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letojessica · 2 years

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art by @madisilverflint, for @dunefandomevents' mini bang, ao3 link

There had been no trace of the white sheet she’d expected beneath them, nor any of the roughness or indifference. Instead, following ritual after ritual, ceremony after ceremony, a countless number of veils drooped over her head, she found herself questioning her very purpose. Yes, she was beside the man destined for her, but he seemed to have no intention to proceed as things should have in her mind.

She’d been waiting, primed for this moment, even before she could walk, she mused. It had been ingrained into her, how important she would be in the universe’s future, how instrumental she would be towards the future of the Sisterhood, how much weight her future daughter would hold. Everything was set in stone, predetermined like the stars in the night sky, compelled by gravity to remain in orbit, to move around a sun to its bidding.

The strangeness creeping around her was impossible to shake. What were the ethics behind moral suasion or cynical manipulation? It would not be quite right; she had never quite understood it, and he was giving her no reason to think otherwise. He would be a difficult prey for her to subdue, to lure in with her siren song in enchantment, to bring just a few fathoms too deep into the waters until there is no escape.

Yet, the man sat next to her, studying her with great intensity, grey eyes crinkled around the edges, solid as a rock despite the opaque curtains he’d drawn around them, the bedroom door shut, petals and herbs sprinkled on the blanket but with no real use. Maybe, a representation of the tears she would’ve shed, if she were capable of doing so.

She would not feign knowledge of the expectations placed on her, her duties to carry out, what would be hers to bend in the wings. This was her mission to accomplish, and she could somewhat understand the brevity of it. Her glassy green eyes dare to dart back at him, shooting him a glance, dozens of meanings concealed behind the film of her cornea.

“Are you alright?” He is first to break the silence.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Milord.” She does not expect those to be the words she would first say to him.

He reclines back into the pillows behind them, seemingly unaware of the storm brooding in her heart. “You could relax, you know,” he says; matter-of-factly, turning towards her. His eyes shine in the moonlight, exuding a goodness she could not seem to grasp, almost kind, before turning to her hand laid by the side of her hip.

She bites her lip, not knowing what to say. Nothing she’d been taught to do to leverage a situation seemed an appropriate response, and nothing could quell the uncertainty burgeoning within her.

He shifts, pulling the blanket further over himself. She turns away, frightened as a Bene Gesserit never should.

“Is this not to your liking?” He asks, his head now tilted slightly. She shoots up, quickly reassuring him, “No, milord, of course it is.” she says. He sighs, and all she can count on is the litany to keep her emotions in check.

“My lady,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair she hadn’t noticed coming out of place behind her ear. her heart almost skips a beat. She cannot will herself to look up at him, despite knowing she will only find his earnestness radiating from him.

“I’ve always been at odds with how other houses go about their concubines.” he mumbles, lost in his thoughts. Her ears prick up instantly, now curious as to what he has to say, for things to go another way, perhaps for him to change his mind. “Surely, there must be something more to a binding than physical consummation, don’t you think?”

He redirects his gaze back to her, grey eyes boring into the depths of her soul she didn’t know existed. “I suppose that was what you were told to expect. That you’d be taken and used and then…nothing. I don’t quite understand the logic behind that.”

Her fingers find the lace at the edge of the nightgown she had chosen, thinking it would please him, toying with it like a child would. He adds, “Believe me, I hadn’t expected this or any of the political manoeuvrings, but here we are now. At least, give me the chance to get to know you. Before anything.”

His hand slides over hers, and she can almost feel her heart skip a beat. There could be more to this, she wants to agree. For a moment she lets herself take his word for it.

And then she recoils, lips white between her teeth, too stunned to compose herself, teetering closer to the edge of the bed, shivering more from the apprehension than the night breeze of Caladan. She should be grateful for this, she chides herself. An assignment as thoughtful as one should never be, one offering freedom of choice. But, oh this is too good to be true, too against the years of indoctrination she passed through on an icy planet, threatening to form crevasses in the frozen valleys of her heart, and it’s too much for her to handle.

There is a rustling of cloth behind her, followed by a warm hand on her bare shoulder. He, a duke, with all his regality, kneels by her. He gives her a small smile, and she finds herself lost.

He leans in, gently pecking the corner of her mouth, and her eyes widen in surprise. “This doesn’t have to be what they make it to be. I’m here for you. Please.” He whispers.

For a moment, she can feel all her worries and duties dissipating from the back of her mind, replaced by just them alone in the intimacy of the room, the downiness of the bed beneath them, the sweet aroma of the petals and herbs shrouding them; everything she should do kept at bay by the single brush of warm lip against hers.

—

It’s been two years.

Three, almost, and Jessica still feels out of place, seems out of place, is out of place, in the meeting room she finds herself in. In her eyes, she is a weed defiantly jutting out of dew-moistened soil, each sharp and pointed frond, each jagged edge a hostile, unwelcome sight amidst the lush greenery already covering the area with each branch and leaf the epitome of utopian foliage , each pruned as how the gods would have intended for each verdue in Eden, and herself the slip in the gods’ otherwise meticulously crafted design.

She gets these thoughts most often in some event or situation she finds herself obliged to grace with her presence, most often under the soft spoken requests Leto makes, the morning sunlight flitting into the bedroom they share almost every night (too often for her liking, but she obliges him anyway), basking him in a hazy glow, the sheets thrown haphazardly over his build over the course of the night before; or perhaps over the shared meal she finds herself having with him, at least once a day, interrupting the silence between them sitting in front of each other, busying with the food on the china plates set before them. Or even perhaps in the times they pass each other in the hallways, the Duke always busy with the upkeep of his fiefdom, the cursory nod they would have exchanged before continuing the buzz of their activities traded for curious conversation.

