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crackspinewornpages · 1 month ago

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The Bridge of San Luis Rey 2/5 -Thornton Wilder

PART ONE

PERHAPS AN ACCIDENT

“On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precepted five travelers into the gulf below.”p.3 It was the high road between Lima and Cuzco, hundreds passed over it every day since it was woven over a century ago. No one descended and passed over the torrent with rafts father than cross the famous bridge named after St Louis of France who protected it. (so I guess that protection warrenty only lasts a hundred years) The bridge seemed to be one of those things that would last forever, (it was woven how many rope bridges last over a century) when news of it collapsing spread people walked in a trance like state thinking of when they last crossed it, when they had planed to cross it again and themselves being the one to fall. (so imagine a person who worked in the Towers was out for coffee when the planes hit) Ther was a great Catholic service when the victims were collected and separated this especially effected the Limeans who frequently delt with acts of God. “That is why it was so surprising that the Peruvians should have been especially touched by the rent in the bridge of San Luis Rey,”p.4

Everyone was impressed but Brother Juniper (he’s a red head) was the only one that did anything about it, by some sense of coincidence he witnessed the accident. He stopped that hot afternoon and admired the view, “Joy was in him; things were not going badly.”-”At all events he felt at peace.”p.5 Then he glanced up at the moment of the twanging noise and saw the bridge break and five into the valley. (what a way to ruin your day) One thought visited Brother Juniper, “Why did this happen to these five?”p.5 If there was any plan in the universe and human life surely it could be discovered by the lives suddenly cut off. “Either we live by accident and die by accident, or we live by plan and die by plan.”p.6 At this moment Brother Juniper resolved to inquire of those five people and their reasons for taking off.

Brother Juniper thought it was time theology to take its place among science and that he put it there, what he lacked was a laboratory. There was never a lack of human specimens that met calamity but those little things never quite fit for scientific examination and proper control, (that’s the scientific method baby) this bridge collapse was an act of God. (or poor maintenance) His plan would have perfect skepticism. “It resembled the effort of those presumptuous souls who wanted to walk on the pavements of Heaven and built the Tower of Babel to get there.”p.7 (the irony) No element of doubt in the experiment, he knew the answer, he just wanted to prove it.

People were always asking for proof and this was the first time Brother Juniper resorted to such methods, often he would dream of experiments to justify God. Now it prompted him to be busy for the next six years, knocking on doors asking questions, filling notebooks to make those five lives whole. The completed book would be burned (foreshadowing) but a secret copy found its way to the Library of the University of San Marco. For all his diligences, Brother Juniper never knew the central passion of those five. “Some say that we shall never know and that to the gods we are all flies that boys kill on a summer day, and some say, on the contrary, that the very sparrows do not lose a feather that has not been brushed away by the finger of God.”p.9

PART TWO

THE MARQUESA DE MONTEMAYOR

Any Spanish schoolboy is required to know more about Dona Maria Marquesa de Montemayor (she’s based on the real Marie de Rabutin-Chantal) than Juniper did with his research. Her letters became a monument of Spanish literature, but her biographers erred as greatly as Juniper did as they tried to invest graces into her life. “where all real knowledge of this wonderful woman must proceed from the act of humiliating her and of divesting her of all the beauties save one.”p.13 Her father was a cloth merchant that hated Limeans and her childhood was unhappy (she was an ugly child that stuttered) and she was determined to live single but forced into marriage at twenty-six, but still lived and thought alone. Her daughter, who she loved, took after her father and eventually Dona Clara left for Spain and the voyage was blessed by the church.

Left alone the Marquesa’s life grew more inward, neglecting and talking to herself, “All her existence lay in the burning center of her mind.”p.15 She looked so terrible they thought she was constantly drunk and worse was said of her and rumors that she should be locked up and was denounced three times before the Inquisition. She would have been burned had her son-in-law not been as influential and had friends in court. The relations between mother and daughter were further embittered by money, Dona Clara received an allowance from her mother but even all the wealth of Peru wasn't enough to keep up her lifestyle. (what they hell does she do) The best traits of her nature was seeing everyone as her children except the cartographer De Blasius and scientist Azuarius.

Four years after Clara left Dona Maria was invited to Europe, on both sides the reunion was anticipated with self-reproach and both failed to hold it in. Dona Maria left one day back to America before her daughter awoke. “Henceforth letter writing had to take the place of all the affection that could not be lived.”p.17 Her letters became the textbooks of schoolboys, so necessary was it to her love to attract her distant daughter. She forced herself to go out and trained her eye to observe, read masterpieces of her language and insinuated herself with conversationalists. Night after night she wrote the chronicles of the Viceroy court her daughter hardly read but her son in law was impressed.

The Marquesa would be surprised her letters were immortal, though critics would accuse her of keeping an eye on prosperity, seemingly impossible she’d pain herself to dazzle her daughter. They misunderstand her as her son-in-law did, missing the purpose. She would sit for hours on her balcony wondering if the pains in her heart were natural. “This woman has suffered, and her suffering has left its mark upon the structure of her heart.”p.19 The words eventually, made it to a letter her daughter scolded her for being a cult of sorrow. (what a nasty piece of work you are) With the knowledge she’d never be loved in return acted in her ideas, first went to her religion, the sincerity of others. She longed to free herself of her love but how could she, with thousands of miles between them she wanted her daughter, for her to say she’s the best mother.

Two years after she returned from Spain came a series of events she implored her son in law to convince her daughter to see reason and leave the cold. In Peru she is helpless, and she sends gum and a gold chain, the Viceroy also has gout again and couldn't be carried to the doctor. Clara warned her mother to be cautious with what she writes because the letters could be opened on the journey, she’s not funny, her remarks could lead her to a forceful retirement on a farm. Two women fell from a balcony and landed on Dona Merced all three lived, she and Pepita decided to go to a Comedia and a mysterious man is around the Perichole (an actress) all the time it’s unknown how they’re related. (hmm wonder who this could be)

They play was Dona Leonor* perhaps it would go in her next letter, Pepita was borrowed from the orphanage to be her companion. The Perichole made comments on Marquesa’s appearance and supposed behaviors so all the house’s attention and laughter was on the old woman but she didn't notice thinking about Spain. Perichole became bolder and Pepita told her they should go and as they left the house erupted into triumph, but the Marquesa was pleased she had phrases to send to her daughter.

It reached the Viceroy his aristocrat was baited in a theater and summoned Perichole to apologize to the Marquesa. (she complied of going barefoot and in a black dress and was given shoes to shut her up) The Viceroy had three reasons for this, the singer took liberties in his court, Don Andres built up exile so ceremonial and complicated society had nothing else to think about, in his court any insult to the Marquesa was an insult to him. Second, Dona Maria’s son in law was an important personage in Spain with possibilities to injure or supplant him, he wasn’t one to vex even through his half-wit mother-in-law. Finally, he meant to humble the actress and suspected she was deceiving him with a matador or another actor, forgetting he was one of the first men in the world. (the phrase ‘not even if you were the last man on earth’ comes to mind)

Having not heard the insulting songs the Marquesa was surprised by the visit, after her daughter left she took to drinking at night until she passed out. (oh so she is an alcoholic) Several days after the scandal at the theatre she lounged in bed and at dusk Perichole arrived, with effort tried to understand what was said to her and eventually went to meet the actress. Camila (Perichole’s real name) intended to be imprudent but was now struck with the old woman’s dignity even when drunk and timidly began her apology surprising the Marquesa. “How can I be offended, senora? All that I can remember is that you gave a beautiful performance. You are a great artist. You should be happy, happy.”p.29 And Perichole felt shame for her songs the Marquesa tells her they left early for some reason and apologizes for it. Perichiole believed she was playing a farce, everyone saw that performance but still was in tears apologizing astonishing the Marquesa. It’s been a long time since anyone gave her consideration, how could this woman have offended her, an unwise unloved old woman, then asks if she knows her daughter, yes.

Dona Maria has Pepita get some sweets and talks about how she and her daughter had a falling out over something she can't remember. She goes on complimenting her daughter, how one shouldn't believe rumors that say Clara was unkind to her, any misunderstandings were her fault but were quick to forgive each other and she practically acted it out while in tears. She’s glad Camila was there to hear Clara wasn't unkind to her as people say. “There was some mistake that made me the mother of so beautiful a girl. I am difficult. I am trying.”p.32 While repeating she’s impossible she fell out of her chair and Pepita took her back to bed and Perichiole went home and stared at herself for a long time in the mirror. (reflecting on herself I’m sure)

The one who saw the most difficult hours of the Marquesa was Pepita, given as a companion to her. The Abbess Madre Maria del Pilar, “who was able to divine the poor human heart behind all the masks of folly and defiance, had always refused to concede one to the Marquesa de Montemayor.”p.33 She wanted to let Pepita live in the palace, have a worldly experience, bend the old woman to her own interests but was indignant. “for she knew she was gazing at one of the richest women in Peru, and the blindest.”p.34 The Abbess was someone who allowed themselves to be gnawed away, fallen in love with an idea several centuries before it appeared in civilization. (she’s a feminist) She knew that for a woman to survive she must have a man and all the misery was worth his caresses and only knowing Lima assumed its corruptions were normal for mankind. “Looking back from our century we can see the whole folly of her hope.”p.34 (yeah...)

All her charity relied on money and obliged to watch herself sacrifice her kindness and idealism to generalship and struggled to obtain her subsidies from the church. (the archbishop hated her) Lately the Abbess felt old age and a warning feeling of terror for her work. “who was there in Peru to value the things she had valiued?”p.34 So she looked for a soul to be trained as her successor and found Pepita at twelve recounting to other girls the life of Saint Rose of Lima. The education amid a convent must be conducted with indiscretion so Pepita was given the most disliked chores. The Directress would talk to her for hours on religion, how to manage women, plan contingencies, words and beg for money, lending her duties as Dona Maria’s companion at fourteen.

Few trials were physical, the servants took advantage of Dona Maria’s indisposition, Pepita, for standing up, took the discomforts. She also suffered distress, when accompanying the Marquesa on errands when ordered to stay put her trained obedience left her in the street for hours wanting her mistress who had left the church by another door. Her heart also suffered as Dona Maria sometimes became aware of her and talked to her for hours then the next day withdraw. “The beginnings of hope and affection that Pepita had such a need to extend would be wounded.”p.38 She tiptoed around the palace clinging to her sense of loyalty and duty to Madre Maria del Pilar who sent her there.

Now something new that would affect both their lives, Clara (she hates the smell of flowers) wrote that she’ll be replaying less, if Vicente returns he’ll tell her about her life, also her child will be due in October. Now Dona Maria was anxious as her daughter would be a mother, she combed for all information of new medical knowledge to send even to taboos for her child. Witnesses agreed there was no harm and perhaps it did some good practicing both paganism and Christianity, at times she felt revulsion. “Nature is deaf. God is indifferent. Nothing in man’s power can alter the course of law.”p.40 She would stop in the street longing to be taken from the world that had no plan but soon belief would surge up and she would run home and light candles in her daughter’s room.

At last she made a pilgrimage to the shrine of Santa Maria de Chuxambuqua if there was any efficiency in devotion it would be there, the ground has been holy through many civilizations. The Marquesa was carried in her chair across the bridge of San Luis Rey up the hills to the city, when she saw the walls of the town her prayers of her fright were cut short. As Pepita arranged for their stay at the inn as she went to the church a tide or resignation rising, perhaps she would learn to allow her daughter and gods to govern their own affairs. She was not annoyed by everyone around her and ordered her letters from Spain to be brought to her by messenger even as she traveled. At the shrine she read them wrapped in understanding and forgiveness sinking in her heart.

After preparing their lodgings Pepita waited in the rooms and wrote to the Abbess about the day. The Abbess molded Pepita, “She had talked to Pepita as to an equal. Such speech is troubling and wonderful to an intelligent child and Madre Maria del Pilar had abused it.”p.44 Expanding Pepita’s view beyond her years and making her frightened of her own insufficiency then she cast her into this solitude which Pepita refused to believe she’d been abandoned to. As Pepita tended to the porridge the Marquesa returned having done what she could, “What will be, will be,”p44 (we have a similar saying ‘it is what it is’) and dropped her amulets into the brazier feeling she antagonized God by too much prayer. She sat for a long time then saw Pepita’s letter and read how she’s mistreated by the servants who steal, inquiring about the Abbess’s health. She thinks of her all the time wishing to visit, she’s lonely, wondering if she forgot her, wondering if she could write back. (oh Pepita I want to give you a hug)

Dona Maria felt envy, longing to command another as this nun did but mostly, she longed to be back in the simplicity of love, to throw off vanity and pride. She reread the letter to find some secret to it as Pepita came back with supper having already ate and Dona Maria takes it as rejection, Pepita offers to read but was sent to bed. She offers to send Pepita’s letter with hers but she denies any letter and pretended to be busy over the brazier, she’s changed her mind of sending it. Dona Maria tells her the Abbess would be happy to receive it, Pepita says it’s not a good letter, Dona Maria thinks it was beautiful, what could have made it better, Pepita admits she wasn't brave, she took the letter to her room and tore it up. Dona Maria thought back on her life the way she acted, “It’s not my fault that I was so. It was circumstance. I was the way I was brought up. Tomorrow I begin a new life.”p.48 (you had no control on how you were raised but you do have control as an adult how you respond to that) She wrote a new letter, remembering with shame how she’d ask her daughter how much she loved her. (ok King Lear) By dawn she finished her letter then checked on Pepita whispering to let her live and begin again. (it’s never too late to change for the better...) Two days later they crossed the bridge during the accident. (...until it is)

#the bridge of san luis rey #thornton wilder #books #book summaries #historical fiction

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padme-parker · 4 years ago

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Mizpah // the darkling x f!reader // ch 3

summary: After finally meeting the darkling, the two of you have a one on one conversation. It seems like Mal and Alina also have one. An offer is made to you, one that you could simply not deny

A/N: Please read this before continuing-- From here on, the rest of the fic will most likely be following the book series instead of the show. However there will be some aspects of the show woven in! Also I know the beginning of this chapter doesn’t line up with what happened in ch 2 but its whatever. for the sake of the story, the timeline is going to be dragged out for as long as possible <3

I also made a playlist, give it a look :))

As Mal walks with the guard towards the room the General had directed for him to wait in, he hears his name being called out. His heart pounds at the sound of Alina’s familiar voice. He turned around, her face being split by a giant smile. Alina runs toward him, engulfing him in a hug, her arms around his neck.

“What’re you doing here?” She asked

“Hell if I know.” Mal said with a weariness that Alina hadn’t expected. “I had a report to make to your master.”

“My what?” There was confusion on her face before a grin took its place. “You and y/n were the ones who found Morozova’s herd. I should’ve known, the two best trackers in all of Ravka.” Alina knew something was off. Mal couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes, where had all the excitement he had felt earlier gone?

“I should go.”

“What do you mean? You just got here.” The sun summoner could feel something topple over in her, all of the anger and embarrassment that she had built up. All the letters she had sent, but never gotten a reply to. All the times she had hoped Mal would come and find her, yet when he finally did, he was just going to leave again. “You know what, sorry. I didn’t realize I was wasting your time.” She sneered, the love in her eyes now replaced with animosity.

“I didn’t say that.” He argued.

“No, no, I understand. You can’t be bothered to answer my letters. Why would you want to stand here talking to me, while y/n is waiting saints knows where.” Mal’s mood shifted into one of confusion.

“I didn’t get any letters.” He whispered.

“Yeah right.” She replied angrily. Mal sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

“We have to move constantly to track the herd. My unit is barely in contact with the regiment anymore.” Mal was tired of arguing with Alina. He had come to see one of his bestest friends, he didn’t expect for it to end like this.

Alina hesitates for a second to look at Mal, noticing how much he has changed since she was taken from the Darklings tent. He was no longer the Mal she knew, something had happened to him since the months she had been gone. His eyes were colder, his posture was one of somebody who was always on alert.

“You didn’t get any of my letters?” She uttered, feeling the ends of her heart fraying. He shook his head, she could tell his mind was elsewhere now, a distant look in his expression.

“Mal, I..” She hesitated. “Can’t you stay a little while longer?” She pleaded. She hated the fact that she had to do so just to spend time with him. “You can’t imagine what it’s been like here.” He lets out a laugh, one riddled with sarcasm.

“I don’t need to imagine. I saw your little demonstration in the ballroom. Very impressive.” He sneered.

“You saw me?”

“Yes, both y/n and I got a glimpse of you.” He paused, trying to search for the right words. “Do you know how worried I’ve been about you? How worried we were? Y/n was stationed near the southern borders and when she came looking for us she was so worried. She didn’t know what happened to you and neither did I. I couldn’t tell her the truth because I had no what they’d done to you! We had no way to reach you. Did you know that there were rumors that you were being tortured?” The words left his mouth in a quivering mess. “When we had heard of the opportunity to see you once more, we took it. We did it for you, Alina.”

“Really?” She tried to believe Mal, why would he come looking for her when he could be with anyone else. After all of these years, she had become so used to his indifference.

“Yes.” He hissed. “And here you are, safe and sound. Dancing and flirting like some cosseted little princess-”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” She snapped. “I’m sure the Darkling can arrange for a rack or some hot coals if that would make you feel better” Mal scowled and stepped away from her. She couldn’t believe that they were fighting. Alina lays her hand on one of his arms and feels it tense below her, yet he doesn’t pull away.

“Mal, I can’t help the way things are here. I didn’t ask for any of this!” He looks at her and then looks away, some of the tension leaving his body.

“I know you didn’t.” The weariness in his voice came back, making Alina remove her hand from his arm. “What happened to you Mal?” She whispered. Mal chose to say nothing, staring into the darkness of the hall. She lays her hand on his cheek, feeling the stubble on her palm. She turns his face until his eyes meet hers.

“I can’t…” She lets her fingertips wander to the scar on his jaw.

“Genya can fix this, she can..” She knows she said the wrong thing when Mal takes a step back.

“I don’t need fixing” He snapped. Snatching Alina’s hand from where it had just been seconds before.

“I didn’t mean..”

“Are you happy here, Alina?” The question took her by surprise.

“I don’t know… sometimes…”

“Are you happy here? With him?” Alina didn’t have to ask who Mal meant. She didn’t know what to say.

“You're wearing his symbol. His colors.” He observed, his eyes glancing at the gold charm hanging on her neck.

“They’re just clothes.” She tried to convince him, quite possibly herself too.

“You and I both know that they’re more than just clothes.”

“What difference does it make what I wear?”

“The clothes, the jewels.” He spat. “Even the way you look. He’s all over you!” The words hit her like a slap. She takes her hand from his tight embrace and crosses it over her chest.

“It’s not like that.” She said, avoiding his gaze. Mal could see right through her, he could see the flush that had started to form when he had mentioned the Darkling.

“I saw how he looked at you Alina!”

“I like how he looks at me!” She shouted, a malicious smile forming on Mal’s face.

“Just admit it,” He sneered. “He owns you.”

“He owns you too, Mal.” She bit back. “He owns us all.” The smile falling from his face.

“No, he doesn’t.” He said fiercely. “Not me. Not y/n. Not ever.”

“Oh really? Don’t you have someplace to be? Don’t you have orders to follow?” Mal stands up straight, his face cold and devoid of any emotions.

“Yes, I did. My orders were to wait for you to be taken to me. But I think I found what I’ve been looking for.” He turned sharply and walked out, leaving Alina to her thoughts. She finally lets the tears fall down her cheeks, her body coursing with anger and heartbreak. For months she had dreamt of the day where she would be able to see Mal again. She had spent her whole lifetime chasing after him, but she knew now it was time to let him go.

THE DARKLING walks closer to you, while you stay propped up next to the door. You fidget with your hair, moving it to one side as he inches closer and closer until he is a few feet away from you. You anticipated his next moves, he brings his hand to you neck and strokes it.

“Your bleeding.” It seems like Genya had nicked you after all. “Here, let me.” He offered, taking a cloth from his pocket and gently wiping the small amount of blood away. His other hand resting at the nape of your neck for stability. You watched his eyes as he concentrated on his actions. You prayed to the saints that he couldn’t hear the incredibly fast pace your heart was beating at.

“So, what did you need to speak to me about.” You questioned. Deeming his work satisfactory, he takes a step back. Tucking the bloodied cloth back into his kefta.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asked.

“What?” Some of the excitement inside of you had deflated.

“It must’ve been a long ride from Kribirsk, I’m sure you're starving.” He calls out for one of the oprichniki outside of his doors and orders them to bring dinner for the two of us.

“I appreciate the gesture, sir. But surely that’s not why you wanted me to stay behind.”

