keeping your hand on your face, silencing the helpless noises he knocks from your mouth when he grabs one of your knees and hauls it up beneath his forearm. He presses his sweaty face against your neck, chasing his own pleasure within you until you think you might break from the ferocity burning under his skin.

When he peaks, you grab the back of his head and hold his face in your hair, muffling the primal groan that shakes his entire body. Your vision is spotty, but slowly, you can see the golden light of the lantern playing upon the stone ceiling above you, a liquid light that matches the heat between your legs. One by one, every muscle, tendon, and joint seems to relax, and you feel yourself sink back into the cushions with a grateful, anguished sigh.

Din’s arms tremble from the effort to raise himself up enough to separate you, and you grunt softly at the emptiness he leaves behind, a strange sensation you don’t particularly care for. Everything feels numb and lofty, and you don’t care to pay attention as he shuffles beneath the fur, too warm and languid to care about the world outside this bed.

He stumbles to stand up, his trousers pulled carelessly back up around his hips, and you turn your face to watch him move through the room. Your vision swims, but you can see the golden, firm muscles of his back when he crouches down to his rucksack, the scars that paint his form and in patches along his arms catching the light. You think of the Moff’s prized treasures again, formed of porcelain and glass and veined with gold where they had once been broken.

You hear a gentle chug, and Din is returning to the side of the bed, whispering, “Here.”

His canteen is filled with cold water, and you sit up gingerly, taking it with a shy smile and sipping from the cusp. You find you have nothing to say. What is there to say, when planets orbit and stars shift just as they’re supposed to, and your world settles right where it should be? Even as he reaches over to gently pull your chemise up, more concerned with your modesty than you are, you both remain in companionable silence. You peer at him in the dim lighting, wishing you could make out his face, and as you recap the canteen, you reach up to touch his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Even as you say the words, they could be something else, some other arrangement of words you want to speak to him in his own tongue, not in the common way that would not befit an uncommon man. You think you can see his eyes in the darkness, not unlike a feline blinking slowly and satisfied. He catches your hand before it can fall and kisses the back of your knuckles, hiding a smile.

Mando'a Translations

Cyare - Beloved

Mesh'la - Beautiful

Ner ad'ika - "My little one."

Aalar manda - Feels like Heaven: Manda is the collective soul or heaven - also supreme, overarching, guardian-like.

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