And yet she agrees every time. She could say no, is granted the privilege to decline, and yet she complies, perhaps even more implicitly than she would her superiors back on Wallach IX. Perhaps it stems from her desire to please, her desire to obey the teachings passed over and through her, her own physical desire…she doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what she wants.

If she had a choice, she would be an impermeable rock that bends to no wind. The Bene Gesserit surely would approve. Her place among the Atreides would only be emprehermal, and she was at the mercy of the universe itself, theirs to toy with at will, her some critter, seemingly free to move about but trapped in an enclosure with no visible escape, boxed in metal wires. She wants, wants to take whatever he offers on a silver platter as is, each loving glance, each soothing caress, the intimacy each sunset brings, each but it’s her against the forces of the imperium.

She could somehow carve something out of the castle’s stone walls for herself, instead of being relegated to the wings. It wouldn’t be too arduous a task, but…

“Jessica?”

The damned Duke himself. She snaps back to reality, clearing her thoughts with an old technique she used to practice in what seems aeons ago.

“The trade deal. What do you think of it?” He probes, tone neutral, but his head is tilted and his eyebrows are furrowed.

She coughs once, just to dispel the tension, before offering her opinion, as she would normally. Leto doesn’t change his stance though, his gaze intent on hers.

When at long last the meeting draws to a close, the Caladanian ale drained from the crystal glasses scattered about each end of the table, a consensus among the Atreides aides regarding the house’s latest venture, the men disperse. As per custom, Jessica waits until they have all filed out of the room, before getting up from her chair to leave too. Leto is still scanning a report Gurney had provided him though, leafing through its contents. His eyes follow the end of her skirt as she scampers out of the room.

“Wait,” he says, pushing his chair back to stand up. She stops in her tracks, turning back to face him. Her hands smooth out her skirts.

He gathers the pieces of paper before him, stacking them before setting them back, now a neat pile. He steps towards Jessica.

“I couldn’t help but notice…” he starts, before trailing off. She swallows, just once, before regaining her posture, an eyebrow cocked.

“Notice what, my lord?” She says, mimicking his earlier position when he had asked for her opinion.

“You’ve been aloof,” Leto turns away from her to face the window, catching a bird’s-eye view of the castle in its entirety for himself. “I’ve been catching you off guard recently, and it isn’t like you. What’s going on?”

For a moment, Jessica finds herself speechless. She quickly regains her composure, though, and she glances straight ahead, turning towards him. I must not fear–

“Jessica, you can tell me, you know,” he says after a while, turning back to face her, to meet her gaze. She quickly looks downwards again, eyes darting back and forth. He sees it.

This time, she is the one turning away.

“Why would it matter?”

Her words freeze Leto in place. He rakes a hand through his hair before he answers.

“Is it wrong if it did?”

She has to suppress the hitch of her breath that follows with a gnaw of her lip, her heart now thrumming faster than before, before tilting her head ever so slightly so that the vision of him, blurred behind the tears pooling by the corner of her eye, lies within the borders of her peripheral.

And then his lips are on hers, both his hands cupping her face, thumbs the most tender of ministrations brushing her cheeks, lips softly easing her teeth away from her lip. She stumbles backwards a little.

Yes , Jessica wants to mouth, to expunge every ounce of naivete out of him. None of this should be true. But oh, he is too good, too kind, too loving, and she responds anyways, hand moving up the nape of his neck.

—

She is alone when it happens.

Like a thunderbolt falling from the sky, straight from the hands of Zeus, it hits her. She doubles over, collapsing against a windowpane. Light filters through its stained glass panels, illuminating her in its prismatic splendour. No, Jessica thinks to herself, she will not be made a martyr for this. She calls out to one of the guards stationed by the door, far too engulfed by the strike for words to form on her tongue. He quickly understands, his sombre facade falling as he bolts towards where she hopes will be help.

Her hands come to wrap around the swell of her belly, rising and falling with each gasp of air she takes, never enough to fill her lungs as what seems to be an eternity passes. In those fleeting moments of clarity between each tightening of her abdomen, she sees fragments of a life beyond her imagination, heaven and hell somehow a single entity. Her, Leto, what is soon to be her son in familial bliss, distant fragments of a life she would never allow herself to wish for in lucid consciousness, seemingly unrestrained, nothing beyond themselves and their happiness on their minds.

The world is a blur around her as Yueh arrives, along with a flurry of castle servants, and she soon finds herself in a room she has never been in before, made to lie on a bed hard against her back.

It has come to this.

Beyond the groans that escape her, far beyond her body’s control, and the monotonous hum of the people now crowded about the room, she begins to question herself.

The pain comes in waves, perhaps the Furies’ twisted version of how the waves lapping along a Caladanian coast ebbed and flowed, languid flushes of blued sage and seafoam washing ashore, all its serenity and spectacle traded for a seemingly never ending abyss of anguish.

Perhaps this is the price she has to pay, Jessica thinks, for all her selfish caprice, her outright disregard of the rules of a game she is a mere player in, her heedless desires.

All this, manifested in a human being, forcing its way out of her, perhaps more human than she ever will be.

Serves her right.

The pain comes upon her again.

Headstrong as she is, Jessica can’t help but feel no sense of remorse for what she has done; for so what if she had thrown a millenia’s worth of plans into disarray, wreaked havoc onto the cosmos, buried every trace of her learnings in the blink of the eye she made her decision?

It gives her some hope, in that way, for there would be no greater than her Duke’s happiness, the way his eyes lit up when she admitted the pregnancy to him, the physical embodiment of what has passed between them a tethering to her place amidst the entangled webs of their backgrounds pulling them away from each together, keeping them apart. He has shown her the world, demonstrated to her a world beyond the confines of structure and walls, something she would never be able to conjure up, and what wrong would it be to repay him in the only way she knew how to?

Maybe, somehow, she might be right, that she still could serve both her alliances, bring forth what they so desired concurrently. She finds comfort in this idea.