“No, you’re right. Take a seat.” He points to a smaller table, one that hadn’t been occupied by maps and war strategies. It was a rectangular table, both seats facing the window that had shown the view of the lake. You walked towards the table and took a seat. The moonlight glimmered off of the lake, making you smile. He places a lantern in the middle of the table, assuring that you were not going to eat in the dark. In one swift motion, he sits right next to you, his body angled towards yours. “How do you know Alina?”

“We grew up together.” He looked at you, pressing for more details. “In an orphanage in Keramzin.” You were interrupted by a knock, the food had finally arrived. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until the smell of roasted lamb had made your mouth water. “Is that roasted lamb? It’s my favorite!” The Darkling shot you a smile, motioning for you to dig in.

“I was alone until Alina and Mal had come in.” You said between bites. “I never knew my parents. Ana Kuya said I had just turned up one day on the doorsteps, wrapped in nothing but a blanket. I used to get bullied, but when they showed up, they started picking on Mal too. Alina, being the great person she is, defended us both.” A smile made its way onto your lips as you reminisced about your youth. “From then, the three of us were like peas in a pod. We were never seen without each other. That was until we joined the First Army. Alina and Mal had been stationed near Kribirsk while I was down south in Caryeva. We rarely got to see each other.” The Darkling watched as you shoveled the food into your mouth. His hands clasped together, resting on his lap as he listened intently.

“Are you not going to eat?” You pointed the knife in your hand at his plate.

“No, it’s for you.” He replied, pushing the plate closer to you. You squinted your eyes, bewildered by the movement.

“What do you want from me?” The words had left your mouth before you could think, “Sorry, I..” Truly, what would the darkling want from someone like me? Someone who wasn’t like him. You thought to yourself.

“Stay. I want you to stay at the palace.” He announced, his request shocking you to the core. “..Alina needs a friend here, someone she knows and is familiar with. Someone she is comfortable around.”

“What about Mal?” You set down the fork and knife, forgetting about the food.

“He is welcome to stay too.” A quiet and hesitant knock is heard after he finishes speaking. He calls out for the person, allowing them to enter. “Ah, Alina. We were just talking about you.” He motions for her to come to the table.

She gingerly walks over to you, her arms crossed over her chest. “What about me?” She asked.

“I’ve invited our friend here, y/n, to stay at the palace. Your friend, Mal, may stay too.”

“He won’t be staying here.” She sniffled, a sarcastic laugh leaving her lips.

“What? Why?” You inquired.

“He left.” She explained. You knew she was leaving out some details. Just mere hours ago, Mal had been ecstatic to see her again. Yet now he was gone? Something wasn’t adding up. You’d pester her later about it when you weren’t in the presence of the Darkling.

“My offer to you still stands, y/n. You may stay, granted that you take residence in this hall.” Alina tried to hide her shock, no one had ever stayed in the Darkling’s hall. He had it all to himself. She didn’t even know there were other rooms near his. “If you are to stay here at the Little Palace as a guest, then I’ll need to be able to keep an eye on you just in case something happens.”

You give yourself some time to decide. You had duties to attend to, you and Mal had to track the stag. However, given that the two of you had pinpointed it’s location, there wasn’t much left to do. What the Darkling was offering you had been everything you’d dreamt of. If you stayed you wouldn’t have to wait days just to bathe. You wouldn’t have to starve anymore.

“How long would I stay?”

“For as long as Alina likes.” He said. You turned to Alina, asking if this had been the right choice for you. She gives you an eager nod.

“Fine. I’ll stay for Alina.” You look at her again, taking note of the color of her kefta. She was wearing his colors, which could possibly mean one thing. “Are you two together?” Alina’s eyes widen with humility while the Darkling lets out a brief laugh.

“Sorry for her behaviour. She just doesn’t know how to shut her trap.” She moved from where she was leaning against the table and pinched your arm. Her playful glare made you giggle. She opens her mouth to talk again.

“No, we aren’t.” The Darkling answered for her. He noticed the frown on her face, sending her a tight lipped smile, signalling that they would talk later. “You must be tired. Let me show you to your quarters. Alina, stay here.” He motioned for you to follow. Alina watched as the two of you left the war room, a sigh leaving her lips.

You followed him for a few paces before he stopped in front of a door. “Your room is right across from mine if you ever need anything. However I think everything you need is already there.” He replied. You waited around, wondering what was to happen next. He nodded his head towards the door, allowing you to enter. The room had been dark, no lanterns had been lit up due to the room being unoccupied. The Darkling called for an inferni. One came over quickly, lighting up the candles and lanterns as quickly as she could. The room was quite similar to Alina’s, the only difference being that most of the furniture had his symbol engraved on it. Had this room once belonged to his lover? You were too afraid to ask, not wanting to overstep your boundaries. “I’ll be back in the morning to give you a proper tour of the palace. Until then, get some rest.” Without bidding you goodbye, the Darkling left to go speak with Alina.

Without wasting a second, you ran towards the tub, drawing yourself a warm bath. It had been so long since you had been able to bathe by yourself. You’d gotten used to bathing with the other female soldiers that you had forgotten had relaxing it could be. You wash all the accumulated dirt and grime from your body along with your hair. Feeling the water begin to grow cold, you reach for a robe before heading towards the dresser.

It’s contents were luxurious. Many gorgeous dresses, all varying lengths. Countless nightgowns embroidered with flower designs. At the very end of the dresser was a kefta. No ordinary one, it was gold with black detailing. It seemed to stop mid knee. You wanted to reach out to it, to feel it underneath your fingertips but decided not to. Maybe another day. Instead you reached out for a nightgown and slipped it on. To your surprise it fit perfectly, almost too perfectly. Deciding not to dwell on it for much longer, you blow out the candles, leaving the lanterns alight and slip under the heavy covers of the bed. The fatigue from the journey finally caught up with you, and you found yourself sleeping within the minute.

“I won’t let you take them!” A voice that sounded like yours shouted. What were you talking about? Who were you talking about?

“You have no say in this matter.” You couldn’t tell who was talking and it frustrated you, it felt like their name was on the tip of your tongue.

“There’s always a choice.” Before you knew it someone had pressed a cold blade against your throat, gasping emerging from the people around you.

“No! Don’t do it.” Someone pleaded just as another shouted your name.

“I won’t be your pawn, not anymore.” You said, the next thing you felt was the warmth of your own blood dripping on you. You stumbled back, your hands going to the laceration on your neck. You gasped and whimpered in pain as you felt more blood leave you. In the background you could hear someone screaming, another one sobbing whilst saying your name.

You woke up screaming, your hands going to your neck as you stumbled out of bed, falling onto the floor. The door to your room flew open and in came the Darkling along with the oprichniki. Some had their pistols drawn, ready to shoot, while others held their arms up. The Darkling and his guards ran about your room, looking for an intruder to find none. Noticing the state you were in, he ordered the guards to leave.

He crouched down to you, reaching out his hand to touch you before pulling back. “Are you alright?” Your gaze met his, you observed the sun's rays coming through your windows, lighting him up like an angel. His eyes held concern as you hesitated to answer him.

“I’m not sure..” For the first time in your life, you were terrified. You shed a few tears as you looked at him, your shaking hands still around your neck. He hovers his hand over yours, stopping just before they made contact. He was asking for permission to touch you. With a nod, he gently placed his hands atop of yours before removing them. The birthmark on your neck was now raw and red, as if you had been violently scratching it.

Your dream had left you in shambles as one thought ran wildly through your mind, was my birthmark a warning of what was to come?

tags: @all-art-is-quite-useless @devilxangel @musicconversedance @parabatai-winchester @runawayolives @tartiflvtte @rbg1933 @thatguppienamedbae @batgal96 @thebarisinhell99 @5hundreddaysofsummer @kaqua @queenseneschal @benbarnes-supremacy @princessofpersia96 @takethee @dontjinx-it @freakytillthemoon @amortentiaaaa @marvel-ousnesss @coolninjavoid @areomalfoy @pansysgirlfriend @universalirwin @leavejuliaalone @xx-winwin-wednesday-xx @honeyofthegods @lunamyangel @d-list-goddess @comphersjost @telepathdestiel @the-celestial-kitsune @thestoryofmylife9 @s-corpionem @pancakeisreading @sanna2020 @secretsandtinyshadows @savannah-elliott @maliasblue @tea-effect @disneyandharrypotter @futuristicpinklemur @tanyaherondale @the-puff-is-strong-with-this-one @hxgreeves @yourboiialucard @thereeallink @ladyblablabla @wolfieellsworld @p3nny4urth0ught5 @louweasleymalfoy

I tagged everyone I could </3

Also not proofread so sorry for any mistakes lmao

#shadow and bone #the darkling #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #general kirigan #ben barnes #mal oretsev #alina starkov #mizpah

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thatlongspringnight · 4 years ago

Text

A Crown in Springtime (Jungkook x Fem!Reader)

summary: When Jungkook caught the eye of the queen that night, he didn’t realize just how much it would change his life for the better.

pairing: Jungkook x female Reader

genre: arranged marriage au, lust at first sight, romance

word count: 6.2k

❂ amorentia in spring

⁂ hosted by: professor amora through @bangtansorciere

⤐ au type: daffodil

⤐ themes: spring, honeymoon

⤐ kinks: Edging ⤞ Praise ⤞ Cunninglus ⤞ Fingering ⤞ Handjob ⤞ Thigh Riding ⤞ Hair Pulling ⤞ Creampie ⤞

Jungkook is nervous, it bleeds into him like the cold of midwinter, a stark difference from the blossoms of early spring that surround him. Even now, in the sunshine of early morning, he shivers, nerves leaving him tense as he feigns calm, leaning back on the veranda as though nothing has changed, nothing is different, letting the sun soak into his bones.

But everything has changed. He’s more tense now then he was a day ago, when he was kneeling at the ancient altar, handfasting himself to a woman he barely knew for life, for the hereafter too….And not just any woman. His liege, his queen...now his wife. His father had talked of nothing else for the last two months...since...since the betrothal. All he could speak on was the arrangement, brooking no talk or protest from him, nothing but smiling and acceptance.

A savior - his father had called her, the queen their savior, rescuing them from poverty.

“She chose you.” It had been repeated so many times, the idea that he should be grateful, grateful for this arranged marriage. He should be full of joy even, plucked from obscurity to marry her. But...but he doesn’t know her, he can’t wrap his mind around why she would pick him She could have anyone after all...so why him?

Before the wedding...he could count the number of times he had seen her on one hand. A - A little older than him, a couple of years, maybe - he hadn’t known a world where she had not been queen. She had grown up with a crown on her head, a sword in her palm, and the shadow of a dynasty weighing on her shoulders. A child queen raised on tales of her ancestors, long dead, war and conquest. He...He had heard that she had been in want of a husband.

His father had even suggested his older brother, his heir - but never once had his name been mentioned. Not until....not until that night - two months ago, when - when she had smiled at him, eyes alight in mirth and something he didn’t have a name for yet, asking him to dance after a dinner.

They had gone to court for the winter celebration, and he had felt her eyes on him during the meal, offering her a soft smile, as - as was proper.

She’d asked him to dance, first - his thoughts repeated, an honor, one that had given him the warmth of her palm in his, her eyes trailing up his face.

“Your hair.” She had murmured, a hand going to play with the strands. “Blue like the ocean.” His own personal magic, how the fae had manifested in him. He wondered how it manifested in her…

Either way…was that why? Was that why she had picked him? Not even two days after, she had offered his father...and the deed had been done..all leading up to yesterday, kneeling at the altar, him bedecked in clothes woven of silver thread, blue sapphires dripping from them, from the crown she laid on his head. Joining him at the altar, covered in gold. He felt like the moon, lit only by her golden glow.

Somehow, somehow he had made it through, repeating ancient vows that dipped magick into his blood, feeling their bond form as sure and strong as the rope that bound their hands. Somehow that day had faded to night, banquets and being whisked away - a honeymoon in the mountains - early spring blossoms filling the air with perfume.

A honeymoon, but still - no bride. The thought alone is enough to stir something, a gentle sigh making him jolt. Her, he knows its her, he can feel it, looking up to meet her amused gaze. The - the queen, his queen, he dips his head, scrambling to sit properly, to bow…

At least until her fingertips press his forehead, stilling him instantly.

“No Need.” her voice still shocks him, calm and easy - sweet too - like the last drops of sap from a tapped tree at the end of winter. “Especially not here.”

“....Not here?”

“You haven’t noticed?” She smiles now, and it makes him feel warm. “We’re all alone. No one dares to interrupt their queen on her honeymoon.” He’s watching her, stepping to sit beside him, legs dangling like his were just moments before.

“And...and if we weren’t alone?” He curses how slowly the words seem to come to him, trailing and trembling in her presence, but he can’t help it. His position feels uncertain, her husband, but what does that make him. He’s no king.

“Then you’d only need to nod your head.” She hums, a hand lifting up, moving to block the light, to let the sun’s rays break between her fingertips. “You’re a prince now, anyway, my darling, people will be bowing to you.” She says it so easily, like it doesn’t alter his entire life. “But….between us.” She continues. “I’d like it to be different.” This is the most she’s ever spoken to him, and he finds himself entranced at her lips, the way she forms words.

“Different?” He mumbles, barely aware he’s asked.

“Different, friends at least.” She tilts her head to look at him. “Maybe even more.”

“F-Friends?” he questions, eyes widening. “With me?” “Is that so odd?” She snorts. “To want to be friends with my husband?” “....No.” He answers after a moment. “Well - just a little.”

“At the end of the day, I’m just a normal girl, you know.” Words he doesn’t believe, not even for a moment.

The day passes, the coolness of the morning fading to a gentle heat, and he learns - Jungkook learns about his wife.

More than he’s bargained for.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that.” She pushes her own plate of food at him. “Here, eat up.” They are lounging again, on the veranda, which seems to be her favorite place, his too, where the breeze is gentle, and the flowers bloom so heavily nearby it smells like a garden. “It will get cold and you won’t want it.” Its a simple pronouncement, one that makes him pout.

“How do you know?” He answers her, watching how her lips twitch into a smile. “Maybe i want it cold.” “As your Queen, I demand you eat.” That pronouncement is met with him grumbling, before he sits up, a look in his eyes that makes her raise an eyebrow.

“Feed me then.” Jungkook demands, a petulant lilt to his voice, even as he tries to hide his smile.

“What?”

“Feed me.”He gives her a grin, one that makes her heart beat quicken, not that he knows, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Come on - “ He throws her words from before back in her face. “Feed me or else everything’s going to get cold.”

“What a baby.” The woman complains, not at all fooled by the sweet look on his face. “You’re not playing fair, Jungkook.” His name, whenever she says it, makes his stomach flutter with butterflies. Still, he doesn’t even pout at being called a baby, too triumphant at her shifting to face him, reaching to pick up a slice of meat, offering it to him. “Your highness.” She mocks, and he could only snicker, enjoying the taste on his tongue.

It is delicious.

“So good – its delicious.” The smile he shot her was enough to make the woman feel a brush of something she chose not to name. Damn this boy, damn him for making doing something so simple as eating so attractive.

It made her want to tease him, and that made her smile, something he notices. “You – you gave in really easily.” Jungkook spoke after a moment of comfortable silence. She had, this woman who had led his people in war, had fed him just now, without much protest at all. “Maybe you can feed me every day.” Did he enjoy it? Yes, of course he did, but unfortunately for him, the words seemed to click something into place for her.

“Oh, you want me to feed you every day?” The woman purred, managed to snag a bite of her own food before setting down her plate. The air shifts, a shiver coursing through him, the trees seeming to shiver too. “Tell me something, Jungkookie.”

“W-What?” He speaks, a bit of alarm on his face as she leaned over him, her body suddenly very close. “T-Tell you what?”

“Ahh..” She settles herself close to him. So close, their shoulders touch, and when she leans over, their noses nearly brush. “Tell me, are you sure you want this every day?” This time, when she offers him food, he is slower to take it, his cheeks warm. It feels heady, being close to her like this, and he wonders if this intimacy will ever feel anything other than clandestine. “Jungkook, I asked you a question.”

“Ngh.” The boy looked up, his nose brushing hers. “I – I wouldn’t mind.” He breathes. Her chest was too close to his face, and the skin she exposed…it was right there. His lips could brush her collarbones if he looks straight ahead. Suddenly a warm day felt blazing hot. “I – I’m thirsty – “ He managed to speak, unsure of how he even got his voice to work.

“Thirsty?” A teacup was balanced in her hand in an instant, her hold graceful…almost delicate. “Tea, your highness?”

“Don’t call me that.” He protests. “I – you’re the Queen - I’m just - “ “You’re my husband.” She answers, offering him a sip. “Your highness is an appropriate title.”

“But to you, I should just be Jungkook.” He answers her, and she can only smile.

“Can I taste too?” its a shift in conversation, but Jungkook nods, assuming she’d just…take a drink from his cup – which is why his brain short circuits the moment the cup was pulled away, replaced by her lips.

Cherry blossom tea is at first just a hint of salt – one that fades to a mellow sweetness, floral notes and plum. Jungkook thinks to himself. Those grounded musings lost at her lips. She is kissing him, and he is overwhelmed, the taste of her and the cherry blossom tea an all too dangerous combination for him, leaving him lightheaded. She is kissing him - and he could have whined, the angle of their bodies meaning he couldn’t move his hands from the ground, or they’d both tumble over.

And he didn’t want to lose the fierceness of her kiss - her hands in his hair, tugging at the strands hard enough for him to whimper, the sound lost as her tongue explored his mouth, stealing the taste of tea from his lips.

He is on fire, he is in bloom under her touch.

And then she pulls away, panting against his lips, her own cheeks flushed.

“I like it – the tea. Its good on its own…but its better tasting it on your lips, pretty boy.” Jungkook could faint.

“I – y-you can’t just….you can’t just say things like that!”

“Do you need a moment?” She is stretching out like a cat in the sun. “We should make flower crowns next, my prince.”

Jungkook truly looks like a fish out of water in that moment, his mouth opening and closing in shock, and She could’ve laughed at the blush high on his cheeks. She had got him right where she wanted him, he realizes. The lilt to her voice was teasing as she gives him a knowing smirk. “What’s wrong, Jungkook?”

“I-“ He gulps, unable to speak, the taste of salt and honey still strong on his tongue from their kiss. It is too much- she is too much. “A-Actually, my throat is still dry.” He clears his throat once, then twice as if he was trying to prove it to her. “I might n-need another drink...”

“Well, that is a problem, isn’t it.” She tilts her head to the side in mock sympathy and he nods, almost a little too eagerly, giving it away.

“It is, yes. Maybe- maybe you could help me drink again?”

“Hmm, I could...but you also have two perfectly good hands to use so.” She shrugged. “That sounds more like a problem than a me problem.”

“But maybe I’d rather use my hands for...other things.” He is trying to tempt her- and failing miserably as she barely spared him a second glance, too busy focusing on gathering the materials for the flower crowns, something that he wasn’t as interested in now as he had been before.

“Well that’s good, seeing as you’ll need them to make your crown. What flowers did you want?”

Making flower crowns was relaxing – that is the thought after a few minutes, as he hummed softly, twisting the flowers around the ribbon, grinning as they connected. It was unconscious, he sways softly, humming under his breath. He used to make so many of them, for the whole court…and his father would always pick his over his brother’s…

“Ugh – “ The frustrated sound from beside him, pulls him from his memories, and he pauses, listening softly to the woman’s grumbles. Glancing down, he finds a bit of a mess, and it made him grin – he didn’t want to say anything though – not wanting to break her focus – that is until she hissed through her teeth, the flowers literally bursting from their ribbon, scattering around her.

“Gah – “She grimaces, and he laughs outright, her head whipping around at the sound, finding him already wearing his…

And it was beautiful…of course.

“Having some trouble– “

“Its not easy.” She huffs. “You must be cheating somehow.”

“I did not!” Jungkook protests. “I just have more experience is all - “

“I can’t do it.” She straight up whines, and Jungkook grins, giggling in earnest, scooting closer to her. How was she so cute, struggling like this, gathering up her flowers. In this moment she is just a girl, and he is just a boy - He can’t help but be brave.

“Here...”He croons, reaching for her, pulling her closer so he can watch. “Let me teach you.” Only after does he realize how informal he’s being, shooting her a worried glance, only to be met by a little pout.

“I-I don’t need any help!” She curses under her breath, her stammer hardly hidden as she gives him a little glare. “I can do it!”

“Here.” His chin rested on her shoulder, hands gently taking hers in his. “You made your stems too short so they were harder to wrap.” Those flowers get set aside as he picks others from the pile. “These longer ones will work better.

She was silent as she watched him manipulate her hands with his own, twisting the flowers so it entwined with the ribbon, the dyed material looking so good against his skin.

“...try?” The sudden baritone of his voice makes her jump.