The door of the room swings open, revealing him, in a state of dishevel, chest heaving, presumably from the rush he took to get there.

“Leto,” Jessica gasps, a hand reaching out to search for him, too exhausted to move it beyond the confines of the bed.

“Jessica,” he breathes in return, kneeling by the bed to hold both her hands in his.

They stay like this, Leto occasionally lifting a hand to wipe the sweat pooling by the sides of her face away, even as Yueh instructs her to start pushing. He holds her, supports her weight, with each strangled cry she makes, broken off by the gnawing of her lip, each twist of her body, each time she stops to catch her breath, soothing her with the movement of his thumbs on her knuckles, kissing her softly each time she murmurs her intent to give up.

Jessica collapses as their son is born.

The only sound heard in the room besides Jessica’s soft struggle for oxygen for her body to recuperate is the child’s cry, the slight thrashing of his limbs in Yueh’s hands.

He is placed on her chest afterwards, cleaned up and wrapped in fresh linens, soundly asleep. She sits up, gathering what she has made into her arms. She can see a ghost of his father on the supple lines of his face, that will become angular and sharp like his father’s as he grows up.

Leto slides onto the bed, careful to not jostle her, gently placing an arm around her shoulders to look at their child.

Jessica doesn’t know what to think of it, even with her son nestled in her arms, blissfully unaware of the place he holds in the universe, what she has made him to be.

But Leto tilts her face towards his, thumb reaching up to pull her lip still bitten out from under her teeth. Her lip is too white, too numb to register the sensation, but she lets him kiss her anyways. For a moment, she lets herself have it; a family she can come home to.

—

The last vestiges of summer were long gone, golden vibrance and sultry saturation replaced by leaves idly, but not slowly fading into muted russets and the dusk of a canary’s feather, basking the earth in warm hues, an almost homey sort of warmth in the cool breezes blowing through, lulling its inhabitants into a snug haze.

Jessica had seen this coming and going of seasons a few times before in the decade or so since her arrival on Caladan, at first a foreign phenomenon to her, but one welcomed when pitched against the cold drabness of the place she spent her girlhood in.

This year in particular seemed to stand out to her. She’d been watching her son grow, now a spritely young boy of three years, a little too attached to her, too intent on clinging onto her legs each time she went to the castle nursery to check on him, bawling mama, mama .

Perhaps it was the stalemate she found herself locked in, wanting more than she could get. She has grown tired of being the Duke’s little secret, a petty insecurity of hers, caught needing confirmation that she would not be forsaken, caught unable to move beyond the boxes honorifics and backgrounds surround her in, caught still in utter defiance of the purpose conferred onto her, in spite of the countless opportunities each night would bring.

Perhaps it was a culmination of what she dared not call a love evolving between them, the comfort found within his arms, the unbidden thoughts of how best she should traverse the unknown before her.

“A dinner,” Leto had said, in between mouthfuls of his food. “A dinner is to be held soon. The one held every five years. Do you remember it?”

She did. It had been the first state event she’d attended in the capacity of his concubine. It had left a distasteful mark on her memory. Too much wine, she had noted, and too many inebriated dignitaries, that had given her leeway to slip away from the dining hall, him soon following behind, back to their private chambers. Now that was not as unpleasant a memory.

He’d asked her to plan it, and she agreed, albeit regretting her decision at present. Her eyes scan over each detail meticulously written onto parchment, each name, each dish, each liaise to be made. The words swarm about her vision, and she rubs her eyes to dispel the fog clouding her line of sight.

A hand comes to rest atop her shoulder, and she shoots up, immediately turning behind her. It is Leto, for who else could it be, head cocked askew, eyebrows furrowed, studying her and the pieces of paper scattered across her desk intently. His attention is quickly diverted by the sight of her half-eaten meal beside her, and he sighs, shaking his head.

“Jessica..” he starts, as her eyebrows furrow as well. “You shouldn’t…it shouldn’t…”

Her eyes flick towards his gaze, and behind the front she is quick to put up, he can see the lethargy hidden beneath.

“There is much to be taken care of,” she says, gaze redirected back to the papers on her desk.

“But you should be taken care of first, my love,” he returns, taking her hand with utmost heed, as if she were fragile; a delicate petal, brittle porcelain, a flimsy spiderweb, perhaps. The tips of his fingers emanate a buzzing warmth as they grasp her knuckles, leading her out of the castle, leaving her no room to protest.

They don’t say much as they walk, though their hands are still intertwined. She expects him to lead her in the direction of the shore, where they have been countless times before, but he takes a different route this time in the direction of the rocky faces of the mountain range right behind the castle, one she never really took notice of before.

Caladan is at their feet when they arrive at a secluded spot atop one one of the many cliffs around them. She walks just a little quicker than he does, and he only chuckles, letting go of her hand.

Beneath the precipices they stand on, carved away into wisps and crevices by the winds and waters of time gone by are the confluences of the waterway meandering around each crag, water gushing through somewhat calmly like blood coursing through veins; a majestic sight to be beheld. The people of Caladan go about their lives around them, seemingly unperturbed by the presence of their Duke, floating about their vessels in search of the day’s catch of the fish aplenty in the crystal clear waters, or the father and son flying a kite, the silk cut in the shape of his house’s insignia, angular and boxy and ever so glorious in the painted sky above them.

He turns to her, eyes wide open in wonder. It’s a rare thing, this open display of her emotions. Jessica doesn’t show it very often, and in the few times she has, it’s only for Leto's gratification, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, studying her with utmost intent, like one would a piece of art, perhaps like one of those ancient statues in the Atreides archives, their stretch of their existence beyond even her grasp, something of the Atreides ancestry, painstaking brought over from the First Earth, perhaps even of Agamemnon’s time.

A gust of wind blows by, ruffling her hair, like a phoenix rising from the ash, billowing in the wind.

She is Aphrodite reincarnated in that moment, resplendent, shining like a halo’s glow in the mist.

“Jessica, you really shouldn’t-” he tries to say, but is quickly silenced when Jessica takes his hands, bringing him flush against her chest, their breaths warm and ticklish on each other’s faces. She apparently is intent on ensuring a curl of his hair stays in place, tucking the errant lock behind his ear.

There is too much sincerity in his voice, and she has to still the protest of her heart with a chew of her lips.

He notices, however, angling himself to lean in closer to her face, moving slowly, giving her the choice to step away. She does not want to, and rises on her toes for her mouth to meet his, winding her arms around his neck as his hands hug her waist to his.

She can set all that aside, each little grievance, even just for the heartbeat their hearts thrum in sync.

All’s well that ends well, she thinks.

—

So this is what a farewell is.

She watches as crates of everything she has come to associate as hers to keep, part of the new life she has made for herself, even the damned painting of the Old Duke, become just any another object with lids placed over them, carted away by the servants into ships that will make the journey before them; watches as her Duke bids goodbye to even the most trusted of members of the Atreides cadre, watches as weeks turn into days, days turn into hours.

Jessica walks the halls of the castle, timeless and hallowed, pacing about the sepulchral passages, for at least the familiarity of the time-tested stone walls is a better comfort and company than the thoughts running wild within her mind.

Everything she has built herself, each stick arduously put in place, suited to her comfortability, two decades’ or so worth of memories imbued within the fibre of each twig, each ridge and crevice of the bark jagged and coarse against her fingers, yet the only thing close to a creature comfort she will ever know, its familiarity a soothing presence — so easily knocked to the ground by the slightest gust of wind, a simple wave of the Emperor’s hand, a simple line of words, a single string of text on parchment.

She recognises the benefits of the decree, even the most narcissistic of souls would be able to find some degree of positivity in it. Her Leto had been clamouring for such an opportunity to boost his standings, to rise up from the shadows, reborn, with a flaming trail of glory, hard won, tapering like a hero’s cape down his back.

Yet, the thoughts find their way to gnaw at her, bit by bit. . She almost steps into the main loading bay, now a hub of activity, but catches a shadow at the corner of an intersection, lurking in the shadows.

Jessica reaches for the dagger concealed under the silks she wears, strapped to her thigh with a garter. All her senses are on edge, it seems to be a part of her training she will never be able to shake, and she turns around, seeking to face the enemy, but Leto takes her by the wrist.

“It’s just me, Jessica,” he reassures, bending down to meet her eyes, now lowered away from him.

She slides the dagger back into its place, smoothing down the pleats of her skirt. She nods, once, more for his reassurance than hers. “We’d best be on our ways,” she says. “You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“No, Jessica,” Leto replies, taking her other wrist. “Give me this moment. Before…”

It hasn’t been easy for him, heaven knows, he has borne the brunt of the stress. She sees it in the circles around his eyes, almost the same tinge of grey his hair has, the way he carries himself, less of that self-assured hawkish posture, the nights he spends at his desk, only sliding into bed in the dead of the night.

Chest against chest, their arms find placement on the other, as if clinging on for dear life. The weight of his arms around the curve of a waist is almost crushing, but she grins and bears it, desperately trying to remember the moment, etching it into the crevices of her memory, to memorise all of the warmth of it, to be her anchor in the days to come.

Their silent embrace is broken when Thufir arrives, clearing his throat once. Leto sighes, before loosening his hold on Jessica. But Jessica doesn’t want to let him go, shifting deeper into the curvature of his torso. He obliges, just for a moment or two, before he breaks away.

Jessica looks at him, though she has released his hand, tears threatening to fall from her eyes with each passing second. She blinks furiously, lips turning white between her teeth, as if stopping herself from doing something.

He presses his mouth to hers, just for a moment, before stepping back.

“Don’t worry, Jessica,” he smiles. “We’ll be alright.”

She watches as he goes, silently praying for him to be right.

—

She doesn’t even bother to remind herself how many years it has been.

Jessica is a coward, really, scuttling away with her tail between her legs at first sight of trouble brewing. Typical of her, she thinks.

All she can do now is right her wrongs, clean up the mess she has spilt over galaxies. Returning to her roots seemed the best option, for if she’d followed their words, not given in to temptation, like Pandora opening her box, unleashing catastrophe upon anything she’s loved. The emotions she’s opened herself up to, now mainly consist of misery and longing she could or would never hope to inflict upon herself.

She has found herself questioning this, in the halls that once held promises, promises of a life devoid of coldness, in the rooms once a sanctum of congress, promises of a shelter from the world’s tumult. Even the fecund landscape of Caladan offers little solace, instead the vastness too empty, too daunting for her.

So much trouble she’s caused over her measly existence. Nothing can escape those accursed hands of hers. She’s surprised she’s still able to wash her hands clean of the blood that would probably cake fingertips, their metallic tinge acrid and pervasive in her nostrils; hands just rosy and soft with no soot-coloured condemnation. Not even those she holds most dear to her heart, that damned heart of hers, lets them slip behind the bars of her ribcage.

Her sleight of hand, a Midas touch inverted.

Leto. Paul. Alia.

Ruination sits like a dog at her feet, its shadow everpresent, looming over her. She cannot outrun it; it is a part of her now, it is omnipresent. She is at its mercy, subpoenaed at its will, made to stand before Themis to atone, made to cite every possible reason she’s done what she’s done, even when she cannot give a definite answer, has her testimony muddled by convoluted strings, their hold still tight on her even after all these years.

Her children. All those high hopes, wishing she could be the one to break the link and free them of her bloodline’s curse…all that has resulted in their downfall. Lady Luck has her way of marring her children, what they turn out to be beyond her most wildest of nightmares.

Leto, oh Leto. Her lover. The only true love she’s had, if she were capable of it. Nothing would compare to those early days of ecstasy, something newfound beyond the confines of jet black veils; or the comfort she settled in over time, even those clandestine moments, even in spite of the odds.