“What?”

“I said, why don’t you try.” He has the gall to sound amused and she finds herself scowling at his grin. Even if she couldn’t see it- she felt it. “Let’s try to pay more attention when I’m teaching you, alright?”

“Give me that.” She grabs the flower crown from him, ignoring the sound of his laugh, his body shaking next to her. Jungkook watches her, how she furrows her brows, grabbed another flower- daisies this time, and carefully winds it around the ribbon like he had showed her, focusing hard on her task.

She’s beautiful, he thinks to himself, wistful almost. Beautiful, and he’s hers.

Beautiful, and wants him just as bad as he wants her - something he finds out the next morning, the veranda a place of more than just relaxing in the sunshine.

“You should call me Noona.” Her voice is a purr against his ear, the kind that makes Jungkook shiver, tensing against her light touch. And it is like, fingers trailing his skin, delicate in the way they touch him, make him yearn for more...its...unexpected, how she makes him feel desirable and full of desire for her all at once.

“N-Noona - “ He stammers, breath hitching at her fingertips parting the robe he’s wearing, dancing across his chest. “Ngh - you - “ “You’re so pretty.” She murmurs. “I wanna make you feel good.” He’s tensing at that, but the pit in his stomach is full of butterflies and aching, nothing like fear clinging to him now. “I don’t want you to regret...this...with me.” “This…?” he asks, confusion bleeding into his tone. “This...now?” “Now - and...our marriage.” She confesses, face dipping lower, lips ghosting across the juncture of his throat. “I want to make it worth it for you.” “Why is it worth it for you?” He wonders aloud. “I’m no one at all - “ “You’re magic itself.” She counters, and this time its a kiss against his neck, not just lips, this time her hand finds purchase on his chest, fingernails a dull scrap against his skin. It feels good, and he whines softly, adjusting to the feeling. “Beautiful, sweet - Strong.” She says, and she can feel his cheeks heat. “What, is it embarrassing to hear?” She sounds almost amused, blowing lightly at the strands of his hair, soft blue in the clear, cloudless sunshine.

“T-That - “ He nearly chokes on his own spit. “That - that’s taking it a little too far.” Its almost scolding. “How can you know that?’

“I want to know everything there is to know about you.” She answers. “And to show you all of me, too, if you...if you’ll let me.”

“I want to...to see you.” He answers, honestly, after a moment. “You’re my wife after all, my bride.” There is a smile, hers, against his skin.

“Such a good boy.” She praises, and he cannot help the pleased feeling under his skin, the way he nods, preening a little under her words. “Such a pretty, darling man.” Her hand, trailing lower, bringing new, ticklish feelings to his skin.

This type of affection wasn’t altogether new to him, romps with boys and girls in the stables up...up until recently, but this is different too, there is a feeling there he’s not used to, a longing coming from the woman that registers in his heart.

He can feel her loneliness, the ache in her soul - and he wants to fill it as best he can. Maybe that’s what she had seen in him that night, that same feeling - deep in his heart - that deep alone that kept him up at night.

So he kisses her, adjusting so he’s nearly in her lap, back to her chest, turning to catch her gaze. His lips meet hers and he sees her eyes widen, before his own shut, one of her hands coming to cup his cheek, thumb stroking idly against his skin. It’s sweet - soft, at least for a moment. But they’re both ravenous, he realizes, when it’s his hands that find purchase on the dainty silk robe that hid her form. Ravenous as she bites at his bottom lip, earning a whine, a whimper - when he looks up again, there is something molten in her gaze, and in his stomach.

He wants her, and -

“Ngh -“ he muffles the sound of surprise in his throat as she shifts them, so now it’s her, legs parted on either side of his thigh, sitting with her hands pressed against his chest. “I - I -“

“You?” She asks, like she hasn’t put them in a compromising position, little smirk at her lips. “Cat got your tongue, Jungkook?” Her thumb parts his lips, delight on her face as he opens his mouth, lets her press it to his tongue. “I’d be glad to have your tongue on my kitten.” The slang is enough to make him sweat, heat prickling against his skin.

He’s wearing too many clothes - even if all he’s in is a night robe, the mid morning sun has left him languid and warm, her touch has set fire to his skin - and her - so close to him, nose brushing at the skin of his cheek, coaxing him closer, mouth meeting his with more fervor, hands tangling in his hair.

She’s pulling at the strands, drawing a whine from his lips as her hips rock forward, as his hands find purchase on her hips - registering what she’s doing before his mind catches up.

“N-noona -“ it’s a moan as they part, him panting softly, him trying his best to capture her lips again, only for her to evade. “I want to kiss you.”

“Do you?” She asks, a soft hum on her lips as she brushes them by his ear, earning a shiver. “Badly?”

“Everywhere.” He’s feeling bolder now, straightening his posture so he can give her more - tensing the muscles of his thighs as she rocks - rewarded with a surprised, pleased little noise, even more at how he shifts her himself, across the strength of his thigh, exposed now.

“Not worried we’re going to get caught?” She asks, met with beautiful, darkened eyes.

“You said that I didn’t have to worry about anyone disturbing us.” He reminds. “Who’d dare interrupt their queen?” He mimics her voice from before, pleased when she laughs, when she grips lightly at his hair, tugging again just to make him whine.

“Brat.” But her tone is fond, like she’s seen him and found nothing displeasing in the least. “But you’re right, no one would dare.” She eyes him, noting the way his hands grip at her, eager to get her out of her clothes. “Don’t you try it.” She warns before he can act. “Seeing me naked is something that you’ll have to earn I’m afraid.” Even as she says that, her hand is grasping at the tie around his, her eyes meeting his own, seeking a silent permission he gives readily.

The ribbon holding it closed is pulled away, her hand making contact with his lower stomach. Dipping lower, finding purchase on something that makes him hiss.

“A-Ah - “ “Hard.” She poses, and its not a question, its an observation. He’s hard. “Pretty.” She tacks on. “Even your cock is pretty.” He feels like he could combust, head dropping to hid in the crook of her neck.

“N-Noona.” He whines. “Don’t say that.”

“Come on, Jungkookie.” There is a note of challenge to her tone. “Are you just going to sit here while I touch your dick? Or are you going to help your wife, hm? She glances at his hands on her hips, looking back up at him.

Its enough, he’s back at it, biting his lip as she touches him, and her touch is light, light as she trails fingertips against the head of his cock, dips them down to grasp at him, pulling her hand away so she can lick her palm. He’s entranced, only shifting her hips because she told him to, entirely too focused on her damp palm meeting his skin again, dragging up, up, up.

But that’s not the only sensation. Its her, rutting against his thigh when he’s not fast enough, thumbing at his tip. He is conscious of his moans, soft and eager, and that’s about it, overwhelmed with the feeling.

“N-Noona - “ “Beautiful.” She answers him, and he can feel her - her essence against his skin, he’s flustered. “Lazy.” She teases and he whines, this time actually dragging her against his thigh. Again, then again, over and over - movements faltering as her drag up his skin sped up.

It - it was so hard to focus -

“I-It would be easier if I was inside you.” He finally counters, words catching up with his thoughts - and that gets a reaction, her thighs clamping around his, her movement stuttering. “If y-you let me - “ “Already at the business of begetting heirs?” her palm slips from him and he whimpers. “Not yet, if you want it, I need it first.” She warns. She doesn’t mind being selfish, he already knows - and he doesn’t mind it either.

“Then let me give it to you.” He’s pulling away, eyeing her. “Let me - let me worship you, on my knees, since you’re my...my queen - my wife.” and he is on his knees, already, something that clearly pleases her.

“Worship me?” She asks, perching up on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her. “You mean between my thighs, where you belong, right?” His cock is still hard, she muses, still throbbing and leaking, and eager - but making him wait was good, bringing him close to the edge and then not letting him…

Perfect.

“Can I?” He asks again, needing more than that from her. “Please - “ “You should talk less.” She answers him. “You’re wasting time you could be worshipping me.” It spurs him forward, but she meets him halfway. He is pushed down, pulled forward, till his nose was brushing against her core, silk robe falling around exposed hips and soon enough her legs were resting on his shoulders, holding him in place. He looked up, finding her flushed, seemingly eager.

“This – this is what you want?”

“Come on, Kookie – You said you wanted to worship me, to be on your knees before me...So…why don’t you show me what that mouth does…besides teasing.”

“Ngh -!” Jungkook flushes hard at the crude words that fall from her lips, his whole body uncomfortably hot. He wants to hide his face from her dark gaze but with the firm grip she had on his hair, he couldn’t move. Even then, he isn’t sure he could, trapped in her gaze the way he was. “V-Vulgar.”

“I’m just telling you what I want, Jungkookie. You said you were going to….so do it.” The way she is looking at him makes that fire ignite in his blood again, a deep sense of desire and wanting.

Because she is right. Jungkook wants to watch as she fell apart, her thighs trembling from around his head, his name like a prayer on her lips as her back arched with pleasure.

He wants nothing more.

“Okay.” He murmurs, pressing sweet kisses to her thighs, intent on getting her just as hot as he felt. “You’re so wet for me, Noona.” Slowly, he ghosts his mouth over her core before going to press kisses to her other thigh, not missing the way she tensed and let out a little huff when he passed over her center.

“I’d be wetter if you actually used your tongue on me.”

“Maybe so.” He hums, letting his thumb brush over her clit, the corners of his lips twitching upwards at her soft whimper and he wonders if she tastes as sweet as the noises she makes, as sweet as the honey that he had tasted on her tongue earlier. Jungkook lets his gaze rest on hers before giving an experimental circle of his tongue on her clit, the woman jolting at the touch.

“J-Jungkook-!“

He doesn’t pause, his eyes still on hers as he wraps pretty lips around her pearl, giving a gentle suck, just to see how she’d react, a finger drawing over her entrance.

Jungkook is not disappointed at her reaction, her hands falling free of his hair, digging into the wood of the veranda beneath her. She moans, a pleased – heady sound, her heels pressing into his back, pushing him closer and closer to her core. So – so she liked that, then, Jungkook took note, returning to kitten licking at her.

Don’t try to overwhelm her with the first thing you find she likes, take your time, savor her, till she’s aching with need - advice from his older brother about what to do with girls - he’d taken it, and it had always seemed to work. he took a breath, his warmth ghosting over her as he pressed his finger against her.

“Noona – c-can – can I?” Jungkook asked, wanting to make sure.

“Yes –! ngh – “ She tenses at the feeling of his finger. “F-Fuck… please – “ He slid a finger inside of her, the feeling making him whimper against her core. She – she was so warm, clenching around him...

“O-Oh –“ He couldn’t help press his hips against the floor, searching for friction. How was it going to feel…buried inside of her, the hot, and wet and – and tight. He really was going to have to work her over now…because he doubted he was going to last very long at all. “Noona – you – you feel – so good.” Her thighs pressed against his face, and her head was tossed back.

“More – Kookie – more, y-you can be more rough with me.” His name on her lips, the endearment not lost on him, spoken so fondly, with such need – Jungkook can’t help himself but give in to her desires. Sliding his finger out, till she whined at the empty feeling, this time her thrust two in, harder, teeth just lightly grazing her clit. If – if she wanted rough –

“A-Ah! Jungkook!” the moan was sinful, and more of a cry, a shudder going through her as she tenses – “Ngh…ah..” He is thrusting his fingers into her, sitting up to press a kiss to her stomach, to bite lightly at her skin.

“Noona – Noona – you’re driving me crazy –“ The boy pants, still rutting into the floor. “You – ngh – you sound so hot, I – I can’t – “

“Jungkook- “ Her voice sounds almost scolding. “Don’t – don’t you dare get yourself off.” He froze, not realizing she could tell.”

“B-But…But Noona –“ he whines, met with her hands in his hair again, pulling roughly.

“No – you – you’re pleasuring me now. Just me.”

Just her...

Jungkook wanted to pout, to whine more at her scolding. It- it was hard to not lose himself over in the sound of her moans, the cry of his name falling from her lips. He couldn’t help that he wanted to be inside of her, actually inside of her- not just his fingers. To have her clenched tight around him.

“J-Jungkook, move..” His wife gives a little wriggle of her hips, huffing at the stilling of his fingers. Brat. Trying to get off by himself- like she wouldn’t notice the shift of his hip and his soft whimpers against her skin. She gives him a cool look from his place between her legs. “Unless you want me to finish what you started on my own-“

“N-No!” He blurted, his doe eyes wide at her implication. “No, Noona.” He repeated, slowly resuming his finger work, her shuddering in response. “Let- let me take care of you.” And then his mouth was on her again, sucking, licking, his fingers crooking inside of her- crooking his fingers to find that spot that’d make her see stars. He’d know just by the way-

“A-Ah -“ Her grip on his hair tightened, holding him in place. “Ngh, K-Kookie, right- right there.” She moans. “D-Don’t you dare stop.” She could feel him smirk against her and honestly, she would’ve said something if it didn’t feel so fucking good, his tongue flattening against her clit before circling around the nub. She was close, she could feel it- that pleasure growing tight like a bow that was being strung. She was just about to fall until-

Until-

“S-Stop -!”

Her gasp took him by surprise, her pulling him away from her immediately. Jungkook blinked up at her, confusion on his face. She had told him not to stop before... Had- had he done something wrong? “Noona...?”

“C-Come here.” She shifts then, pulling him up to her so she could capture his lips with hers, tasting herself on his tongue. Her hands dropped to his waist, a whine in Jungkook’s throat, his hips bucking against her hand as she palms at him again, a whimper as she bites down on his lip.

“Ngh, Noona, why...why’d you have me stop?” He felt his dick twitch in her hand and gods, he wishes he could feel her properly. “Y-You were close, a-ah, I could feel it.”

“I was, you’re right.” Finally- finally, she moves, grasping his hand to put it against the tie of her robe.. “But if I’m going to cum...then I want to be doing it around your cock- not your fingers. I want you to see all of me.” That’s all he needs, pulling at it, undoing it - watching the silk slip from her shoulders, slowly exposing all of her.

She’s beautiful, but he already knows that.

“Jungkook.” Her voice is breathy, and her fingers traced patterns against the skin of his chest as he takes her in. “Kookie – you’re – you’re breathtaking.” He whines softly, hiding his face against her neck again, clearly flustered at her words.

“I - I should be telling you that - “ He protests, but she is unabashed.

“Jungkookie…” A hand dipped lower, finding purchase on his cock, swollen, pre-cum dripping.

He is big. And even his dick was pretty, smooth and straight, with a gentle curve upward, She thinks wryly, wondering how physical perfection had managed to manifest itself so clearly in this man. Like every bit was crafted to draw a reaction from her, to make her long for him, yearn for him, need to have him.

She had known from the moment she’d seen him.

“Noona- “

“I’m yours to take.” She answers the unspoken question, pulling him to her, till he is gripping at her hips, glad that he had something to hold onto so his hands wouldn’t shake, the pads of his fingers digging into her flesh as he shifted her hips upwards. Slowly, slowly, he sinks into her. Glad not to have to wait anymore, a whine on his lips at her heat that surrounds him and he feels her stiffen, her mouth dropping open into an ‘o’ of pleasure. “N-Noona -“

She is hot and...and so tight around him, clenched like a vice, and he knows- Jungkook knows that he won’t be able to last very long.

“Ngh-“ A gasp leaves her throat at him suddenly thrusting inside. “K-Kook -“

“A-Ah, Noona, I- ngh, I can’t help it.” He leans forward, pressing kisses to her neck, her hands coming up to grip at his shoulders. “You- you feel so good.”

“Do i?” She asks, his reaction more than enough to clarify, hips setting a pace that seems to surprise her. “Ngh - you - you feel good too.”

“A-And you’re beautiful.” Jungkook finally feels brave enough to say it. “I - I’m a little terrified of you, b-but I don’t regret this.” Its sweet, in its own way, and it makes her laugh.

“I hope you never do.” She is kissing him again.

“W-What about you?” He asks after a moment. “Do you r-regret it?” “Never.” She answers against his lips. “Now, stop this idle worrying, let me feel your cum dripping out of me, instead.”

“N-Noona – you – you can’t say that.” Jungkook works on steadying himself, methodical in his thrusts, her words echoing in his head. That thought – the feeling of her, he can’t help thrust as deep as he can, feeling her nails dig into his skin, her small pleasured sounds filling the air. He could feel her tense, like this, his name falling from her lips as she gripped at him.

“K-Kookie – there – that’s it. Ngh – just like that.” She wasn’t shy under him, her legs wrapping around his narrow hips, drawing a soft groan from him.

“It – ngh – feels too good.” Jungkook whines, only to have her pull him into a kiss…one he wasn’t sure was to silence her or himself. Whatever it was, it was messy, teeth and tongue and sounds of pleasure.

But – but – he can feel it, that same feeling in his stomach, and he knew he needed to finish her, rewarded with her flat out moan, the loudest sound he had heard come from her, heady and high, when his fingers met her bud, breaking their messy kisses to toss her head back, a shudder coursing down her body.

“J-Jungkook - !” There it is, the boy is triumphant, rubbing at her roughly – its what she wanted after all – still pounding into her, thrusts growing more and more sloppy with every move. He could feel her again – too, the way she tenses and tightens, but even in his triumph he couldn’t help the words on his lips.

“Please, please – please Noona, please cum.” He is begging, his own mind hazy with pleasure. “Ngh – need you too…really bad.” He didn’t know what possessed him, slamming into her enough to make him wince, but it was enough.

It was too much – the feeling of her falling apart, how tight she was, pulsing against him, too much – and he -and he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He empties himself in her, feeling very much so like a bucket, tossed to the ground, water spilled.

“I told you no one would catch us.” She speaks after his breath settles, idly playing with his hair. “My dear husband.” “Y-You - I’m...I’m happy.” His words don’t fit hers, but they do all at once, telling her directly what she wanted to know. “That you chose me to give a crown to.”

“Your magic sang to mine.” is all she says in return, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Your loneliness called to mine, because you were always meant to be mine...and i was always meant to be yours.”

#bts fanfiction #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #bts fluff #bts romance #bts jungkook #bangtan #bangtan sonyeondan #bts #bangtan au #bangtan fic #ficswithluv #bangtanfairygarden #bangtanhq #bangtansorciere

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the-dream-team · 3 years ago

Text

Can I Try Again

Another ridiculously fluffy one-shot for @efkgirldetective's summer of jily week four prompt: picking berries // I know I've kissed you before, but I didn't do it right // the entire song, pink in the night <3

She is beautiful and he is in a perpetual state of falling. Down and down and down the goddamn rabbit hole, but somehow the further James plummets, the brighter his life becomes. It’s the kind of brightness that blinds him- somewhat painfully- and leaves his vision spotty, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lily Evans walks ahead of him, a spring in her step, sunshine pouring through her hair. She’s cut it short for the summer, just above her shoulders, and he’s mesmerized by the way it bounces around her neck as she walks through the gardens of his family’s home. It’s an image he’s played over in his head an infinite number of times, but his rosiest daydreams don’t hold a candle to the real thing. The afternoon light hits his glasses just right and suddenly there’s a halo of glowing stars framing her as she tucks a dark red strand behind her ear. He can’t even see her face, but it doesn’t matter. I could stare at your back all day.

He is the luckiest boy in the world and every moment is made up of the sweetest form of torture. Agony and exuberance whipping his heart back and forth like a rogue Bludger.

She must know, he thinks. Must have some sort of clue that she’s occupied every corner of his mind for well over a year now. Even more so now, after the platform. He wishes more than anything for the ability to read minds as she glances over her shoulder with those startlingly green eyes, that friendly grin.

He can’t help but smile back- or maybe he was already smiling before she even turned around. It doesn’t matter. By some miracle, she’s here, and he can only marvel at the kindness of fate.

***

It had been a passing comment. One of those early morning conversations as his friends frantically scribbled out unfinished essays while shoving waffles down their throats. Chatter muffled by mouthfuls of eggs and yawning. Remus had commented offhandedly about the fruit bowl being passed around, and then-

“Oh, raspberries are my favorite.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already looking at her when she spoke. But truthfully, he was always looking at Lily, a habit he’d long since stopped fighting once he realized how fruitless his efforts were. She was beautiful and he was hopeless. Simply lucky to be in her presence. She was the sun, and he, but a lonely planet, entirely reliant on and endlessly seeking out her light.

Sirius spoke the words James should have if his mind hadn’t gone fuzzy from hearing her voice.

“You know, the Potters have a raspberry patch in their gardens.”

“Oh, really?” She glanced from Sirius to James with a brilliant smile and excited eyes, so purposefully glued to his that he had to duck his head and rake a hand through his hair to hide his heating cheeks.

“That’s right,” he said more to his plate of sausages than to her. “They’re usually ripe to pick by early August.” When he peered back up, she was still looking his way.