She so desperately wishes for him to come back to her, in that moment amidst the sandstorm blowing through, be it battleworn, haggard, bloodied, alive … Any shape or form of him would do, and she would run towards him, forget every lesson of restraint taught to her with each step she would take closer to him, and then throw herself before him on her knees, cling onto his arms, tears like streams flowing down her cheeks, and beg of him to love her like he did, absolve her of all she has wrought onto them. In return, he would kneel down next to her no matter how much pain it would wreak on his body worn down over the years of their parting, thread his fingers through her bronze locks he so adored, kiss each tear away gingerly.

I love you, Jessica , he would whisper, only so she could hear; himself equally as tear-stricken, forgive me for being so blind, let me right my wrongs, allow me to make things up to you...

And then he’d kiss her, and all her resolve would melt, all his promises fulfilled, no ounce of regret between them.

She has to swallow down the whimper that escapes her.

In another life, my Duke.

#yes big surprise i have an ao3 #yes i am finally crossposting #perhaps just this once but who knows #dune #dune 2021 #dune fanfiction #leto x jessica

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azurexsnake · 2 years

Text

Haitani Ran x GN!Reader

TW: Dom!Reader. GN!Reader (reader uses a strap but no pronouns or genital descriptors otherwise). Alcohol. Drugs (weed). Pegging. Violent sex. Minor Impact Play (Spanking). Very Light Choking (M Receiving). Not proofread.

Talks with Mica got me again…

20+ Content. 19 and Under DNI.

If anyone pressed you for the details of how you wound up in the bed of a Tokyo baddie, you’re not sure you’d be able to provide them. And not just for the sake of confidentiality. It’s more that you can’t be too sure yourself.

You know one drink became two, and then an offer to bring you home- the hour late and streets suspect. You remember accepting, the walk, the train ride, the joints passed back and forth between you in the comfort of your livingroom. But precisely how you managed to fall into bed with Haitani Ran eludes you. And you can’t be fucked to figure it out when all that truly matters is fucking the brat out of him.

He curses again when you get the angle just right, arms bent and palms scrabbling against the sheets for a tether. A something to make his eyes uncross; that he can pour his frenetic buzz into. And that ‘something’ becomes your thighs, his nails digging into the sensitive underneath of your flesh. Again, it’s not something you can find it in yourself to be bothered by when his hair lays in every direction thanks to your handling and his fight, curtaining wild eyes and parted lips as he looks back at you like he could kill you if you weren’t fucking his ass within an inch of his sanity.

Your hold on his inked back tightens, his arch forced deeper, and he moans like the heavens aren’t listening.

“You paint a real pretty picture, you know that, Ran?” For all your effort, your words fight against exertion- a testament to how furiously you drive your silicone cock into his only too accepting body. His own heavy erection smacks against the smoothed chisel of his stomach where every impact buries him lower within the depths of mindless pleasure. But that depth is Ran’s playground. The freedom he knows there is endless and suddenly he’s fighting to push himself up by his arms; an attempt you immediately squash with a hand and weight at the back of his neck.

You almost have to stop and wonder if that’s what he wanted in the first place with how his eyes roll back at the leveraged strength behind your thrusts, jolts sent through his system with every slap of your hips to his ass.

“Don’t cum so soon, brat. Don’t even deserve it f’r giving me sucha hard time.” And because he wants to remind you he still can, he throws his hips back and you off-kilter. Just to make sure you know even though it earns him a stringing slap to the already cherry curve of his ass. “You just don’t fucking quit.”

“N-ahh!” he tries, and fails when you tear the breath out of him back by the roots of his silken hair. “Never will. Get used to it, angel.”

“Only thing I’m gonna get used to,” you sneer, winding your hand from hair to throat, fingers pressing into the hollows within his human structure, “is hearing you scream my name like I own you.”

His breath puffs heavy from inside his chest, punctuated by noises you can feel him make beneath your unrelenting grasp, and a need takes hold. Not just hear, but to see him when he wails. Eat up the sight of him when his cum arcs over the half-of-a-whole that denotes his most trusted.

It’s almost cute to hear his alarmed whimper when you pull out, a fear he really won’t get what he wants, until you flip him violently on his back and settle imposing between his thighs even as you push them back ‘til his tailbone lifts from the mussed bedding. And for as much as you’d hate to tell him in this moment, you can’t help but think he’s beautiful between the shallow crests and dips of his chest. The strands of his hair that stick to his drool-coated lips. The wide-eyed anticipation he stares at you with, daring you to move. Or don’t. Deny him. Or want him any worse than you already do.

Maybe you simply fell into his trap.

When the bait was one of the most virile and violently attractive men in the city, who could blame you?

“Fuck me.”

Truly, the fault is all his and the only recourse is to, yes, fuck him.

Fuck him like it’s punishment for being so tempting. For laying the pitfall of him for you to tumble into. Into deepest reaches and darkest depths. Of him. Of you. An eye for an eye. One hole traded for another and you plunge back into him with eyes locked together and wars waging between you. And his hands at the sides of your face to keep you focused solely on him. Only him and his wildfire violet.

#haitani ran #sub tokyo revengers #tr smut #tw.pegging #tw.drugs #tw.alcohol #dom!reader #gn!reader

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bajisbabe · 3 years

Text

[author’s note] song slap hard ASF, song so good it pisses me off—🎼😡 y’all better listen to it, too

# ‘CAUSE I WANT YOU TOO

“If you say I’m on your mind, you gon’ need to spend more time to prove it.”

drunk-ex!baji comes to your home

warnings: kissing, drunk!Baji, arguing, Baji is kind of mean, cussing, Baji is 23 here, angst ig.

synopsis: Your ex, Baji, gets drunk and comes over. You try to turn him away because you’re afraid to admit that he wasn’t at fault for the breakup, but he doesn’t leave.

song: say it (mashup) by tory lanez and sevyn streeter

You hadn’t thought twice when opening the door. It was late in the night, and you just wanted to answer the door and get it over with; to stop the loud banging that just wouldn’t go away. You turn on the table lamp near the couch as you make your way into the living room. Tucking yourself into a robe, you turned the knob and opened the door, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you asked groggily, “Who is it—?”