“You should come over this summer and take some off our hands,” said Sirius casually, turning towards James as if it had been his idea.

“Yeah,” he jumped in a little too eagerly. “I mean- if you’d like, you’re more than welcome.”

Her smile widened, rounding the apples of her cheeks in a way that made his stomach flip pleasantly. “That sounds like fun.”

He assumed she’d forget the conversation, it had been just another morning, just another casual chat among housemates, but that didn’t keep him from daydreaming about the potential of a far-off day in August rather incessantly during the following months. But then as the school year ended and summer rolled on painfully slowly (and Lily-less), an owl arrived. And her handwriting crawled across the page like a message written in the clouds.

***

Lily swings the woven basket back and forth in her pursuit of the best raspberries. There’s already an impressive bounty growing in her basket, far more than he’s managed to collect- too busy watching her kneel down and pluck berries off their delicate branches to pick any of his own.

He turns to a leafy bush, green and lively and swaying slightly in the warm breeze, and quickly pinches off a handful of berries in an attempt to catch up with her. When she spins around, he’s thankful for the distraction. A minute earlier and she would have caught him staring. Again.

She smiles pleasantly and brushes her fringe off her sweaty forehead with the back of her wrist. James’ heart leaps into his throat.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, but not accusingly.

“No I haven’t,” he responds, voice gravelly from underuse. “Just been busy picking raspberries.”

She glances at his measly basket, then back to his face with arching brows and an amused smirk.

He can’t help his own guilty grin. “Alright, Evans, I’m sorry we can’t all be unreasonably talented at everything we do.”

“It’s berry picking, Potter,” she laughs, “not advanced Arithmancy.”

In retaliation, he plucks a raspberry off of the nearest branch and playfully throws it at her. She somehow has the gall to lean her head back and catch the goddamn berry between her teeth. His brain short circuits. He’s quite certain his jaw is on the ground. She acts as though this is no big deal, swallowing the fruit with a satisfied smile, her tongue brushing her lower lip before tossing another into her mouth.

“Oh, these are delicious!”

He can’t form a response even if he wants to. Even if it was a matter of life or death, which it sure as hell feels like. He can only stare at her mouth, at her lips stained raspberry-pink, and lose himself in the knowledge that he knows how they feel against his own- even just briefly.

***

The platform teemed with students stretching their legs after the long journey home from school, saying their goodbyes to friends as their families greeted them for the summer.

A pit sat in James’ stomach- heavy and demoralizing- the entire train ride back to London. He knew she’d be gone soon. Back with her parents in Cokeworth for two excruciating months before their seventh year began. He’d taken their close proximity for granted during the school year, and as he faced a summer without the promise of her warmth, he wondered if it was even possible living in the dark.

He laughed loudly at a joke Peter told, overcompensating for the fact he’d missed the punchline while his thoughts were spiraling over her. Sirius shot him a look that suggested he wasn’t doing a great job of masking his emotions. Had it been so obvious the entire way home? Could she have noticed the despondency in his eyes, heard the heavy thumping of his heart? He rolled his eyes at Sirius and mustered up the most unbothered smirk he could manage.

But then, without warning, she was in front of him.

“Alright, Potter, don’t let your head overinflate while I’m not around to keep you grounded.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Evans,” he laughed, thankful his voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Just so long as you promise to consider switching your loyalties to Puddlemere. There’s no way the Harpies even make it to the semi-finals this season, and I can’t bear seeing you heartbroken again.”

“Oh, piss off, Potter,” she replied, but the way she threw her arms around his neck seemed to argue she didn’t mean what she said. Instinctually, he hugged her back, and thank Merlin he had her to hold onto as the wind was knocked out of his lungs at her touch. An overwhelming warmth sparkled across every surface their bodies met, and it took every ounce of control he had to restrain the truly pathetic sigh that threatened to escape his throat.

“And I haven’t forgotten,” she spoke into his shoulder, breath hot thorough his t-shirt, “you promised me berry picking this August.”

It would be impossible to miss the rapid beating of his heart through his chest pressed up against hers. “I’m already counting down the days.”

When she pulled back, hands resting on his shoulders for a beat longer than expected, his body moved faster than his brain could keep up with. He leaned forward, aiming for her cheek, but miraculously landing against her mouth- connecting for the briefest of moments before parting again, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them. If it weren’t for the ghost of her lips still burning against his own, he might have thought he’d dreamt it.

“Lily, I’m not waiting any longer, we’re leaving, now,” came the unpleasant voice of her sister from across the platform.

Lily’s disoriented smile faltered slightly before she composed herself again, meeting his eye. “I’ll see you in August?”

“Yeah, August,” he somehow said with his mouth still tingling, forever changed by what they now knew.

***

The memory of her lips, how they feel pressed between his smile, is harder to ignore when they’re in front of him. He can remember the warmth where they touched him over a month ago and absentmindedly he brings a raspberry to his mouth so he can imagine how she must taste.

His emotions were hard enough to control before he knew what he was missing, but now they are impossible to reign in. He forgets how to breathe, and as a result, his head spins maddeningly. Unsure of how much longer he can stand up straight without making a fool out of himself, he walks forward and lays a hand on Lily’s back- partially to lead her forward, partially because the desire to be connected to her in any way is driving him mad.

She lets him guide her through the rows of bushes, under an ancient wooden archway, and across a courtyard of blossoming poppies and forget-me-nots enclosed by walls of hedges. Yellow and purple petals reflect brilliantly in her green eyes, creating their own fields of wildflowers within her irises. He walks her towards a wide, circular fountain in the middle of the grass where bubbling water spills over onto stone tiers and pours into the basin below, its floor littered with glinting coins, dancing under the water’s rippling surface.

He sits down and she follows suit on the stone ledge surrounding the water, partially shaded by an impressive plum tree. Cool droplets spray off the fountain, refreshing like summer rain singing I love you, I love you, I love you. Lily glances his way and he wonders if she can hear his thoughts.

“Are we finished picking berries?” she asks, eyes squinting and nose crinkling in the sun.

“I figured you had enough to feed a village.” He reaches over and grabs a raspberry from her basket and she gasps in faux outrage.

“Are you really stealing my raspberries, Potter?”

He adores his name on her tongue. “My apologies,” he says, pulling a silver Sickle out of his pocket and sliding it over to where she sits. She looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “For your troubles. Go on then, make a wish.”

“Oh!” Her eyes light up and she takes hold of the coin, lifting it to her heart as she closes her eyes in search of a wish.

He thinks he could look at her forever. Happy, sunkissed, an unconscious smile playing across her lips. With her eyes shut, he uses a minute to take a deep breath, attempting to calm his racing heart and compose his dopey grin. They’re sitting close together, knees almost touching with the basket of berries between them. As she tosses the Sickle behind her shoulder, he smells the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo.

She noticeably tries to hide her smile when her eyelids flutter back open.

“What did you wish for?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

She freezes with her eyes locked on his. A pink blush spreads across her cheeks, growing darker the longer he stares back at her. “I can’t tell you,” she says, words sounding choked, “or else it won't come true.”

Her flushed face awakens something in his chest, a confidence that blooms magnificently, turns his nervous, pattering heartbeat into a steady, powerful drum.

His voice drops to a hoarse whisper when he asks, “Can I guess?”

Her breath hitches. “I think you might already know, James.” Her words, the sound of his name, melts him down to a puddle. By some miracle, she continues speaking. “Look, I know I’ve kissed you before-”

“But I didn’t do it right,” he says frantically, his hands finding her face and brushing through her hair. He starts to understand why people advise against looking directly at the sun because being this close to her fills him with such astounding emotion he thinks he might explode. She stares up at him, blush deepening, lips parting, and he takes a ragged breath. “Can I try again?”

This time, when she smiles, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans in slowly, letting their breath mix together, their noses bump lightly before he closes the space between their lips. She’s soft and warm and beautiful and radiant and he’s never felt a happiness quite like this one, never experienced a kiss this perfect. His fingers travel over her scorching skin and brush her neck as he deepens the kiss, tasting the raspberries on her tongue, his heart soaring as she responds blissfully until they’re both left breathless.

“And again?” she asks, pulling him back with a smile against his lips.

“And again,” he smiles back, marveling, once again, at the kindness of fate.

#summerofjily #look guys #i have never written present tense before so take that information as you will #and of course i switched to past tense for the flashbacks because I guess I want everyone to suffer #have some sickeningly sweet fluff to make up for it lol #i do not love writing kisses!#but I know you guys like when jily seals the deal so I do it for you #absolutely love this prompt and mitski is that glareingly obvious?#plus picking berries is all i've thought about for 24 hours #<3 #who is reading these tags #seriously lmao #jily fic #jily #lily evans #James potter

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

Hue and Cry II

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; abuse of power, threats, chase.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find a place to hide for the time being.

Note: Got this done quickly and was surprised with myself. Gearing up to go back to work tomorrow. I’ll try to catch up on responses after work and check in with y’all.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

You didn’t stop running until the dawn. You didn’t head for the village as you knew that would be the first place the lord and his party would look. You kept to the forest despite the howls and the hoots of unseen creatures. You stopped to bury your cap and apron under an overturned trunk. If it was known that Barnes was searching out a servant, it would be better to be less obvious.

As the horizon turned to a soft amber, you found an overhang and nestled into the small nook. You turned your back to the bitter morning air and tried to sleep. If you kept going, you would only pass out in the open. Your slumber was shallow and fitful. You were stiff as you woke up just after noon and climbed out of the cranny.

You feasted on nuts and berries gathered along your clueless path, eating as the twigs and branches pulled at your skirts. You weren’t sure where you were or where you were going. You could be out of the county or you could be five minutes from the castle. For your luck, you could have just gone in circles.

The second night you found a cave and slept there instead of pressing on through the dark. You were itchy from a brush with poison ivy and your feet throbbed from the endless trek. You got a few hours under your eyelids before you emerged and carried on.

What were you doing? Where were you going? If you did manage to evade the wrathful lord, what then? Knock on the doors of another castle and barter an apron with your fingernails dirty and your face wind burned?

The third night saw your stomach squeezing painfully as you failed to catch a rabbit and drank from a river eagerly. You slept between two broken logs and woke to the sound of hooves. You didn’t move as you listened to the voices. None were familiar and the only prey they spoke of was some doe they sighted moments ago.

“Nolan spooked the creature just behind the hill, my lord, if we hook around the lea, we might catch it by the stream,” a man said.

“I’d rather the stag. He must be close,” a deeper timbre replied, “you and Nolan take your course and I’ll search these grounds for the mate. Whistle if you sight our game.”

“Yes, my lord,” the other responded and the horses cantered away.

You stayed as you were as you heard the remaining man dismount and tramp over the carpet of leaves. You rolled onto your stomach and wriggled away from the noise and kicked yourself out from between the logs. You kept on your knees as you crawled around the other side and headed for the nearest tree.

His footsteps softened and you kept on, hoping your dirty dress helped you blend into the wild. You pushed yourself behind a trunk and pressed your back to the bark. If you sprinted out, he might just think you another frightened creature. If he sought a stag, he would be uninterested.

You nodded and readied for your flight. You took a breath and yelped as suddenly a figure appeared before you.

“I thought I heard a rustle,” the man said as he looked down at you. He was a lord, you could tell by the pin at the nape of his cape, “you look to be lost, my lady.”

“My lord,” you stood and bowed your head, “I only wandered too far. I can find my way back.”

“Way back where?” his hands went to his hips, “you look as if you have been wandering for a time.”

“I only tumbled and mussed myself,” you lied, “my lord, my apologies, I did not realise this forest was noble land.”

“It is easy to break the threshold of the common lands and the noble sprawl. It would be quicker on horseback to reunite you with your home, would it not?”

“I am grateful for such generosity but I would be remiss to accept, I might go on my way and--”

“Where do you hail from, lady?” he squinted.

“The village over yonder,” you pointed away from him, “it was a game and I did go too far.”

“And the village you speak of? What is it’s name?” he asked.

“Ildersin,” you uttered, one of the three nearest villages to the castle you knew.

“Ildersin? That is far and beyond my holdings,” he tilted your head, “one cannot wander there in less than a day so I warn you now to be honest or I would have your tongue out with hot pincers.”

You gulped and looked away from him. He stepped closer and caught your wrist.

“I could chase you down easy on my horse’s back, trample you into the mud, so answer me now or I will take you to the stocks,” he snarled.

“My father,” you said, “my father, he does beat me and I waited until he was abed to leave but I lost the bundle I did prepare for the escape. You see, my spare clothing and my food… I only did want to be upon my own and toil for one who does not lash me.”

He breathed through his nostrils as his thumb brushed the stitching along your cuff. He dropped your arm and his jaw ticked. His blond lashes flicked and he considered you and the dirt as one.

“You seek work?” he asked, “and asylum from your violent father?”

“Yes, my lord, er,” you blinked innocently, “I know not where I’ve found myself but I would serve you loyal if you would keep me from the stocks.”

“You can hold a broom? Empty a pot?” he asked.

“I can,” you assured, “my lord.”

“You have good manners for a farm maid,” he mused, “I might find a place for you in my kitchens.”

“My lord? You might direct me to the nearest village so I might find labour there, instead, I would not presume to further tax--”

“My castle is big enough, another hand would be more help than a burden,” he stepped back and waved you around the tree, “I will accompany you back to my keep and return to fetch my men… you look to have been out here long enough.”

“Truly, my lord, I--” you saw his impatience in the vein along his forehead and bowed your head, “I am most grateful.”

“Let us be off or my men might be lost without me,” he said.

He lifted you onto his horse and climbed up behind you. You’d never been astride with a man against you, it was awkward and crowded. He snapped the reins and the horse fell into step. He steered it away from your hiding place.

“Might I ask where I am, my lord?” you ventured.

“This is Astrens,” his voice rumbled through you, “And I am its lord, Duke Steven Rogers.”

Your heart sank as you recognised his name and your mistake. He wasn’t easily known with his beard, newly grown since his last visit to the Lord Barnes’ hold. He was of the few who were granted company with the miserly lord of the castle but there was a chance yet he did not know you. You were after all, only a servant.

🏰

Lord Rogers handed you over to his steward. You were reassured as you were given a cap, apron, and a new dress. You washed out of a basin and reported for your new duties.

It might just be far enough away that you wouldn’t have to worry about Barnes. He never went far from his estate and Astrens was out of the way of the capital. Even if it didn’t work, it gave you time to plot a real departure.

You were sent to the laundries to sweat over boiling cauldrons as you stirred the linens with a large stick. The steams seeped through your clothing and left you out of breath as you wrung out the sheets. You hung them outside along the line and helped beat out the old woven rugs.

After nights in the forest, your first day felt far from a return to normalcy. You were in a new place, you had new duties, and you didn’t know anyone in the castle. You’d worked in Lord Barnes’ manor since his father was still alive and you were only a kid. It was only a few years before Barnes took over but you remember it being much easy to ingratiate yourself to the staff.

You were shuffled onto a feather mattress in the servants’ quarters with three others. The snoring, snorting, and coughing kept you awake and you missed the chirp of crickets and scratching of critters. You woke more tired than any night spent among the trees and went back to the laundries.

Your days took on this pattern, sleep, eat, work, and do it all over again. You were forgotten among the other servants and it really seemed like you might just be able to hide among them forever.

Nearly a week into your time as Astrens and the castle blustered to a storm. All the drapes were to be taken down, beat, and washed, and all beds were to be stripped and redressed. Servants littered the corridors scrubbing, sweeping, and running from chamber to chamber. When you asked what the occasion was, the response was vague. Lord Rogers is hosting a guest.

You weren’t used to the rush. Visitors were rare at the other castle and rarely were they accommodated so wholly. If they had a place to rest their head and fill their stomach, Barnes felt they could not gripe. Even his greetings were not required on such an occasion.

You helped with the scourging and scouring of the linens and the drapes. You worked so hard you didn’t even have the energy to gulp down the lumpy stew allotted to the servants. You fell into the heap of your bedmates into dreams laced with your own snores. You dreamt of the forest and the sound of hooves.

Another early morning and the gears began to grind once more. Darcy sent you away from the laundries to help refresh the rushes in the entrance hall with several others. You scattered herbs over the grand carpet that displayed scenes of hunting through the seasons.

You wondered if perhaps Rogers was to be betrothed at last, the news of his first wife’s passing had sent many into gossip even before she was buried. Or maybe the king would make progress to the ancient grounds of the historic castle. You let your mind wander as your body was led by habit.

You heard the rolling of the carriage and the clip clop of horses. You followed several other servants as the tall doors were opened and you peered out into the yard at the party. You backed away as Lord Rogers emerged from the archway that led to the spiraling stairs and crossed the carpet. You could hardly hide your curiosity as you reluctantly followed the other servants. It would be unseemly to remain as Rogers welcomed his guests.

“James!” Rogers’ voice boomed and you stopped just outside the chamber as you looked down the stairs that led to the servants quarters, “it has been too long.”

“It has,” Lord Barnes’ responded and your eyes went wide as Deandra hissed for you to go. You couldn’t move as you listened and she abandoned you with a flutter of her fingers, “you know my father only ever called me James.”

“Ah, Buck, I’m kidding,” Rogers chuckled, “it is a pleasure to have you drag yourself from your hermitage.”

“You would make me regret it already,” the other lord chirped, “but the king did request my presence at the tournament and he did not allow for refusal. I’d prefer to travel with a friend, my only friend.”

“Oh, the sentiment, Lord Barnes,” Rogers preened dryly.

“I don’t know if I should be able to wait to tussle until the tourney,” Barnes jibed, “oh, this old place, has it been so long?”

You shoved yourself away from the door and clamoured down the stairs. You nearly tumbled down the last few and caught yourself on the wall. You sidled past Agnes and towards the laundries. Harriet called after you as you passed and rushed out the doors past the muddy puddles of dirty water and hanging sheets.

The grass was slick beneath your shoes as you raced for the stables. You only needed to hide there for a time and sneak out before they closed the gates. You didn’t make it past the first stall before you heard the steel whine. You turned as Lester greeted you with the tip of his sword.

“The master has been searching for you,” the toothy guard smirked, “oh and what a reward I shall have for bringing him a prize of his own.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #hue and cry #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dark fic #dark!fic #fic #series #miniseries #medieval au #au #medieval!au #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #captain america

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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 7

Chapter 7: The Fool

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | six

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: It all spills over.

Word count: 8.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT (WE MADE IT FOLKS), thigh riding, fingering/hand job, very brief breathplay/choking, cum eating¿? Angst/emo shit (I'm so sorry i have no self control)

Notes: HI FRIENDS, wow it's been a minute. Sorry for the massive delay. For anyone wishing to start KOC, now would be the perfectly spicy chapter to do so! This chapter was Herculean. idk why. Love you guys, enjoy! x (gif credit : @djarinsgf)

“Maker,” you bemoan, shielding your face from the heavy beat of the suns.

You’ve known warmth—you were raised in warmth. This is beyond it.

It’s not just warm, it’s sweltering. The heat is oppressive, congealing the air to mist; you can barely see through it what with the sweat running into your eyes. Tall, craggy dunes line the valley of desert, trapping the planet’s hot pulse within their walls. Your steps crunch along the dry, pebbled earth as you swat at the gnats buzzing in ribbons around your head.

A muffled gurgle sounds from behind you and you slow to a halt, boots gritting into the cracked top soil.

“You doing alright back there, Munch?” you ask, craning your head to the child nestled into the carrier fashioned onto your back. A green ear pokes free from the top, and you can see the jewel of his black eyes peering at you through the gauzy cloth you draped over it. He grunts, and you give a small shrug—shifting the pack by the straps, eliciting a giggle out of him. “We can always turn back, okay? I’m not going to be mad.” Another noise, a happy coo this time, and you shimmy your shoulders again, jostling the bag playfully.

“Well, you just let me know.”

Your conversations usually unfold this way. They leave much to be desired, but you’d like to think you understand one another—in fact, you probably understand the kid more than you understand his dad.

You’ve grown close with him, you’ll be the first to admit it. You’re attached to each other. The little one has been your constant companion for these months and in some ways, you suppose he takes care of you just the same as you take care of him. The chamber of space can be lonely; it’s cold and unkindly reflective, stranding you to the echoed chain of your thoughts—but when he tugs at your hair or slobbers spittle down the front of him or crawls up into your lap to nestle into your tunic, it feels like you belong there—there on the Crest, streaming through the galaxy.

And maybe, simply, it feels good to do right by a child—as if you could make up for it somehow, within yourself. To do better than you were given.

Squinting, you raise your wrist to check the coordinates on your comm and shade a hand over the screen, blocking the glare cast onto the display. “Almost there,” you mumble, resuming your stride as you begin the last leg of the trek to the settlement you and Mando discussed that morning.