Long hair, yellow eyes, and bruised knuckles with a hair tie around the wrist. Your ex, Baji Keisuke.

For a split second, you wondered what you should do. But without thinking it through, you clutched the door and attempted to slam it in his face. But he shoved his foot in the door, smiling lopsidedly at you as he pressed in further. He gradually worked his way into your home with ease.

You felt a strange sense of fear in your stomach. You hadn’t seen Baji in months after your breakup. Although he argued with you when you two broke up, he hadn’t bothered to contact you since. You thought he had moved on, but here he was. Stumbling into your living room and taking a seat on the couch, his head lolling as he let out an obnoxiously loud sigh.

You watched him for what felt like an entirety, subconsciously flinching whenever he made a move. You thought to call the police, but to get your phone you would have to make your way past him. And you didn’t have the guts to try.

He took a moment to glance around your apartment, looking somewhat confused. You vaguely remember having thrown out quite a few items when the two of you split, so your place must have looked different to him now.

He slowly turned his attention to you, his expression blank as his eyes raked over your face. He mumbled something under his breath as he took a swig from the beer bottle that you hadn’t noticed before. It was practically empty, as he shook the last couple of drops from it into his mouth. Your brows furrowed, you never knew Baji to be much of a drinker. He let out a burp, smiling at you when he finally noticed that you had been watching him the entire time.

“Miss me?” He said.

You slowly shook your head, backing up a couple steps. But there was nowhere to go. You were inches away from colliding with the front door. And you didn’t even think of running, knowing that he could easily catch up with you even in a drunken state.

“Baji,” you started firmly, trying your damnedest to remain cordial. “I think you should leave.”

“Oh, you think?” He spat, turning and twisting the bottle in his hand. Watching with vague interest how the dim light catches on the glass. “That’s funny.” He lets out a crude chuckle, glaring at you.

You merely stared back at him, not sure of what to say. You two didn’t end on good terms, that’s for sure.

“Did’ja think when you broke up with me for no—fucking—reason?” He punctuates each word with a tap of the butt of his beer bottle on the armrest of your couch. “Hmm, (Y/N)?”

“Baji, please.” You frowned, crossing your arms and trying to appear unafraid. But your hands are shaking like crazy. “You should just go—”

“S’not my name.” He mumbles. He looks at you again. But this time, there is no malicious glint in his eyes. He is merely looking at you and nothing more. Not glaring, or leering. Just looking. “You know that’s not m’name.”

“Yes, it is.” You say quietly. “That is your name. And now, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, please—”

“Just stop it.” He says. He stands slowly, noticing immediately the way your shoulders hunch and you put your hands up as though you expect him to attack. He frowns at the sight, sucking his teeth as he approaches you steadily. “You know that’s not my name. You know my name… just say it.”

His large hand comes up to cup your face, you pull away. Your fingers fidgeting as you hesitate, thinking that you should push him away. Not that he would budge even if you did.

“Please, (Y/N).” His voice is soft and low. And he’s looking at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. You haven’t seen those eyes—and that look—in so damn long. “Please.”

“Baji, you need to leave.”

“That’s not my name and you know it.” There’s a subtle bite in his tone, but his eyes are still soft. “Now, could you please just say it?”

“Baji,” you breath, clasping your hands in a pathetic attempt not to lose your cool. “I’m asking you to leave—”

“M’not leavin’ ‘til you gimme what I want.” He reaches forward, much faster than you can comprehend. You sputter and grab hold of his wrists, trying to pull him off of you. But he doesn’t waver. His palms squeezing your cheeks, a subtle ache in your jaw at the sudden pressure. “Scratch that, I wanna kiss. Gimme a kiss.”

You try to pull back, but he merely follows you. His lips closing in on yours while you shake your head, eyes blown wide as you desperately yank his arms. “Stop it! Baji, stop it!”

You felt scared. You had never felt this way with Baji before. Somewhere, in the deepest depths of your mind, you were terrified that he would win you over yet again. That’s the last thing you wanted. You and him broke up because you became known as his girlfriend and nothing more. His personality and presence was so big that it completely swallowed yours.

You just wanted to be your own person. And he didn’t understand that then. You didn’t expect him to understand now either. So you never bothered to mention it, not even during the argument that ended your relationship.

You had left him without a spoken reason.

“S’Keisuke. Not Baji… You know that.” He says quietly, his lips a breath away from yours, your head still trapped between his calloused hands. “Kiss me. Do it now.”

“Get off of me,” you cry.

You should’ve run. You know you should’ve. You should’ve at least tried. But you didn’t. Your thoughts ran rampant, and you found that your own subconscious was ruthlessly blaming you for this situation. Thinking that you didn’t really want to break up with Baji, and that you just came up with a reason out of the blue. Baji was a good boyfriend, after all. But it was more so about how you felt like an accessory to him, rather than an equal.

He was just so important, and popular, and—just everything.

You knew it wasn’t his fault. You just needed some time to yourself to figure out who you were, and it ended up being months rather than a mere break. Now that you knew your worth, you didn’t have the guts to come back to him and tell him how you really felt. You didn’t have the guts to bring a genuine conclusion to it.

You had unknowingly hurt yourself by not voicing your opinion. And you didn’t know it yet, but you also hurt him just as much by ending your relationship without spoken reason. The more you thought about it, the sicker you felt. You just wanted him out of your home, so that you had a second to think before you made a decision you would regret.