“What?” he asked, planted some paces away from you.

You hummed a curious note, glancing to him.

“What is it?”

You were trying to be small all morning—shrunken and shy, avoiding the thought and avoiding him all together. You quieted yourself, as if to not take up space, but the attempt was fruitless; of course he picked up on it – you get good at reading people on the job, he’d said – and of course he called you out on your behavior. You took a big gulp of your caf, gaze flickering down—increasingly more and more invested in the scuffs marked into the table you sat at.

“Dala,” he said pointedly, arms folding over the breadth of his chest.

Shit. Who did you think you were fooling? Playing possum with a Mandalorian?

Worrying your lip, you stood. You couldn’t bear to look up at him, just looming there across the table from you, so you paced around the deck as you rambled. “Okay, so you know how I’m still connected to the RRM channels? Well, I’ve been checking the message boards and I—there’s a settlement here out in the Wastes. It’s small and new and they’re looking for volunteers and—”

You whistled in a breath. Fuck it.

“And I want to help.”

Like the toggle of a switch, you went from having a career—having a purpose—to having nothing. And all your gratitude for the transport he’s offering couldn’t fill that empty lull that’s settled inside you.

“Would you be comfortable with letting me take the kid? I know I’m probably asking a lot—and I will fully respect whatever you decide—but I can keep him by me the whole time, I swear, I just—” You shook your head, pinching your eyes shut before sighing, “I need to be doing something. Anything.”

There was a long pause. You scratched at the torn skin around your cuticle, nervously searching the pitch of his wordless visor. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even twitch.

“That’s fine,” he finally remarked, graveled.

You blinked, taken aback at his agreement, and all at once your fidgeting ceased and a bright grin broke out over your features in its place.

It nearly brought him to his knees.

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, bouncing on the balls of your feet and he nodded, a subtle tilt to his helm. “Maker, thank you,” you exclaimed, and without thinking you flew towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and sealing yourself to his armored frame. His arms escaped out from his chest in surprise, suspended and stiff, before falling measuredly to his sides. You could’ve been imagining it, but you swore you heard the distinct grit of his teeth grinding together under his helmet.

“Really Mando,” you beamed, pulling back to lay your eyes on him, to let him see the earnest there: you have no idea how much this means to me. “Thank you.”

You gave his shoulders a squeeze, thumbs brushing along the scratchy fabric of his cape before tearing yourself away. Swiping up your mug of caf, you wound down the corridor - airy, buoyant - back to your makeshift quarters to prepare for your outing. It took him another minute just to get his damn feet to move from the spot on the durasteel you welded him to.

Din told you to be safe.

You smiled, and promised you would.

You left the Crest before him and it was strange, surreal. For the first time, you stood in each other’s shoes, leaving Din there on his own while you set off into the world. He watched you go—you and his boy—watched you walk away into some great unknown without him.

And he didn’t like it.

He soured, somewhere in the deep of him—within that pit he called a gut, he twisted sick.

Your feet hit the ramp, dull and tinny, and it sounded like goodbye—it sounded like you leaving. It’s what it will look like when time and fate touch, and inevitability catches up with him. It’s what it will look like when he takes you home. You’ll walk out of his life, down that same ramp, and your steps will echo those same beats. You won’t look back.

And Din, with all his strength, all his unshakeable resolve—Din will let you go.

///

The encampment is settled into the shadow of a cliffside, seeking respite there from the blazing suns, the taupe of the canvas shanties camouflaging into the arid landscape. Some crawl their gaze up as you enter the village, and you offer them smiles they do not return. Others do not acknowledge your presence at all— unstirred as your footsteps sound past, their heads bound heavy towards the earth. It’s not long before a decisive voice cuts through the hush that’s claimed the settlement.

“Are you with the RRM?”

You turn and are greeted by a woman ducking out of a tent—the grey of her woven tunic browned with sand, heat collecting in her black, coiled hair.

“Yes, I’m with the Movement.” It’s not a total lie. Sure, you’re on leave, but that doesn’t discount you completely. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

With a sharp exhale like a prayer of relief, she makes her way towards you. “Where’s the rest of your division?” Her eyes narrow discerningly, flitting behind you as if expecting to spot the rear of your party trickling in.

“It’s, uh—it’s just me,” you confess, pressing your lips together in a thin smile.

She rakes a hand over her hair, over her face. The skin around her knuckles is split, the beds of her nails chalked with days of unwashed grime. “Alright,” she concedes begrudgingly, without any better option presented. “And who is this?” She nods to the child, emerging from the pack and staring curiously at her.

“This is—” You take a moment to consider it—consider the secrecy around the child, the bounties, the life on the lam. Less is more, you decide. Again, it’s not a total lie. “I’m babysitting.”

The kid grunts an emphatic patu.

You both share a look—a quirk of her dark brow, an apologetic heft of your shoulder—and she sighs. “Well, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she quips dryly with a wave of her hand, leading you into the settlement.

///

She’s coarse, this woman—Arlaani, she told you—matronly and effective. She has a calculating gaze and powerful shoulders that she holds steady as she shows you through the camp. There are lines around her eyes, carved into the curves of her mouth. She knows what you know—what all women learn: sometimes you must be hard in order to keep others soft.

You walk shoulder to shoulder, matching her long strides with your own.

“The Black Sun has taken the southern hemisphere; their numbers have only grown since the Battle of Yavin. Pirates, mercenaries, spice runners—they’ve ransacked one half of the planet and have the officials of the other half in their pocket,” she scowls. “They have stolen our land, our homes—we’re moisture farmers, mechanics, mothers and fathers. We are simple people and we have been forgotten by our government—by those who vowed to represent us, protect us.” Arlaani draws in a long breath. “We’re on our own out here in the Wastes.”

You survey the area; the lifeless ocean of rock and sand, the few scattered trees that have died on their feet—roots withering bone dry in the suns. “Why settle here if it’s so uninhabitable?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Because, it’s uninhabitable,” Arlaani explains. “No one robs a beggar. There is nothing in the Wastes the Black Sun wants.”

There are no buildings, no structures; the whole area is undeveloped and raw. Tents are dotted sporadically in clusters, crates of supplies and water canteens stationed every other one. Children dawdle idly, tired and overheated, leaning against boxes and posts—their bellies distended and skin parched taut. Flies land on their shins, on their cheeks. They do not go to shoo them away.

“The Movement supplied those for us when we landed,” she comments, nodding to the crates. “That was two months ago.”

“No one has come back to check on you since?” you ask, brows notching together.

She shakes her head solemnly, jaw set rigid. “Our little ones go hungry, our elders are sick with red fever. We will run out of water before the week is through,” Arlaani says before she turns to you, holding your gaze—the seriousness evident in the stone of her eyes. “I thank the gods you are here.” She presses a palm to your shoulder. You feel the weight of it, the weight of her—of the lives she carries on her back.

“I thank the gods.”

///

You stop by each tent delivering what little food and medicine you brought with you from the Crest, and after each encounter—the people so grateful, so weary—your mind strays further and further to Mando.

Din, you scold yourself. Not Mando, Din. Din Djarin.

You still can’t bring yourself to say it.

He spent that whole fateful day nearly two weeks ago bristling at the very sight of you, going out of his way to limp to the other side of the ship just to ignore you better, only to do you in for one final head spin and give you his name.

Two weeks, and you still haven’t said it. There’s no other excuse: plainly - pitifully - you’re scared. You’re scared he regrets it.

Because how horrible of a truth would it be? To be offered something out of carelessness or guilt; to be the product of pity, or even worse, a mistake that cannot be unmade, cannot be rectified. He can’t take his name back, can’t unspeak it any more than you can unhear it, and this fear, picking at you like an old scab—it’s so painfully human, so terribly universal:

what if I’m not worth it?

And isn’t it easier to neglect the answer, then it is to ask the question.

So you’ve buried his name for both of your sakes, keeping it somewhere secret and private, there to garner dust in the quiet of your mind.

You’re brushing through the draped entrance of a tent when you spot him: a small boy hiding behind a supply crate, the top of his dusted head poking out over the ledge. You catch him peering at you, and he ducks down shyly. A honeyed grin blooms across your face.

“I think we’re being watched Munch,” you coo. The little ball of robes blinks up at you from your arms, earning his nickname tenfold as he crams his mouth with a flakey cracker. “You want to say hi?” He hums in response and you crouch, letting him wiggle free from you to toddle over to the other child. With small steps, he eventually makes it over to the other and immediately, without hesitation or provocation, extends one of his crackers to him.

Your heart swells until it bursts, proud and beautiful in your chest.

Munch leads him out from behind the box, the two boys shuffling slowly through the dirt back to you. He can’t quite meet your eyes—his gaze lands somewhere around your chin, your collarbone, and you fold forward, bent at the knees to meet his height.

“Do you have a name, sweetheart?” you ask kindly.

He nods, nibbling quietly on the cracker, and you breathe out a chuckle. “Not much of a talker, huh? I can respect that,” you say, eyes crinkling fondly with a smile. “Well if you want to tell me, you can—or not. That’s okay, too.”

He nods again, and you fish out more salty treats from the sleeve in your pack, gently handing them to the other—a gesture he nervously accepts, dirty fingers trembling as he plucks them from your open palm. This boy is precious—sweet faced and cherubic, he must not be a cycle over the age of seven.

And the realization comes so suddenly that it blindsides you—struck by it, there between your lungs: Din was his age when it happened—when life happened to him. When this could have happened to him.

You can’t help but think of it—think of him and everything he told you that night he came bleeding through the Razor Crest. You can’t stop imagining him; Din as a little boy tucked away, his people—his parents—decimated overhead. He is a Mandalorian by proxy. Displaced from his home, from his past, saved by a sect with an affinity for orphans—to protect those who cannot protect themselves. The irony of it all is not lost on you:

Din is a refugee too.

You see him in this boy, and in all the faces here—in every set of eyes, young and old alike. Each are individual - idiosyncratic - but they each wear the same qualifiers. The same exhaustion. They each fight the same tired battle, leaving them with identical sets of marks.

Does Din? If you were to see him, truly see him, would you find them there? You’ve seen the scars he’s earned from being a Mandalorian.

You wonder if he has any from simply being a man.

Pushing yourself to stand upright, you cradle Munch back into your chest, his teensy claws riddling your shirt, and offer the boy your hand—outstretched in front of you.

He’s cautious. Too cautious for a boy so young, for a child who should know nothing but abundant love and fearless imagination. He shouldn’t have had to learn this lesson: that some hands should not be taken, that some people should not be trusted. He studies you, hesitant but hopeful, and you smile softly—cycles of hard-won patience and empathy curving the corners of your lips.

He lays his small hand in your own. You walk on together.

///

The day blows by like hot desert wind, chafing at your skin. Minutes have ripened to hours—morning has crawled to midday.

The three of you finish your rounds— distributing rations throughout the camp, pitching tents, taking stock of the dwindling supplies for you to relay to the Movement once you return to the Crest and have access to your holopad.

It’s then that you notice Arlaani again. She’s speaking in hushed tones with another man, the both of them hunched over a large carton. You see the concern ticked clearly along the man’s jaw, the dread grooved into her brow, her crossed arms. With a frown, you plop the child down onto a nearby petrified log and the other boy joins, hopping up next to him, all too happy to get off his feet. You tell them not to wander off— a kiss to Munch’s forehead, a ruffle of the boy’s hair— before making your way to the couple.

“Hey,” you call, jogging over. “Is everything alright?”

Arlaani wheels around as you approach. It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen her, but somehow she looks older. Hollowed, drained— like there’s less and less in her. “It’s the water,” she grits out, “sand mites have gotten to the crates, to the canteens.” She tosses you one of the flasks. It’s littered with holes, porous and leaking— the remnants of water splashing out of the orifices bitten into the sides.

Arlaani dives through the crate, rifling through the supplies. She’s tense, upset, her voice is rife with it. “They’re all like this. Ruined, fucking—” She heaves out a hissed exhale and props herself up on the edge of the box, neck bowed between her shoulder blades. “This was the last of it, and now—now…”

The man tries his best - how do you comfort marble? - as he places an arm around her, his thumb drawing patterns there, reassuring and calm but she wants nothing of it; she gruffly shrugs it off as if stung, weaseling out of his hold. “I can’t— I need to think,” Arlaani bristles, as she paces away from the settlement, receding deeper into the Wastes.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters, “I have- I have to—” His eyes follow her shrinking form, worry apparent in the shape of them. It’s so obvious. He’s terrified of that woman—probably loves her, too.

“Go,” you say, and with a knowing expression, he turns and trots after her.

Heavy footed, heavy hearted, you trudge back to find the children exactly where you left them. Once there, you collapse to the hard ground, dust and dirt puffing up as you recline onto the log. Your palms run over the earth—scooping up sand and rock and letting it slip through the cracks of your fingers, gaze trained out onto the encampment—the people milling about, the miasma of helplessness stifling the air.

This isn’t enough. You’re not doing enough— these impermanent little nothings, your measly good deeds. It’s not going to matter. They’ll be bones by the time the next wave of volunteers rolls through. They’ll be grain.

You need to do something that lasts, that outlives you when you leave.

You glance over to the kid and his new friend, their little legs swinging off the edge of the trunk, heels thumping against the old wood. They look to you, two pairs of big eyes—crackers in their tiny fists.

“You boys ever dig a well?”

///|||///

The suns roast into his beskar, blistering him from the inside out.

The day has been long and it’s only half over. It took him longer than it should have to gather himself— his fob, his rifle, his fucking head—and depart the Crest. Longer than it should have to hunt the bounty here—some marauder scum who’s number is up and luck has run out. Longer than it should have to set up his sniper’s nest, sculpted into the mountainside.

Din is distracted, has been all day— has been since you left.

He can’t stop feeling you. Your warmth pushing against his chest, your arms looping around his neck, the heat of your palms searing through his flight suit. Din can smell you on him still— like citrus and moss, you cling to his cowl from where you buried your head.

It’s intolerable. It feels like an infection with how it’s been building, how this has spread— slowly but surely rearing to an unignorable head. Serpentine and insidious as it crept through him, this growing affliction— this morbid curiosity that spoiled like rotting stonefruit into infatuation— slipping along his bones and organs, blemishing Din in faint little licks— imperceptible to the naked eye but there all the same.

How did this happen? How did he become this?

You’ve been more relaxed now, bolder in some ways. Transparent. Sometimes, you’ll touch his arm as you walk by him or sweep your hair from your neck when you sit by his side in the cockpit, star shine on your jaw. You’re quick with a laugh, lips pulling back into a pretty grin. He’s even caught you staring at him, there out of the corner of his eye—from where he steals those same glances under the safety of his helm.

He spied you once, just a glimpse of your backside, padding quietly away from the shower with only your underwear on, drops of water tracking down your spine. It was brief, you were fast—you must have forgotten your shirt in your bunk—but he had to lock himself in his quarters and fuck his hand before he could even think about piloting the Crest into the stratosphere.

Din is a lot of things, but he isn’t daft. A part of him knows. A part of him is aware that you are two very human people with very human needs—and that you’ve been ignoring these primal aches with premeditated dereliction for months now.

And you can only dance around each other so long before one of you snaps.

And Maker, he’s so desperate to be rid of you—to get you out of his fucking system; to let him sleep without dreaming of you, to let him wake without plunging into his briefs and jerking himself off. You are everywhere. In his ship, in his galley, in his thoughts. He has no privacy, he has no sanctity— he has no idea how you have managed to worm yourself so deep into every living part of him. Others have tried and they have failed, and you— you did it in your sleep. From that very first fucking night, curled up in his chair, gore and ash stained tunic rising with your slumbered breathing. You snored.

You fucking snored.

And now you’re killing him— just as the suns above, you are blistering him from the inside out.

His level-headedness has all but evaporated. He’s peeved. Not only is Din distracted, but he's angry— has been since he plodded up this damn hill, waiting for his quarry to pass through the ravine between the valley of mountains—because instead of performing his job, he’s consumed with you. All of you.

He kneels, flattening himself against the rocky sand— your hands, so small and soft against him— and unclips the rifle from the strap on his back—how good you’d feel on his skin—he aligns his sights— the weight of your breasts in his palms—

His helmeted head clunks to the ground and he loses his aim, a frustrated growl emanating out from him. Focus, Mando. Fucking focus.

Din reorients his crosshair, training it on the gang of pirates in the gorge below. They lean haphazardly over their speeders, their cargo nets packed full with different wares and spices, jeering loudly and chugging from the jugs of spotchka they undoubtedly looted earlier that afternoon. He inspects the rabble, searching for his target and—those pretty lips that smile so easy for him, stretched around his length.

Fuck. He pinches his eyes shut.

You whispering husky into his ear as you ride him, you bent over the pilot’s chair begging for his cock, you sprawled out over the deck while he laps at your sweet cunt.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck— he can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this. You’re everywhere everywhere everywhere— you buffer his vision, his senses, his sight. He’s blinded with you. You’re blinding him.

With an infuriated heave he shoves himself off the ridge of the dune, bounty-less, and reverses his course back to the Crest—heart beating furious and bloody against his ribs.

///

The settlers surround the trench, peering down at you as you work. Hours ago, when you originally proposed this idea to Arlaani, they insisted on helping— to which of course, you insisted they didn’t. And so they watch— the refugees, Din’s foundling, the nameless boy— mangling their hands restlessly, animated with an inkling of that all too lethal substance long sought after by those of all species and creeds: hope.

You sink the shovel into the dry earth and your muscles burn with the effort—the skin on your palms stings from the rough grate of the wooden dowel and the yawn of your back strains as you pitch forward.

You’ve missed this.

You’ve been so distracted. You’ve grown comfortable in your routines, you’ve let yourself go listless—living in blissful ignorance—all because of a metal man in his metal ship with the most impossible and darling child you’ve ever known. All because your body reacts at the very sight of him, all because your belly flips when he speaks, that modulated purr rumbling loose from his beskar, all because, because—

You like him.

You wish you didn’t—you hardly know why you do—but you’ve soaked your fingers enough times in your rack to realize that this thing residing within you burns.

You can’t even see his face, and you don’t have to. His presence alone— that raw, vacuous energy that surges from him—it’s addicting. It's engulfing. It makes you whimper into the night, massaging your pearled clit as your other hand muffles your moans and you come over and over and over again, chasing after the fantasy you so dangerously harbor for this man. The man who’s piloting you back to Coruscant—the man who sleeps just down the hall.

But that isn’t real. That’s not real life— that’s not your life. This is real—the fuchsia of the setting suns blazing through the horizon, the sweat on your brow. You’ve missed this— Maker, you need this. Working with your hands, making an impact. You’re wanted here and kriff, does that not feel so unabashedly right. To be wanted. To be important.

Your back groans, the sinew woven over your spine aching in protest and you know, without a doubt, you’ll feel this for the next week. Half of you dreads it—being cooped up and sore, lactic acid compacting your joints— while the other excites at the prospect; the memory of a good deed lasting long after it’s finished. That reminder always there, always present: see, there’s still hope in the galaxy. We can still do good. There’s goodness where you look for it.

You fling dirt over your shoulder as you burrow lower and lower. With each shove, the soil changes hue, changes density—the striations darker, more definitive. It’s less dry now, thicker too—turning from sand to clay the deeper you dig. Again, you drive the spade into the sod with a taxed grunt, when you hear a distinct, wet squish.

You pause, stilling your shovel in the dirt. Everything - everyone - freezes.

Adrenaline thrums through you as you drop to your knees, using your hands to brush away loose silt piled atop the loamy floor, excavating what lies beneath.

Prayers and hollers erupt above you and you lurch your focus up to the sound, a feverish grin plastered to your face. The little boy jostles the child excitedly, and his green talons rumple the other’s tattered tunic. Your head falls back, cushioned by the dirt wall and you laugh - gargled, relieved - as water begins to seep through the tired ground.

Bubbling up, bubbling up—unearthing.

///

The promise of ridding yourself of your soiled clothes was the singular thought that fueled your trek back to the Crest. Every inch of you was filthy, caked in dried mud and gritty sand and you wanted nothing more than to strip from those dirty layers and melt into your bedroll. The kid, that lucky little bugger, had passed right out; sun drunk from his long day, he’d slept the entirety of the return trip—stirring only once when you placed him in the hover pram and sealed it shut.

Your bones are worn. Your tissue, your tendons— every little scrap that keeps you stitched together craves sleep. You reckon you should feel miserable, what with the tell-tale stiffness already burdening your spine and the fresh callus from the shovel’s handle reddening your palm.

But you’re not miserable, not even close. No, you’re happy—you’re glowing; fulfilled and serene, humming as you wash your pants in the basin, kneading at the sopping fabric. You wring out the article, shaking free the excess droplets before draping it on a metal rung overhead. You peel off your shirt and bra band next, leaving you only in your underwear as you plop them into the bowl and begin to scrub at the stains, concentrating on a particularly dirty patch at the sleeve.

The grating mechanics of the Crest’s great jaw unhinging sends your stomach bounding frantic to your lungs.

Kriff—shit shit shit, he’s back early.

Clutching onto your modesty, you cover your breasts and scramble to your quarters, quickly shimming a loose tunic over your head. Its hem barely covers the curve of your ass and you tug long at the cloth before peeking cautiously from the doorway and tiptoeing out of your room.

“Hey,” you warble, rounding a corner as solid feet pound up the ramp—you can feel their reverberations in the floor under your own. You pad into the galley, pulling at your shirt as you go, to tidy up the washing you left unattended. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so—”

You falter.

He’s there at the mouth of the ship, the ramp drawing slowly up behind him and he’s fuming; you can practically see the steam lifting from his armor and his breathing is labored—chest rising, plummeting violently. You both stand immobilized on opposite sides of the hull—you, bare-legged and exposed and Din, all but anonymous under the steeled fury of his armor. Finally, the sound dampens, ship shuddering as she seals shut—sealing you in—and the leather of his fist creaks in the silence hanging dense like smoke around you.

“Mando...?”

He doesn’t grace you with a response. Instead he begins to stalk forward, stripping weapon after weapon from himself with every thundering step—rifle, blaster, vibroblade—he sloughs it all, metal clanging against metal as they clatter to the deck.

“Hey, what’s wrong-”

He’s not stopping. Fuck, he’s getting closer and closer and instinctually you back up—staggering until you’re pressed against the bulkhead—his broad frame crowding you until all you see is the silver polish of his beskar. You jolt when his hands fly up and slam into the wall behind you, framing either side of your head, fencing you between his forearms. Your lips part, wide-eyed and confused, and you gulp around the nervous lump threatening your voice.

“Do you have any idea,” he seethes, “what you do to me?”

“W-What-” Your stammering is cut short as he slots his thigh between your legs and you have to tilt your chin to meet his visor, a gasp finding itself on your tongue.

“Strutting around my ship, putting your hands on me, that kriffing smile…” Din ruts his knee into your heat, and you’re practically hoisted onto your toes. Your core pulses against the blunt pressure, blood racing to the throb at your center.

Maker, you could fucking faint.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this—about you?” His voice is tar black—smooth like obsidian—and you succumb to it. You can’t speak; any and all language evaporating from the forefront of your mind, because he’s everywhere. He’s inescapable and smothering and his scent floods over you, intoxicatingly wild—like iron and sand and something dangerous. Something heady, carnal.

“Is this what you want?” he hisses.

You’ve gone dumb. You’ve imagined this, you’ve dreamt of this, but now it’s actually happening—here, in the flesh, it’s finally happening and you’re trembling with the reality of it. All you can muster is a shaky nod, tongue darting out over your lip.

“Tell me,” he orders, scanning your face behind the guise of his helm. You feel his gaze rove over your eyes, your cheek—fanning across your lips.

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper, “yes I want this.“

It’s all it takes.

Din is rougher than he means to be. He wears this as he wears his armor, plating the soft parts of himself he doesn’t want anyone touching. He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know how to be anyone else but this.

He grabs a handful of your waist, rooting you still as he rolls his thigh against you. You inhale an airy noise, grappling onto his other arm stationed by your head and you bite your lip, sucking it into your mouth. Your cunt spasms for him as he presses up into your mound, fightless against the groan that seeps through you.

“You like that?” he pants. ”You like fucking my thigh?”

Din manhandles your hips, his hold on you vicious as he rocks you back and forth on his plated leg, your clit catching on the cold edge of his thigh guard with each motion. It sends hot sparks down your spine and you trap a moan behind your teeth, letting the sound rumble there before you swallow it. His hand weaves up from your waist, the drag of his glove setting fire to your skin as he passes over the swell of your clothed breast, and you arch into his palm as he swipes a thumb over a nipple. “You want more?”

He splays his large hand, groping at your plump flesh, and pinches your nipple hard until it pebbles through your shirt. With each sharp twist, his intention becomes clearer: it won’t be enough to skate by on moans alone.

“I asked you a question.”

Din slides his other hand to the small of your back, drawing you flush to his front, and you can feel him— the outline of his firm length twitching under his flight suit against your hip. He cranes over you, intimidating and menacing and achingly devious. The panel of his visor has never looked darker.

“Use your words, dala,” he husks.

You should be embarrassed by this—by your need made evident through the soaked lining of your underwear—but you aren’t. The heat that stipples your cheeks isn’t born from shame, it’s sprung from lust—pure and primal—and you can’t afford to give it any further consideration because all there is is this man wrenching sounds from you like an animal— and he’s scarcely even touched you yet.

“Your fingers,” you whimper, “I want your hands."

He learned this lesson within those first weeks—relearns it every fucking day. You could ask him for anything - everything - and he would oblige.

He can’t say no to you.

He shifts out from between you, hooking into the elastic of your panties and tears them down your thighs to rest just above your knees, the spread of your legs keeping them from dropping to your ankles.

Patiently - tortuously - he scrapes up your legs, leaving embers in his wake as he trails higher higher higher to where you need him most. You’re shivering—nerve endings fried and frayed—and every atom inside you hums with anticipation, with unbridled impulse.

The orange tips of his gloves dimple your inner thighs - squeezing, massaging - before he tilts his helmet, angling himself to see you better, and paws your swollen lips apart.

Your pussy is drooling for him.

He moans something indecipherable— a curse in Mando’a—at the sight of you glistening for him under the dimmed lights like this, and immediately you buck your pelvis to him, hungry for his touch—and the pathetic noises babbling out of you prove too much for him to bear.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, ripping a glove off and tossing it aside, “I need to feel you.”

Your eyes have dilated with want, blackened as you watch Din retrace his bare hand—that gorgeous thing you’ve never seen, only ever fantasized about—back to your heat and slowly - so fucking slowly - pass a finger through your slit.

You throw your head back, knocking against the durasteel. The mewl that escapes you is inhuman.

He’s so warm. His tan skin is molten—it’s like he brought the sun in with him, as if he’s burning that star straight into your sex. You’re slippery with arousal; you can feel how glossed you are, you don’t have to look. You can hear it—hear the obscene squelches he’s stroking from your seam.

“Maker, you’re - shit - you’re wet,” he groans loudly, reveling in the way you pitch your hips—seeking his warmth, his friction. He’s been toying with you, drawing patterns along your pussy and playing with your puffy folds, but he hasn’t even come close to your clit. You know it’s no accident. Din is methodical in all things, he doesn’t make mistakes. This is a decision—it’s intentional. You think, perhaps, he’s looking to break you—some sort of retribution for these months you’ve spent swimming in circles around each other—and you think, perhaps, you’d let him.

That you’d like it.

When Din grants you mercy, finally gliding his index along your neglected bundle of nerves, reflexively you fist into his cowl, knuckles going pale.

“Stars-” you exclaim—just like that.

He handles your body like he does one of his pistols - practiced, unparalleled - encircling your clit with precision, his finger on your trigger—blinding, perfect agony swiveled into your sweet cleft.

When he pushes himself inside you, all the oxygen gets punched out of your lungs.

“Fuck, and so tight,” Din growls, bending at the knuckle to curl over that spongy spot of your walls that makes you gape, makes your brain go slack. Your arms scamper around his pauldrons, nails scraping sharp over beskar. The heel of his hand presses into your clit and you grind against him, each roll of your hips pleading a filthy please please please as you chase after the orgasm he’s baiting you with.

He responds to that, bourboned praise dripping smug from his smirk. “Fuck, look at you, so desperate—gonna cum for me already?”

You don’t have the wherewithal to formulate a response. He’s fit another finger into you, fucking up into you hard—fucking you exactly how you need him to. It feels like you are about to shatter right there on your feet. It’s almost unbearable, this mounting tension that’s climbing within you. You’ve been so starved for this, so deprived of a kind touch and a good fuck, and within no time at all he’s coaxing you to the ledge of your release.

“Mando,” you sob, entwining your fingers into his cape, grinding grinding grinding into his palm when suddenly, without warning, his ministrations cease—that burning coil abating to a simmer. You let out a rasped pant, collapsing forward onto his shoulder— your climax ripped away from you at the last, pivotal second.

Your eyes are screwed shut, you don’t see the movement—you can only feel it once it’s already there: the bounty hunter’s glove grating over your neck. You sputter out a gasp as he forces your jaw up to align with the chill of his visor, trapped in the unrelenting strength of his grasp. Your eyes clamber around the chrome boxing you in, gulping back the fear coalescing in your mouth.

“You say my name,” he gravels. “You say my name when I’m inside you.”

Your cunt spasms around the fingers still seated within you—aching for movement, aching to cum—and your lower lip quivers as he leers. “I gave it to you—say it,” he commands.

For a fleeting moment, in the remaining rational corner of your brain, it occurs to you that you’re terrified—that there may be no going back once you speak it. There’s no unmaking this choice. Like a door—a door that swings both ways—once it is cracked ajar, it cannot be closed again. Because you know yourself, you loathe to admit it, but you know his name will crumble you; that you will bend—that you will want to give and give and give to him— and still, despite, you lay onto the handle and fling that door wide open.

“Din.”

“Fuck,” he seethes. His reaction is visceral—the whole of him stiffens, leathered pads of his fingertips searing into your throat. “Again.”

“Din,” you whine as he rocks his fingers into your walls.

He moans, wanton and guttural, at the way his name tumbles from you like velvet. “Good girl—fuck, that’s good.”

He vanishes from your neck, bringing his hand down to cup his cock bulging painfully against the fabric there and your gaze snaps to it, saliva pooling in the well of your mouth. You slither your hand down his breast plate, over the paneling of his flight suit, trailing south until it lands on the hide of his glove. You stop, waiting there - breathless - until he nods curtly.

His hand falls away. You mold your palm to his length.

“Din,” you give freely, high-pitched and girly, and his cock brays under your hand. Fuck, he’s big—you can feel his mass through his pants and your pussy flutters around his fingers moving deliciously lazy inside you. Your eyes latch onto his, the brown of them hidden somewhere under the helm, and you can feel his own bore into you, weighing leaden there—

before you both simultaneously rupture.

Din’s fingers slip out of you to fiddle with the hem of his pants, unbuttoning in a clumsy flourish until he springs free with a groan of relief.

Maker.

He’s fucking divine—long and veined, with a patch of dark curls padding around the base of him. Din weeps for you already, frustrated and pent up from the confines of his restraints, beads of arousal dappling his head. He hisses as you swipe a digit over his cock, smearing his precum down the silken slope of him. You’re transfixed—the both of you staring as you wrap your hand around his shaft and he shudders, keening in to your touch.

“Mm, fuck you’re soft- kriff-”

Din dwarfs you—you barely fit around his girth—and he can’t help but buck into your palm as you begin to move in tandem. Din flicks at your clit, mirroring your pace as you get each other off. It’s awkward and lewd and perfect—both of you, a tapestry of woven limbs and sweat and you pump him harder and harder, choking his cock with your fist. You fuck him raw, the dry drag of your satin hand ripping curses from his mouth.

“Fuck, dala,” he pants, “I-I’m not—” I’m not gonna last. His words are snuffed out as you circle your wrist and brush a thumb over his leaking tip, forcing him to shiver. He doesn’t have to finish his thought, you understand plenty well. You’re dancing along that same precipice, flirting with the fall.

“Stars, yes,” you plead. Fuck, you want him to cum— you need him to. You need to make him feel good, to let him know that you’re here - you’re right here - and that he means more to you than you care to admit; that you want him—have since you first laid eyes on him, since he rescued you, since he took you back to the Crest and gave you the last of his bacta to heal all your splintered bits. That he deserves this—with all that he’s done for you, all that he’s doing for you—

with all that he his.

“Din—please.” Fuck, you don’t even know what you’re asking for—more of him, all of him—and a groan tears through his modulator at the sound of you begging his name—like he’s wounded, like it pains him to hear you say it.

It’s a race now—the two of you hurdling headlong towards this terrible, messy collision. You’re both sloppy—wet sounds and slaps of skin—as you stumble closer to the brink of release. He’s been rendered incoherent, chiseled down to the basest of grunts and broken words you don’t recognize. His thumb finds a devastating pressure on your swollen nub and your legs begin to vibrate, nearly unable to stand on your own two feet with how fucking perfectly he’s working your pussy.

This thing inside you feels giant - monstrous - and that slow wave that’s been building and building and cresting is here, upon you. You’re trapped in the barrel of it, and it’s going to crash at any moment and sweep you out to sea. Drown you—happily, gladly. “I’m - oh fuck—"

“That’s it, good girl,” he praises, tightening his circles on your clit. “Cum for me, cum on my hand-”

A crack of lightening streaks up your middle, the whole of you shaking as your orgasm rushes through, a sputtering cry let loose into the ship. You feel yourself gush, dripping past his thickness stuffing you full, dripping down your inner thighs. Din pulls out from you and you whimper at the loss—his absence leaving you gaping, leaving you bereft. You’re siphoning down air, dizzy from your release, when he raises his hand, glistening with your fluids, and traces your bottom lip—asking for entrance.

Fuck.

You part for him, eager and pliant, and he snakes two fingers inside—tasting your own tang and the leather residue left there, stamped into the whirls of his fingerprints. Your tongue swirls around them, laving him clean, and you drag over the ridges of his shaft— still hard and throbbing and waiting in your grasp. He bobs his fingers in your mouth, matching you thrust for thrust, and you let out a depraved little moan, humming around him, and all Din can do is watch.

Watch as he disappears between your lips—his skin pulling and catching on your plush flesh— watch as you suck on them, watch as he practically fucks your throat. And Maker, you take him so fucking well, letting him do what he pleases with your all too supple body.

He can’t even begin to imagine what his cock would look like—what it would feel like nestled in the hot cavern of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks to suck him like hard candy. Din doesn’t let himself—can’t. If he did, fuck, that’d be it. He’d be done for. He knows he’d cum in a flash and he wants to make this last—to hold on to this - onto you - for as long as he can, allow himself this singular concession. The only time, he convinces himself, the last time.

He won’t think about you again.

You quicken your rhythm and Din bucks wildly into your palm, his seizing and twitching alerting you to how close he is. He slides from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing along after as he clasps onto the back of your neck.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m—” Din knots into your hair, gripping you rough, panting frantic. “Fuck. Fuck, dala— cyare-”

With a hoarse shout, he slams his gloved fist into the durasteel and spills over himself in hot, thick pumps, spurts shooting out to splatter on your tunic, on his flight suit, on your knuckles. You ease him through it, his cum glazing down his cock before you slow to a languid stroke, his seed sticky under your palm. You’re panting, the both of you, spent noises reverberating ugly and loud against the metal sidings.

Din sinks his helmet to your forehead while you catch your breath, his cold beskar kissing your flushed skin—the density of it comforting, grounding. Your eyes teeter shut and you let yourself lean into him, a dazed grin tugging at your wet lips. This is— nice; so much gentler than the pace he drove not minutes before. Head to head, his hand buried in your hair, your arm slung over his hulking shoulders; your fingers thread into the askew fabric behind his neck to discover a sliver of skin treasured away underneath. You trace there - lightly, whispered - earning a fizzle of static sent whirring through his vocoder.

“Fuck,” Din mumbles, before unweaving himself and separating from you. Your legs have gone useless and rubbery—you almost face plant forward without him there— and by the time you blink open, he’s already tucked himself into his pants and picked up his glove, slotting it over those skilled fingers that had just filled you to the brim. He turns back round to find you staring at him through the haze of your afterglow, eyes glassy and fucked out; your fluids dribbling down towards your underwear still bunched above your knees, hair tangled with sweat and saliva and cum—his and yours.

You look wrecked—disheveled. You’re so fucking pretty it makes Din want to scream.

He picks up a stray rag from a crate and offers it to you, before silently sliding your panties back up to your hips in one dexterous swipe. He lingers there but for a moment, savoring the touch of you—grazing a digit into the crease of your hip. You’re rendered mute— your brain can hardly string a sentence together— but finally you manage, your voice weak when you find it again.

“Thank you,” you croak, wiping away the traces of him off your knuckles, and you smile coquettish, delirious. “That was… that was, uhm—I really enjoyed that.”

A quiet beat slogs by.

And then, everything shifts.

Din’s hand descends from your waist, holstering it to his side, and he moves away. He moves away from you.

You can feel it immediately—like a gust of chilled wind, the change in the air nips at you. Din’s armor is anything but warm—his presence, his aura, anything but inviting—but now, he seems farther from you than ever before, his visor tempered and steely.

You know him. You know this man. You’ve travelled with him, you’ve mended his ills, you’ve taken care of his son, you’ve spoken his name, you’ve laid prints on his skin and deeper still—

And here, before you, Din is white noise. Indiscernible. Unreadable.

Nervously, you twiddle with the frayed edge of the stained cloth, worrying your cheek. You swear, just for a second, that you see him inch towards you— you think you sense him, some part of him, breaching the chasm that’s formed between you. But it’s only a trick of the lowlight—a trick of your cruel heart, winged and errant beneath your ribs, misconstruing your thoughts to fancy.

Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t come to you like you want. He doesn’t touch you again, he doesn’t hold you like you need.

It feels like you’re withering—your legs too bare, your tunic too short, hair too mussed, eyes too bleary—everything feels wrong now, misplaced. “Din,” you start, you try—you try to keep attached to this tether, to this thin strand you’ve sewn between your bodies, but he shrinks back. He severs it. He is as you first met him. Rigid. Distant. A Mandalorian bounty hunter— the best in the parsec. He is as he was months ago, when you were strangers.

When you were nothing.

“I—” He silences himself, teeth clenching shut around the unspoken sentiment you so long to hear, and instead takes another step backwards. Farther away. Farther from you.

He stands straighter, impossibly taller, and you feel

small.

“Goodnight,” Din gives, his voice shrouded and cloaked by his modulator. He pivots on his heel, retreating into the depths of the Crest and leaves you there, the ghost of his hands on your neck, on your breasts, in your heat— still tingling from where they haunt you. Exhausted, you thud back into the bulkhead, unfocused and unseeing.

“Goodnight Din,” you murmur, but it falls upon deaf ears. He’s gone, and the empty hull swallows your words—burying them.

taggies:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @djarinsbeskar @sammysdaisy @whataperfectwasteoftime @mandobloggin @silver-streaked-wings

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x fem!reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #star wars fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #king of cups #mandalorian smut

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petri808 · 3 years ago

Text

For my tumblr bestie @random-rave 🔥⭐️ a Nalu birthday gift of smut 🎁

Before opening her birthday present from Levy, Lucy read the attached card. She was quite curious about its contents ever since she’d been warned to open the gift at home and not at the guild where she’d received it.

‘Follow the instructions on the potion for a kinky fun surprise. I’ll tell you later how I found it. Have fun you two!’

Kinky surprise? Lucy’s brow raised. She opened the box next and pulled out a small green bottle filled with an unknown liquid.

‘Draconian elixir for mages only. Drink contents to transform into a faux dragon slayer. Heightens sense of smell, taste, and touch along with physical features. Magic possessed by the user may be intensified. Effects are temporary and will wear off in 12 hours.’

“Why would Levy think this is kinky?” Lucy wondered aloud until a recent conversation jogged her memory. Right... she’d mentioned the biting thing... Lucy laughed and tucked the bottle into her pocket. This will make for a very kinky surprise indeed! Natsu was due to arrive home the next day from a quick mission a couple towns over from Magnolia. So, that gave Lucy some time to prepare a delectable meal they’ll never forget. ‘Happy birthday to me!’

When Natsu arrived at Lucy’s apartment, he found a note on the dining table that simply read: Meet me at your cottage and tell Happy not to follow. Well, he knew what that meant, but why his cottage? He shrugged it off for the time being and informed the Exceed who had plans of his own anyway with Carla.

It was a curious thing to meet at his cottage now that they’d officially become a couple. He’d moved into her apartment while his home remained a storehouse for his collectibles and her growing book collection. Though the second part of Lucy’s message made more sense since the cottage provided a lot more privacy for their rambunctious encounters.

The closer he got, a brighter bounce in his step took hold as his imagination ran wild. Once they’d made the leap to a romantic relationship, it opened a whole new world to them. It’s true Lucy had to explain a few misunderstandings, like the where human babies actually come from thing, but what came surprisingly naturally was the sex. It was as if his dragon instincts were awakened, and primal urges became his teacher. They were both nervous in their first encounter, but once the pheromones had hit, it was all over.