“What’s your problem!” You shout, squirming in his grasp. “You’re drunk! Just go home!”

“Yeah?” He bites back. “Duh! And guess whose fault that is?”

You blink, your struggling momentarily halted. Whose fault…?

“S’yours, if you’re wondering.” His voice is quieter than before. His eyes are boring into yours. “I don’t drink—didn’t. Not ‘til…” He trails off, but you know what he’s getting at. And your heart shatters at the realization.

He notices your expression, it’s conflicted but he misunderstands. From his perspective, your blank stare is degrading; like you’re looking down on him. He doesn’t like that at all.

“Like you’re doing any better!” He says, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got problems too, I can see it!”

You don’t dare to speak, knowing that you might say something that’ll only make matters worse.

“You don’t think I saw that shit?” He says, glaring at you. He tugs you just a little closer and you feel your resolve crack some in return. “The way you flinched—like I was gonna hurt you or something. I wouldn’t do that, you know that!”

“Just stop it!” You rasp, your hands clutching his.

God, you don’t want to blurt out the real reason behind your breakup. After hearing the shit he’s put himself through, you don’t have the guts to tell him that it was nothing he did that caused the breakup.

Tears are brimming in your eyes as you stare back at his frowning face. “Stop it, Kei—”

There’s a moment of silence. So silent that your ears ring. He is no longer looking at you with that hard expression. His eyes are wide, brows raised, lips down-turned almost in a pout but not quite. “Kei?” He repeats quietly under his breath, eyes lingering on your face. He can feel your skin warm under his touch. And the brief sound of your name on his tongue has his heart beating hard. “Go on… Say it.”

“Don’t wanna,” your lips tug down, the backs of your eyes burning. You were gonna cry.

“Say it,” he releases his grip on your face. His hand comes up to wrap around the back of your neck, his thumb rubbing over your skin. He can even feel your pulse thrumming beneath the flesh. “Say it, and I’ll go… Promise.”

You don’t believe him and rightfully so. You shouldn’t believe him. And even still, you find his name rolling off your tongue. You think at the very least, you can give him that. After your breakup caused him so much hurt, and you still hadn’t given him a good reason.

“Again,” he whispers. His eyes never leave yours. “Say it again.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” He presses, his grip tightening. You can feel him pulling you in; pulling you closer.

“Please, Baji—”

“You know my name.” He says, his voice lacking the strength from before. “S’only been a couple of months, you couldn’t have forgotten already.”

You see the sad look in his eyes and you break. Repeating his name just like he asked of you. And you don’t even get a chance to tell him the real reason behind your breakup as he places a chaste kiss on your lips.

Just one, then two, then three. Each longer than the last. And his grip is so strong that you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to. But you don’t want to, and he knows it.

He pulls away slowly, his eyes racking over your face again. He looks at you like he’s afraid he’ll forget what you look like. Or that if he looks away, you’ll disappear.

And he knows he’s being selfish by asking you again and again. But he can’t stop himself, having not heard your voice in months. His teeth biting at his lower lip as he runs his tongue over the flesh, trying to remember your taste.

“Can you…” he pauses, knowing damn well that he’s being selfish and stringing you back in. He knows he’s gonna win you over. He just knows it because he knows you. And he just can’t bring himself to stop. “Can you say it...just one more time?”

#tokyo revengers x reader #tokyorev x reader #baji keisuke x reader #baji x reader #baji imagines #baji headcanons #keisuke x reader #baji keisuke imagines #cw kissing #cw drunk #cw alcohol #cw angst #baji x you #baji x y/n #keisuke baji x y/n #keisuke baji x reader

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siriusmydeer · 3 years

Text

james potter smut alphabet

james potter x fem!reader

a/n: that took from 9:45pm-12:pm then 7am-9:20am THAT TOOK SO LONG OMG

i’m sorry if it’s bad

warning: literally pure sex smut all that jazz

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

that man is the softest dom, literally the DEFINITION. he gives u so many kisses, he praises u, he will shower with you, wash your hair, gives u his clothes LITERALLY THE BEST.

“mhm jamie, too tired” you murmur. your body melting into the mattress as you speak, all worn down. “but, love.” he pushes your hair behind your ears, pulling you up. “gotta get you all nice and clean f’me.”

he pulls you up, his calloused hands gripping onto your thighs, bringing you into the bathroom. the shower already nice and warm ready for the both of you. he’s holding you under the warm water to the point where you might collapse if it wasn’t for his grip.

“you did good love, so so good all f’me.” he says sponging kisses on your forehead, both of his hands on your lower back holding you.

“i love you, my sweets.”

“you’re the only one f’me.”

you were so tired, so vulnerable just allowing james to take care of you because that’s all he wanted to do.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his biceps, simple. he does A LOT of quidditch training to get to his strength. he also takes pride in being able to just fuck you against the lockers from his strength. it also inflates his ego when he catches you staring at his biceps. or when he’s taking you underneath him your gripping his biceps like your life depended on it.

“james- fuck.” you moaned into his neck, his lips sucking dark hues into your collar bones and his left forearm resting right beside your head and his other gripping around your waist.

he started going slower, but deeper. he hit a new angle inside of you almost hitting your cervix. you let out a strangled moan gripping his bicep almost digging your nails into the flesh.

his head dipping out from beneath your neck to slot your plush reddened lips with his.

that man and you’re THIGHS. he’s a thigh man don’t tell me other wise. whether ur in your school skirt, jeans, leggings, underwear ;) his legs AND HANDS always divert to the soft plush skin of your thigh.

your ankles insticntly went to lock around james’ head, he had been in between your thighs for hours on end without a stop.

“james- i’m gonna cum.” you breathed out in a moan. his hands squeezing at the flesh on your thigh, they were reddened and begging to lightly bruise from him doing those similar actions for the last hour and a half.

“cum darling, cum for me.”