Wait a minute! Natsu paused a few steps outside of his cottage and put his nose to the air. Lucy’s scent had changed somehow, stronger, headier, with a bit of dragon essence woven in. Was there someone else inside?! Another slayer?! His eyes shifted into a serpentine pupil and a growl escaped his lips as he raced to the door and threw it open. “Lucy, what’s go—!” Natsu stopped dead in his tracks.

“Welcome home, Natsu,” the blonde grinned, flashing the longer fangs the potion had given her.

The scent was coming from Lucy?! “Why do you smell like a slayer?!”

“Well,” she sauntered closer, “Levy found a temporary potion that gives me some slayer features for 12 hours and these,” she tapped a fang, “resulted from that.”

“Anything else?”

Lucy shrugged, “my senses are also heightened, but I’m mostly excited for the fangs because now I get to do some marking of my own.”

So, of all the things they’ve tried out, biting was a kink Lucy never realized she’d like receiving or Natsu in giving. When he bit her the very first time and broke through the skin, they were both washed over with a strange sensation akin to the connection she’d felt when she had written in the END book. But when she’d asked Levy if they’d had a similar experience, the answer was no. Lucy surmised she and Natsu’s bond was much deeper than they’d ever realized.

“Awww,” he pouted, though a smirk stilled curled at edge of his lips. “That’s my thing.”

“Pfft, well too bad.” Lucy grinned and ran a finger down his chest, then trailed it back to his neck. “I’m gonna make sure to put one right,” she presses on his nape, “here, so everyone will see it like you’ve done to me. Property of Lucy.”

“Mmm,” his own fang flashed, “that’s kinda turning me on.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why don’t you show me just how much?”

Natsu swept Lucy off her feet and walked to the back of the cottage where a bed was set up, placing her down while pulling at her clothes and coveting her lips. Hands were everywhere, both sets yanking and stripping away fabric to reveal the flesh beneath like a runaway train with no intention of stopping. Her excitement that afternoon was increased, be it the potion itself or the exhilaration it brought. Though his scent was something she’d come to love, it was toxic this time due to her heightened sense of smell. Oh, how the taste of his smoky saliva made her salivate and her fangs almost tingled! She moaned against their molded mouths in bursts, chasing his tongue with her own and mewling when he sucked the hot flesh.

Her passions and mixed scent served to fuel a new wave of lust in Natsu as well. He would have shredded Lucy’s clothes if he didn’t wanna hear the ending of it. His growls and grunts melded with her purring rumbles like two wild animals in ardent throes to rival a fight for dominance. Natsu wasn’t sure if it was the potions effects, but she was sure straining his muscles tonight to stay in control! He pinned her down momentarily. “I won’t let you win!”

Lucy cocked an eyebrow with a hedonistic grin, “challenge accepted.” Oh, she has no plans to physically dominate him tonight, her goals were simpler, to leave the first and last marks of the evening romps. Of course, Natsu didn’t need to know that. She wrapped her legs around his thick thighs and pulled his pelvis flush against hers, relishing in the heated length pressed against her core. “Now get on with it, dragon.”

“Tch,” he smiled back, “impatient, are we?”

“I feel him throbbing, so don’t act like you ain’t feeling it too.”

That was true. Natsu’s inner dragon wanted nothing more than to fill its mate up and re-stake its claim. If it had its way, Lucy would be spread multiple times every night until she fell asleep with him buried all snug inside. Their mating had truly released an inner beast in Natsu that only by willpower he could control... but not tonight with how fucking amazing she smelled. “Don’t blame me if you can’t walk tomorrow.”

She giggled, “I don’t have any other plans.”

“Well too bad.” Natsu moved in faster than Lucy could react and bit down on his mark. Despite gaining extra abilities, she didn’t have the same kind of control he did.

“Damn yo—” the words cut short from a burst of heat flooding her body and an overwhelming wave of lights dancing behind her eyelids. Heaven help her, the bonding effects were so much stronger! She couldn’t even think straight, just abject lust surging through her body. Lucy ground her hips desperately to rub herself against his cock, smearing the growing slick coating the area. “Burns…” she mewled, but in a delicious way. Things weren’t going to plan!

When he let go of the skin and kissed his way down her chest, Lucy took note that Natsu’s eyes were turning serpentine. The last time she’d seen this change was their first time. “Na…tsu…?” she moaned in a slow questioned tone repeatedly.

He stopped and looked up, unsure why Lucy was trying to get his attention. “Yeah?”

Tit for tat, Lucy caught him off guard and latched her mouth onto the junction of his neck and shoulder causing Natsu to cry out, a moaning growl as her fangs sank deep into the skin. “Fu—ck—” ‘Wow!’ His hips buck uncontrolled as her bite triggered a stronger reaction by his inner dragon. Without waiting for her to pull away, Natsu let his dragon take control and maneuvered his hips, pushing his cock in through her folds to the hilt. His eyes rolled back a second, relishing in her warm embrace. It felt so much better connected like this!

Lucy broke away and head craned back in a deep moan, but Natsu didn’t let up. Seated and grinding, he bit her a second time to ensure a longer euphoria, then coveted her lips, licking at the iron-taste coating them. Was it weird to taste his own blood? Somehow, it only added to the high. No thoughts, just carnal instincts taking control as he fucked her hard two ways. His pelvis pivoting slow, but rough, and his tongue stealing every moan leaching out from Lucy. He usually paid her other body parts some attention, but not this round— not when the only thing that could satiate his dragon was a good fucking.

“This is your fault…” Natsu growled heady and low as his lips teased along her jawline towards Lucy’s neck. He licked at the marks on her skin, already turning an angry red, rocking his hips so hard in an upward angle it lifted her clear from the bed, gaining a small yelp. “This is just round one.” He leaned in nibbling her ear as he spoke. “Don’t be surprised if you end up pregnant after this.”

“Worth… it,” she moaned in response. “But you know what?”

“What?”

Lucy opened her eyes to reveal they’d turned serpentine too. Semi-surprised, Natsu grinned at the change, but was caught off guard again when she suddenly grabbed him, wrapped her legs, and flipped them over in a power roll. His eyes flashed wide in a mix of shock and awe— Hell yeah! Now on top, Lucy locked her heels around his thighs to hold her position and bit down a second time. Natsu responded by grabbing hold of her pelvis. He wasn’t about to lose his stride! If she wanted to bite, let her, because he had something else to finish.

He continued pumping his hips from below, chasing his end. But the position hit upon Lucy’s buttons too, and the more he rocked, the harder it was for her to maintain control over her senses. Something feral inside broke free and she started biting sloppily along his neck and shoulders, wherever she could reach. Being on top was supposed to be a power move for Lucy, but the combination only fueled each other to drive harder and faster towards the inevitable conclusion.

Natsu grunted when he felt the squeeze against his shaft and Lucy’s body enter a spasmodic stiffening. Her moans and hyped-up pheromones made the area surrounding them thick, stifling like breathing in drug-laced air. That was it for him. He quickly rolled them back over and pounded fast and rough, timed with each milking pass until only a dry heave remained.

“Where’d Levy find this stuff again?” Natsu panted out as his body dropped onto Lucy’s in exhaustion.

Still trying to catch her breath too, Lucy giggled. “You like it, huh?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Natsu leaned down and kissed her with a gentle pressure. “Happy birthday baby.”

Lucy returned the kiss with a brightened smile. “Best birthday ever.”

“Oh, it ain’t over yet.”

“Rounds?”

Natsu flashed a cocky grin. “Round—s…”

#nalu #nalu smut #nalu fan fic #nalu fan fiction #lucy heartifilla #natsu dragneel #nalu smutfic.#birthday gift #fairytail

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cheri-translates · 3 years ago

Text

[CN] Summer Palace Tour with Gavin

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for content not yet released in EN 🍒

Summer Palace Tour Video: here

The weather in autumn is exceptionally clear and refreshing. Standing at the entrance of the Summer Palace, I look at the tickets in my hand with anticipation.

The documentary from my previous collaboration with the Forbidden City garnered positive feedback, and many viewers expressed that they had a better understanding of traditions and culture through the film.

As such, the company managed to clinch the rights to shoot a sequel. This time, the collaborative partner is another famous imperial palace...

The Summer Palace, also known as “The Royal Garden Museum”.

This is a rare opportunity. Before filming officially begins, I decided to visit the venue to take a look around. Of course, I’ve also invited him along.

My gaze flits past the bustling crowd. Just as I’m searching for that familiar figure, a voice rings out -

Gavin: It’s crowded here. Don’t stray off.

Gavin walks over to my side, taking my hand.

MC: I’m looking for the guide board. This place is really huge.

I blink at him, releasing a soft sigh of awe.

With a small smile, Gavin grips my hand lightly.

Gavin: It’s over there.

He brings me to the guide board. Giving it a sweeping glance, he turns to me with a relaxed smile.

Gavin: It says there are two entrances. Where do you want to go first?

MC: Let’s start from the north entrance.

LOCATION 1: Suzhou Street

Standing on the white marble stone bridge of Suzhou Street, I tiptoe, staring into the distance.

Beautiful shopfronts span as far as the eye can see, and tiny colourful flags outside the shops drift in the breeze.

MC: Wow, I can see the Yuquan Mountain and the Western Mountains from here!

I tilt my body to the side, pointing them out to Gavin. He glances in the direction of my finger, then nods.

Gavin: Mm, the view is pretty good. There are many shops as well. Why don’t we take a break here?

He asks relaxedly and contentedly, and it seems as though the beautiful scenery has melted into his eyes.

A wave of joy surges from my heart. Without realising it, I start to talk even more, pulling on Gavin’s arm as we walk down the bridge.

MC: Sure, let’s walk around!

There are many visitors in Suzhou Street. Row upon row of shops are arranged neatly.

MC: I heard that after Emperor Qianlong returned from an imperial tour in the Jiangnan region, he longed for the bustling view in Suzhou... For the 70th birthday of his mother, he built this street in order to bring the beautiful scenery of Jiangnan to the city of Beijing.

All of a sudden, I think about the “ideal home” that Gavin and I once talked about. My eyes crinkle upwards.

[Note] This is a reference to Hometown Date!

MC: Gavin, do you still remember the question about our “ideal home”?

Gavin pauses slightly, then nods.

Gavin: Why the sudden question?

MC: It just came to mind after looking at the scenery and greenery.

My gaze slowly sweeps across the view before me, and I express the thoughts in my heart.

MC: In the future, our home must definitely have a huge garden. I want to grow all sorts of trees and plants in the garden, and create a beautiful Jiangnan scenery.

Gavin can’t help but chuckle softly. He lifts his hand, scratching the tip of my nose affectionately.

Gavin: Sure, we’ll do it together.

He turns around. Standing in front of the railing, he blends into the pictureque scenery behind him.

A gentle breeze brushes the stray hairs on Gavin’s forehead, revealing a pair of crystal clear amber eyes.

Gavin: But the scenery isn’t important. The most important thing is that you and I are in that scenery.

LOCATION 2: The Marble Boat of Purity and Ease

MC: “The Marble Boat of Purity and Ease”... it’s a really beautiful name. But why was it given such a name?

Gavin follows my pace unhurriedly, walking towards the riverbank. We watch as sunlight descends on the boat, casting a dazzling halo over it.

Hearing what I said, he flips open the guide map and reads it aloud.

Gavin: “The Yellow River is clear and the sea is calm - the world is at peace throughout the years.”

Gavin: Its name originated from a wish for peace and prosperity.

MC: Peace and prosperity...

Gavin lets out a “mm”. Staring at the tranquil lake, his voice is calm.

Gavin: It’s a shame that things didn’t go as planned.

His words make me recall the past that I’d read from history books.

The land was left in tatters, and fresh blood spilled like wine. The rippling and surging lake of the Summer Palace couldn’t salvage everything that was burnt down.

We pass by white marble railings. They are pure white, and one can no longer see traces of a vastly different past.

MC: Back in school, I remember the solemn atmosphere in the classroom when we learnt about this moment in history... It’s as though everyone experienced it firsthand.

Muttering to myself, I find my mood dampening. However, Gavin suddenly speaks.

Gavin: I used to feel angry about it, but not anymore.

MC: Why not?

Gavin: Because I understand now that if you want to protect something you cherish, you have to keep getting stronger.

Gavin looks at me, his eyes filled with calmness and bright rays of light.

He doesn’t continue, simply hugging me from behind as we stare at the Marble Boat of Purity and Ease quietly.

Specks of radiance land on the boat. It’s as though this historical boat has been stranded in this moment, bringing with it the tranquility of consistency through the ages.

Looking at this peaceful scenery, I suddenly tilt my head upwards. Gavin lowers his eyes and meets my gaze, his eyes clear and bright.

MC: Gavin, in the past, I always thought that peace and prosperity was something ordinary. But afterwards, I slowly understood the weight behind them. It’s been difficult for you, Officer Gavin.

Gavin chuckles softly, encircling me even more tightly into his arms. His chin rubs the top of my head gently.

Gavin: I already have a reason to fight. So, it isn’t difficult at all.

LOCATION 3: Long Corridor

Even though it’s already autumn, the weather is still pretty hot. However, cool breezes weave through the Long Corridor, and they are incredibly soothing.

MC: No wonder the imperial household enjoyed coming here to avoid the heat... it’s much more cooling than other places!

I smile at Gavin. The moment I finish speaking, a visitor from the side suddenly bumps into me.

Before I can react, Gavin reaches out to pull me into his arms.

Without a word, he simply uses his body to shield me from the crowd behind. Then, he tilts his chin at me.

Gavin: What were you saying?

Sweeping a glance at the growing crowd, I find that the originally cooling Long Corridor is gradually becoming stuffy and hot. I shake my head.

MC: Nothing much. It’s just that this path is pretty long, and it’d be a while before we reach the end.

Gavin: Want to go somewhere else?

Meeting Gavin’s gaze, I shake my head. After fanning myself with a hand, I stand on my tiptoes to fan Gavin as well.

MC: Since we’re already here, we might as well finish the walk. Anyway, the scenery along the way is really pretty.

A faint breeze brushes stray hairs on his forehead. Gavin’s bright eyes notice my actions, and he smiles slightly.

Gavin: Sure.

Tugging on Gavin’s hand, we continue walking forward. Gavin doesn’t say anything, and it seems like he’s pondering on something.

After a moment, I feel a refreshing breeze drifting from our interlaced palms. It gradually encases my surroundings, lifting up a few locks of hair.

I immediately turn to Gavin. He blinks, his eyes innocent and bright.

Gavin: It’d no longer be hot like this.

A breeze brushes my sleeve, and I can vaguely hear someone exclaiming from the front.

Visitor: It’s so cooling all of a sudden!

I turn my head, watching as the person beside me stares out of the corridor as if nothing happened.

Gavin: The view’s pretty good here.

I can’t help but laugh quietly, pulling on his hand as we continue walking.

LOCATION 4: Hall of Peace and Longevity

MC: Gavin, look at that lady. The hanfu she’s wearing is so pretty!

I tug on Gavin’s sleeve, signalling for him to look.

MC: The design of that hanfu was likely inspired by items in the Hall of Peace and Longevity. There are images of phoenixes, Yulan magnolia flowers, and peonies woven on it. The workmanship seems so exquisite...

Gavin: Do you like it?

MC: Mm! It looks really pretty, and it’s an innovative blend of traditions and cultures! I just don’t know where I can buy... huh, Gavin, why did you take your phone out?

Gavin: I’m searching for the shop selling this outfit. Since you like it, get one.

MC: ...it won’t be too late to do that after returning home!

LOCATION 5: Garden of Virtue and Harmony

MC: Gavin, look! There are paintings of dragons on the ceiling of the Garden of Virtue and Harmony!

Walking past the inscribed board outside the Garden of Virtue and Harmony theatre, we arrive at the inner hall.

Arching my neck to stare at the paintings on the ceiling, I point them out to Gavin.

Gavin’s gaze follows the direction of my finger, and he nods slightly.

Gavin: It does look very nice, but that’s not all.

MC: Huh? Did I miss something?

Gavin suddenly lifts his hand, tilting my head gently and enabling me to see uneven ridges on the paintings.

Noticing the curiosity on my face, he smiles while explaining.

Gavin: That should be a movable board which allows actors to descend from the ceiling.

Astounded, my eyes widen as I turn to him.

MC: Wow, there were already elevators back then!

Gavin smiles in amusement at my exaggerated tone and expression. He nods.

Gavin: Mm, it’s pretty amazing. Aside from that, there are many other mechanisms here.

He casually points at the decorations on stage, and seems to find them interesting.

Gavin: In order to carry out a perfect performance, they spent a lot of effort on the decorations. The ingenuity of predecessors have remained till this day, and they are by no means inferior.

I nod in agreement. Something occurs to me, and I can’t help but laugh.

MC: Then again, Officer Gavin doesn’t need an elevator to descend from the sky!

The corners of Gavin’s lips curl upwards subconsciously. He seems to think of something, and coughs softly.

He looks around at the surroundings. When he’s certain that no one is watching us, he turns back to look at me, a somewhat resigned expression on his face.

Gavin: Not so loud.

Receiving Officer Gavin’s “instruction”, I give him a wink, doing a “zipping” motion over my lips.

Gavin glances at me, then suddenly lowers his head, chuckling softly into my ear.

Gavin: But it’s the truth.

LOCATION 6: Lotus Pavilion

MC: From here, we can see green pines and the palace on Longevity Hill!

I pull Gavin to the corner of a veranda.

MC: I originally thought the Hall of Jade Billows was just a tiny palace. Turns out it must be seen from this angle.

Gavin: Mm. Aside from Longevity Hill, we can also see the Jade Spring Hill. It looks just like a landscape painting stretched out in front of us.

MC: Looks like the person who wrote a couplet based on the Lotus Pavilion had the same thought as you.

I stare at the hanging couplet on the rear eaves of the Lotus Pavilion, smiling as I read it aloud.

MC: “The uneven pavilion is akin to a magnificent palace basking in the glow of sunset, and the scenery is reminiscent of a painting”.

Gavin studies the words on the couplet, then grips my hand.

Gavin: Let’s go and admire that “painting”.

LOCATION 7: Garden of Harmonious Pleasures

MC: I heard that the Garden of Harmonious Pleasures has a winding corridor comprising over a hundred sections that connect the entire garden into one structure. I couldn’t conceptualise this clearly through the guidebook. Now that I’m in it, I can experience the beauty of this classical architecture!

Walking through the corridor with Gavin, I click my tongue in amazement.

Gavin: Mm, it’s extraordinary. Based on the map, this corridor connects the north and south.

Gavin unfolds the map in his hands.

Gavin: Look at the markings. The mountain spring here is the source of the Kunming River.

Leaning into Gavin’s arms to look at the map, I nod along with his words.

MC: I see! No wonder I felt a certain aura of unity while walking.

Gavin chuckles, then keeps the map.

Gavin: “A winding path leads to quiet seclusion” - I guess this describes the view in the Garden of Harmonious Pleasures.

LOCATION 8: Hall of Benevolence and Longevity

Spotting a strange bronze creature in front of the Hall of Benevolence and Longevity, I walk over to it curiously.

MC: What’s this? It doesn’t resemble a lion or any other animal...

Gavin: It’s a Qilin.

Hearing Gavin’s words, I’m a little shocked as I examine this sculpted bronze creature before me -

It has the head of a dragon, deer antlers, and hooves. Its body is covered with scales, and it looks mighty and awe-inspiring.

MC: Is this the Qilin which treads on auspicious clouds and prevents disasters in the world? Why would there be a sculpted Qilin here?

Gavin: It’s probably because the Qilin is a legendary auspicious beast which prevents evildoing and wards off evil spirits.

Gavin responds calmly. Since this makes sense, I nod, flipping open the guidebook to learn more about this.

MC: “The sculpture of the auspicious beast Qilin was cast during the reign of Qianlong. It sits on a white marble base with lotus petals carved around it. There are seven pearls carved on the base. There’s a treasure carved between the two front limbs of the Qilin... it exudes a mighty aura, and greatly enhances the beauty of the Hall of Benevolence and Longevity.”

My head bobs from left to right as I read the introduction on the guidebook.

Finding this amusing, Gavin crosses his arms, looking at me with a smile.

Once I’m done reading it aloud, I take another look at the Qilin, scrutinising the sculpted scales on its arms.

Seeing that I’m entirely focused, he suddenly asks a question.

Gavin: Does it look that impressive?

I nod vigorously.

MC: It does! It’s incredible and even symbolises good luck. If possible, I’d want to meet a Qilin! That way, it can guarantee that everything I do will go smoothly, and that each day will be happy!

Gavin doesn’t say anything. He suddenly takes my hand, looking at the decorative patterns on the Qilin together with me.

After a moment, he pretends to be casual as he speaks.

Gavin: You probably won’t get to meet a Qilin.

Gavin: But I can make you happy every day.

LOCATION 9: Shop

Noticing that I’m deciding between postcards from across the display window, Gavin turns to me.

Gavin: Shall we make a postcard?

MC: Mm! Let’s pick a photo~

At this stage, you can customise your own R karma by selecting a pose and backdrop :>

[ LITTLE SNIPPETS ]

Gavin grabbed a stray kitten which attempted to carry a sandwich away in its mouth

We met a fortune teller, and he appeared to tell Gavin something secretively

A boy was trapped on top of a bronze cow, and Gavin carried him down

A little bird hovered over your heads. Perhaps tired from flying, it suddenly landed on Gavin’s shoulder and took a short break

At the city wall, Gavin carried you up to look at the distant scenery

When you’re tired from walking, Gavin immediately carried you to a wayside pavilion

While on a boat, there was a soothing breeze on the Kunming River. You leaned against Gavin’s shoulder and fell asleep

Passing by ginkgo trees along the west dyke, Gavin caught a few drifting ginkgo leaves and gave them to you

[ MOMENTS ]

MC: I saw quite a number of ladies taking pictures in ancient costumes. I regret not preparing an outfit...

Gavin: It’s okay, we can come again next time.

MC: The “Sacred Tree” is very beautiful this season. No wonder it’s a must-see.

Gavin: If you like it, we can stay here for a while longer.

MC: There are so many people. Should we come back again later?

Gavin: Sure. How about walking around the Garden of Virtue and Harmony first?

[ EVOLVED KARMA ]

Just as you said, there’s a different feeling when seeing the historical architecture of the Summer Palace up close.

I took many pictures today. There are photos of you, but there are even more photos of us.

When we head back, let’s look at them together.

- Gavin

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc gavin #I won't be doing translations for the other love interests!

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drcalmreid · 4 years ago

Text

books and braids - s.r.

pairing: fem reader x spencer reid

summary: angst/fluff — spencer asks you to braid his hair to relax after a rough week

content warning: brief mention of a male unsub and his victims! (tw: death, kidnapping, cutting hair, female victims)

word count: 1.7k

authors notes: I don’t even know what this is...I just couldn’t stop thinking about how cute Spence would look in braids, anyway enjoy xxx

gif credit: @zhuzhubii

YOUR POV

My thumbs run over the edges of my book as I flip the page, stretching out my legs across the length of the couch. I lift my eyes from the pages of The Alchemist and look at Spencer. He’s propped up against the armrest of the large leather chair he’s sat in, with his fingers scanning the pages and his left palm cupping his cheek. I close my book and toss it on the couch next to me, I slouch down on the couch and toss my braided hair over my shoulder. Pressing my cheek against the pillows and lose myself in looking at him. The soft glow of his reading lamp lights up his small apartment, bouncing off the endless bookshelves and olive green walls. The sun has set since we both started reading hours ago, just the two of us in his apartment enjoying one another's company after a rough case the day before. After being together for a while, I have been able to pick up on his cues when he’s hurt and wants his space versus when he’s hurting and needs comforting...but this time, I have no clue what he needs.

“In most cultures it’s considered impolite to stare,” Spencer says without breaking his gaze away from his book.

“Mmm,” I hum sitting up on the couch to look at him even more. “Actually, staring has been proven to be a sign of attraction in modern society.”

“Is that so?” Spencer chuckles and closes his book, placing it on the side table next to his chair. I nod at him and bring my legs up to my chest crossing them to sit cross-legged on the leather sofa. He stands from his chair and takes a few steps towards me, before kneeling in front of the couch. Spencer rests his arms on my lap and looks up at me, “hi,” he whispers after a while.

“Hi,” I reply back and take a free hand to run it through his curls. Spencer instinctively leans into my touch and his eyes flutter shut. My hands continue to run though his hair and I gently scratch his scalp. After a moment or two, Spencer opens his eyes again and crawls onto the couch, practically on top of me. I guess he needs comforting, I think to myself and I lay down on the couch and Spencer presses his chest against mine gently collapsing into me. He rests his head against my shoulder, his lips inches from my neck and I wrap my legs around his. He hums contently as his arms loop around my body, bringing us even closer than before. My left hand goes back to his head and runs my fingers through his hair, while my right traces patterns on his back.

“Spence,” I mumble quietly. He hums in response so I know he hasn’t fallen asleep and I continue, “are you okay? You didn’t talk much when you came home yesterday and we barely talked today, if you don’t want to that’s fine. I just-“ I sigh and raise my hand from his back and run careful fingers over his exposed cheek. “I just don’t want you to think you can’t talk to me.”

“I know,” he says, turning his face to rest his chin on my chest, his eyes opening slightly to peer up at me. He smiles gently before laying his head back down, “thank you...it isn’t that I don’t want to talk about it, I just can’t right now.”

“Oh,” I sigh and return his gentle smile. I look down at him fondly and continue to comb out his hair.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want you to overthink anything...it’s not your fault. I just can’t bring myself to discuss it yet...the case was really bad, (y/n).”

I nod and press a kiss to his forehead. His eyes close in response and he grins to himself. Spencer has never been one for attention or physical affection, but over time, somehow he’s grown to be the more clingy and physical one. He even surprised his team when he willingly kissed me in front of them, because he said I was “just different”.

“Can I ask you something?” Spencer says and draws me out from my own thoughts.

“Of course,” I smile.

“Can you,” he hesitates and turns his face away from my chest, leaning up on his elbows to look at me in the eyes. My hand drops from his hair and cups his cheek, he presses a kiss into my palm before finishing, “braid my hair? No—sorry that was stupid, I don’t know why I-“

“Spencer,” I cut into his flustered stuttering. “Do you want two braids or one?” His smile grows to an impossibly large size and his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

“Surprise me.”

—

“How did you learn how to do this?” Spencer asks looking at me through the reflection of the mirror. I’m sitting on the edge of his bed, Spencer between my legs, his back flushed up against the box spring.

“Braid hair?” I ask and he nods, “well, I always knew how to do basic braids because of my mom, but I taught myself how to French braid due to lots of YouTube videos.”

Spencer smiles at me through the mirror and his eyes fix on my fingers in his hair. Twisting the pieces over one another, slowly adding smaller sections I complete my small French braid at the top of Spencer’s hair. Two tightly woven braids lay on the top of his scalp, leaving his curls below loose and free in a half up-half down style. I pull out some pieces from the front of his braids to frame his face and I look fondly at him. He’s beautiful.

“You look so handsome Spence,” I smile and run my fingers up through the bottom of his unbraided hair. A blush creeps onto Spencer’s cheeks and he tries to hide it by peering his face away and into his hands. “Hey,” I pull his hands down, still watching him through the reflection. “I mean it, you look...hot”

“No-” Spencer starts to protest, his blush deepening.

“Yes you do...you look hot, but also kind of beautiful at the same time,” I giggle and Spencer does too. He rises from the ground in one steady movement and stands between my legs. He leans down and places a soft kiss on my lips.

“Thank you,” he says and kisses my nose before standing back up. His large hands cup my face and his eyes scan over my every feature.

“Do you like them—the braids?” I ask.

“I love them,” he smiles and drops a hand from my cheek to grab the ends of my hair. “We match.”

We both chuckle at his corniness, but my heart flutters at the thought of Spencer, Dr. Genius, wanting to have matching hair with his girlfriend….who would have thought?

“Yknow,” Spencer clears his throat with a small cough. “The case…”

I patt the side of the bed next to me and Spencer takes my cue and sits. He fiddles with his fingers and won’t look at me.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” I say breaking the silence and placing my hands over his restless ones. Spencer nods, but continues.

“The unsub was killing women with long hair, he would cut it and keep boxes upon boxes of their hair. He made wigs out of the hair, long straight ones. One victim, she looked like you…” Spencer hesitates and looks up to meet my eyeline. I nod my head to tell him it’s okay to keep going. “She had the same hair color, eye color, everything...my heart stopped when I saw her photo. For a second, I thought ‘that’s (y/n)’.”

This breaks him….Spencer sniffles as a steady stream of tears rolls down his cheeks. I move back on the bed and pull him with me. Instinctively, Spencer follows and cuddles into my side as I run my hands over his back. A sob rattles his chest and Spencer cries into my side.

“Shhh,” I coo and squeeze him tight. “I’m here. I’m fine.”

“I know, I just—I’m sorry”

“Spencer, you never have to apologize to me for this stuff...ever.”

Spencer shakes his head and buries his face again in my side. Silence falls between us again aside from Spencer’s soft cries. My hands continue to move up and down his back trying my best to comfort him. I just know I have to be there for him.

“Yknow,” I say, cutting into the silence. “I could teach you how to braid my hair….it’s not hard and I’m pretty sure that big ol’ brain of yours can handle it.” I whisper, placing a kiss on the top of his head, right onto the braids in his perfect hair. Spencer pulls away from me and his reddened eyes crinkle up as his smile widens

“You can teach me?” He asks sitting up on the bed looking back at me.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure this is the only thing I’ll be able to teach you, Spence—”

“No,” Spencer cuts me off and sits cross-legged on the bed facing me. “You’ve taught me so much (y/n). More than you know. I know how to love again because of you...I knew when I saw that victim on the board I had to tell you I loved you because I didn’t want it to be too late...I love you, (y/n).”

“I love you too, Spencer.” I smile and Spencer presses his lips to mine. “So these braids…I think we should start with the basics first.”

“Mmm,” Spencer nods, acting overly enthusiastic. “I think that’s the perfect place to start, Professor (y/n).”

—

well, its official, I can't stop writing about Spencer ...and I may or may not be writing another as y'all read this... ;) requests are open!

leave requests here! // masterlist

stay safe and wear a mask! -m

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid writing #dr spencer reid #spence reid #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds writing #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x female!reader #spencer x y/n #dr reid #spencer reid blurb

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crazy4dragons · 3 years ago

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The Next Step

Hiccup reaches a new level of comfort in the bedroom. Takes place during RTTE, soon after The Next Level and The Next Morning. Rating: M (nudity, sexual content, and plenty of Hotcup 😉).

Hiccup bit back a moan as Astrid drew his lower lip between her teeth and tugged on the little braids she’d woven into his hair. “Gods,” he breathed, resting his palms low on her hips.

“Mmm.” The blonde grabbed the hem of his tunic and lifted the garment over his head before wrapping her arms around his neck and leaning in for a sloppy kiss.

Pulling Astrid closer, Hiccup tugged at the end of her bindings, silently asking for permission to remove them. When she nodded, he unwound the fabric with trembling fingers and eagerly took her breasts in his hands.

“Babe,” groaned Astrid, her back arching as she kissed him harder, hands gripping his freckled shoulders.

“You’re…so…hot,” Hiccup mumbled between kisses. His thumbs massaged her nipples, causing them to crinkle with arousal.

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” teased Astrid. She ran her fingers across his chest, toying with the sparse hairs that grew there.

He chuckled. “So talking fishbones are your type, huh?”

“I suppose they are.” She sat back up and shifted her hands down his torso to trace the faint outline of his abs.

Hiccup let out a sharp breath as her fingers traveled to the trail of hair beneath his belly button.

“Is there a lot more under here?” Astrid asked with a wink, hooking a thumb into the hem of his pants.

With reddening cheeks, he nodded.

“Hey,” she whispered, hovering over him to press her lips against his mouth. “It sounds hot.”

Hiccup swallowed hard as he felt her stiff nipples scrape against his chest. Then, taking a deep breath, he asked, “You…you wanna see?”

Astrid’s eyes widened. “Are you ready?” she checked.

He nodded. “I’m ready. But you first.”

“What?”

Hiccup slipped his thumbs into her bottoms, removing her leggings and underwear in one movement. “I’ll feel better if you take off yours, too.”

Smirking, she kicked the clothes off of her feet, leaving them to fall onto the floor. “Well, you know I don’t have any reservations about that.” An excited shiver ran down her spine. Being naked in front of Hiccup, knowing he was lusting over her, always turned her on. And now, the thought of him also being naked heightened her arousal.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, running his hands over her skin.

“Your turn,” smirked Astrid. Kneeling between his legs, she cautiously peeled off his bottoms, eyes glancing up at his face every few seconds to look for signs of hesitation.

“My scars,” Hiccup said as the garments reached his knees. “I…my leg…”

The blonde hardly heard him. Her gaze was centered on his growing erection, and her mind was racing was desire. She hadn’t exactly been sure about what to expect when it came to male anatomy, but she definitely hadn’t been expecting him to be as stiff as he was.

“Astrid?” he promoted.

“Do you mind?” she asked, reaching her hand towards his penis.

Hiccup’s cheeks turned red. “I uh…um…yeah…I mean, no…I mean, do you really want to…to touch me?”

“I’ve only fantasized about it a hundred times,” teased Astrid. “And I may or may not been masturbating during my fantasies.” She winked.

He swallowed hard at the image of Astrid lying in bed, naked, her thumb rubbing her clit as she brought herself to orgasm. He’d seen her pleasure herself before, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that she was imagining his nude body while doing it.

Taking his erection in her fist, she stretched out her thumb to brush the sensitive tip while her free hand slid his pants off his legs, finally leaving them both fully exposed. While she’d been perfectly comfortable being completely bare in front of him before, having him naked with her made her sense a new special bond between them.

“My scars,” Hiccup reminded.

The blonde glanced down at his left leg, where a set of angry red burn scars marked the spot that his bone had shattered during the battle with the Red Death. “I love you,” she whispered, lying stomach-down on top of him and offering an affectionate smile.

A rush of warmth surged through Hiccup’s veins. In the past, he’d always been the one to initiate “I love yous.” Astrid had always been more about showing than telling, but hearing her say the words first tonight hit him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. “I love you, too,” he murmured, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

Leaning in for a kiss, she pressed her breasts into his chest and rubbed her crotch on his, causing him to gasp as she drew his lower lip between her teeth.

Hiccup reached down to grab her butt, erection throbbing at the sensation of her pebbled nipples against his chest and her center brushing his.

“You good?” Astrid checked, panting as she broke the kiss.

He nodded.

“Do you want to get off now, or…” With Hiccup’s shyness, the two hadn’t yet touched each other below the waist, not before Astrid had touched him tonight. Any activity that involved undressing always ended with mutual masturbation while the candles were out and a blanket was covering his bottom half.

“Or what?” he asked, teasingly pinching a nipple as she sat up to straddle him.

“We could do it to each other,” she suggested cautiously.

Hiccup swallowed hard. “I…I’d love to, but I don’t know how…how to touch you. Your um…well…stuff, if I can call it that…it’s…uh…a little less um…straightforward than mine.”

Astrid laughed. “I’ll help you,” she promised, grabbing his hand and placing it on her mound, tingles running down her spine at the feeling of his fingers brushing against her swollen folds. “But you first.”

“Gods, you don’t have to…” He trailed off as she knelt between his legs, one hand massaging his balls while the other stroking his erection.

“You’re perfect,” Astrid mumbled.

“Holy Freja, how did you…how are you this good?” he gasped, biting back a cry as she swirled her tongue around his tip.

The blonde shrugged. “You learn a lot from Viking women’s gossip,” she laughed. “Thank Thor I don’t use the public baths anymore, but gods, the things I would hear there.”

“You don’t use the public baths, either?” Hiccup raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I mean, I guess…well…you don’t exactly seem like the self-conscious type.”

Astrid laughed. “I’m not. Around you. But after being a late bloomer, and hearing the women point out that I had no boobs…and growing hair in awkward places…and realizing I was the only one with a blonde crotch…no thanks.”

Hiccup smirked. “Well, puberty certainly blessed you, late bloomer or not,” he remarked. “And for the record, I think it’s sexy that you’re blonde down there.”

A light blush covered her cheeks as she closed her fist around his penis, thumb reaching down to continue teasing the sensitive tip.

He drew in a breath.

“Does that feel good?” murmured Astrid, still stroking him.

Nodding, Hiccup reached down to grab her free hand.

“You’re so hot,” she whispered, squeezing his erection while she laced her fingers with his. It was so like him to want to hold hands while he reached his climax, and she was happy to oblige.

“My Thor,” he breathed, biting his lip as tingles shot down his spine, signaling that he was almost to his height.

Astrid squeezed him harder, this time leaning forward to graze his tip with her teeth, a gesture that caused his quiet gasps became sharper. “Almost there?” she checked.

Hiccup nodded.

Her own arousal growing at the sight of his pleasure, she pumped his erection faster, thumb reaching for his tip, until he finally spilled his seed over her breasts and settled limp against the pillows.

“Thanks, Astrid,” he eventually managed to say. Pulling himself up, his gaze drifted towards her body, eyes growing wide and cheeks blushing at the sight of his fluids on her skin. “I uh…sorry I…”

“Don’t be sorry,” she smirked. “I think it’s pretty damn hot.”

Hiccup reached for the nearest blanket and, covering his lower half, reached for his prosthetic. “At least let me get you a towel,” he insisted. “You know, to clean up with.”

“I got it,” Astrid said firmly. She took the metal leg from his hand and set it back in its place before climbing off the mattress. As she grabbed a towel and dipped it into the sudsy wash bin, she was well aware of her boyfriend’s stare. “Like what you see?” she teased, wiping away his semen while trying to ignore the tingles between her thighs.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured.

After she finished cleaning up, the blonde crawled back into bed. “My turn,” she prompted, leaning in to deliver a sloppy kiss against his lips. “I mean, as long as you’re comfortable —”

“Of course,” Hiccup cut in with a lopsided grin. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

#hiccstrid #sexy hiccstrid #rtte universe #httyd #nsft #not for children #hiccstrid smut #hotcup #fanfic #my writing

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penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years ago

Text

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point.

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up.

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my incredible beta and to @maybege for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content!

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi.

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss.

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother.

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine.

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet.

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments.

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you.

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be.

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway.

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well.

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from.

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life.

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby.

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead.

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least.

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes.

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours.

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things.

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project.

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any.

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!”

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize.

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen.

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way. “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.”

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?”

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast.

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving.

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch.

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru.

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…”

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.”

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod.

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves.

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own?

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.”

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area.

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him.

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house.

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working.

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him.

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours.

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in.

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent.

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away.

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams.

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence.

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest.

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.”

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall. “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover.

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to…

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs. Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it, meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso.

And you begin to weep with him.

*********

The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut.

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth.

You cannot tell him for a long while still.

*******

It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it.

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words.

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

*****

The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air.

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors.

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh.

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.”

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet.

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist.

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.”

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface.

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality.

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.”

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him.

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you.

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all.

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features.

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him.

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth.

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal.

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest.

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him.

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern.

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in.

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first.

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there.

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy.

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity.

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other.

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other.

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived. With more than ever to lose.

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course.

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down.

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him.

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile.

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away.

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating.

“I can feel you staring, little one.” He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence.

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek.

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively.

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest.

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.”

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.”

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from.

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter.

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms.

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches.

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy.

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin.

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously.

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted.

With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too.

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed.

Although first you needed a blank canvas.

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up.

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance.

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created.

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this.

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew.

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him.

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises.

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful.

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods.

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing.

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue.

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors.

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now.

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?”

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.”

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you.

You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat.

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay.

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan.

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold.

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know.

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen.

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it.

Gentle.

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again.

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow.

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him.

Stars, how you want to let him.

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture.

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach.

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is.

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind.

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother.

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him.

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble.

Confident.

Steadfast.

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you.

Nothing can.

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you.

Treasure.

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion.

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying.

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him.

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.”

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons.

“Darling, I’m…”

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now.

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now.

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping.

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before.

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself.

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly.

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists.

“Allow me.”

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head.

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves.

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening.

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind.

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did.

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples.

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing.

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked.

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.”

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it.

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again.

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone.

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is.

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night.

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him.

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care.

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple.

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all.

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control.

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand.

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.”

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him.

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all.

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.”

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.”

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body.

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips.

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you.

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you.

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own.

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time.

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this.

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed?

Anchor. Anchor against me.

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before.

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck.

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge.

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought.

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him.

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit.

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear.

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back.

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under.

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up.

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you, how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this.

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion.

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths.

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it.

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth.

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes.

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations.

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.”

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough, how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied.

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you.

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it.

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity.

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force.

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all.

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind.

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them.

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been.

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time.

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke.

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair.

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand.

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke.

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment.

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over.

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too.

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms.

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it.

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle.

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef.

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses.

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day.

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving.

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning.

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?

So is the promise of the return of the Light.

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

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