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

so, esentially speaking theres wizard potions to block out pregnancy. so he would be CUMMING INSIDE OF U. not nessesarily a breeding kink but he likes when your full and stuffed with his cum. he also loves to cum on your chest or thighs because he likes the contrast to your skin and he think it makes you so utterly pretty.

the wave of euphoria and stars dancing across your vision had almost come to an end as your boyfriends thrust got sloppy and rigid.

“pretty girl where do you want it, where do you want my cum?” he panted to you, close to his release.

“i want you to cum inside me jamie, please. fill me up.” you let out a small moan at his constant friction when you felt ropes of seed shoot into you, he rode out his orgasam then pulled out. you clenched around nothing as he came face to you cunt.

he pushed his fingers into you, a small moan leaving your mouth as you made eye contact with him.

“gotta keep you all nice and full, yeah?”

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

there’s nothing he would want more than a lap dance. you in you your lingerie you had just bought giving him a little show after one of a quidditch wins.

“mhm, sit f’me.” you whispered into his ear, placing him to hit at the end of his four poster bed.

“and what have you got going on darling? a suprise?” he said, leaning against his two hands watching you pry at your tie and slip it off.

slowly unbuttoning your school blouse, flinging it on the floor. he lets out a small groan at the sight of you almost naked in your skirt. you walk towards him shuffling onto his lap.

“you did win after all, and winners get rewards.” you said circling your hips onto his clothed cock .

“fuck... the things you do to me.” he groaned into your ear as you continued.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

i’m gonna be honest i don’t think that much when you first get together. i mean there’s been ladies he’s a marauder but he’s only ever wanted to you so i feel like he just gets to know your body really well and he sort of just has instincts. like during your first time there’s those little awkward moments but you both make it run all good and smoothly

“s’gonna hurt y/n.” he murmured to you, situating himself in between your legs as you lock your ankles behind his back.

“i know, but i want this. i want you. i need you inside me.” you whisper in desperation for him, needing to feel him.

“you ready?”

“mhm, please.”

he slowly started to slide into you, when you let out your first hiss of discomfort, he slotted his fingers between yours and slightly halted his movements.

“keep going jamie.” you encouraged

he slid his way into your cunt until he was fully in.

“move please, i need to feel you.” he did his first pulse, light movements when you let an involuntary moan escape the threshold of your lips.

“mhm- jamie, keep going.”

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

missionary bc he just wants to see your beautiful face, against the quidditch lockers so he can just hold you against them or doggy bc he likes to choke you or pull you up so he can see your back arch for him.

you heard the bang of metal as james took you against the quidditch lockers and you tried to muffle your moans against his lips.

“gotta- gotta be quiet love. wouldn’t want anyone to know what we’re doing in here.” he panted into you ear. he continued as he angled your leg higher, hitting you g-spot as he continued his pace.

“james fuck- so good. so fucking good.”

“you look so fucking beautiful like this y/n.”

“j-james i- i cant hold on much longer. s’too much.” you moaned and whimpered from the back of your throat.

“pretty girl cum for me.”

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

there’s 2 kinds of sex with james, giggly super soft lovie sex. not necessarily making jokes but just giggling because he just tickled your side my accident or accidentally bumping noses. or there’s big dom daddy james where it’s very PASSIONATE but he’s very dominate.

his hand ran down the depth of your curves, a little giggle bubbling through your throat. he looked at you with a cocked brow, repeating his action as his chin rested on your stomach a small smirk on his lips.

you giggled again, your hand running through his hair. you brought his face to your lips as your finger tips danced under his jaw.

he giggled at your actions as well, also seemingly ticklish under his neck.

“you’re so distracting james potter.” you groaned as he continued to pulse through you while giggling at you.

“i’m distractingly beautiful y/n y/l/n”

“quite insuffer- fuck!” you were caught off with a moan as his fingertips danced on your clit. stimulating you.

“hmmm darling, cat got your tongue?”

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

so james has that thick mangle of tresses on his head, so i feel like he’s quite cleanly shaven, maybe just a bit of a stubble? but i feel like he would shave not only to make it more comfortable for him but for you seemingly easier and more comfortable.

i don’t think he would care if you were shaved or not, as long as you were comfortable your natural body hair is not stopping him from going down on your or having sex with you.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

ROMANCE KING ILL SAY IT ONCE ILL SAY IT TWICE ILL SAY IT THREE TIMES IF HE COULD EVERYTIME HE WOULD SPREAD ROSE PETALS AND CANDLES AND LIGHT FIRE PLACES AND E V E R Y T H I N G. during the whole thing your hands would e interlocked with his, chests pressed against eachother, eye contact, soft touches, soft kisses and mumbles of praise like whew.

“jamie- what’s this?” you asked, your eyes scanning around the room with floating candles and rose petals on the floor.

“well i figured i’d make it special, i dunno.” he murmured shoving his hands in his pockets. you turned towards him with a grin your face.

you grasped his face between your palms lightly kissing his lips before speaking.

“a real sap you are potter, my sap.”

“correct, 10 points go y/h.”

“thanks professor potter.” you teased before leaning in to kiss his lips again.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

i feel like he would A LOT and you would catch him A LOT. somwtimes u aren’t always there but u know what is there, a picture of you and his hands and he makes due when he needs too. but normally he just goes to you because he would rather anyways but sometimes there are bigger priorities then his random hard ons.

“y/n- fuck me...” he moaned, his hand pumping his cock in one hand and the other gripping his bed post, knuckles turning a shade of white.

his only thought being the way you looked under him, on top of him, infront of him, you’re beautiful beautiful body. you were currently occupied helping mcgonagall with extra transfiguration while james was in need... of you.

you had finished early, waltzing into james’ room like normal except you were met with a familiar sight of james pumping his cock in his hand while his head was slightly leant back and his jaw was slack.

you cleared your throat, crossing your arms and a smirk on your lips with an eyebrow raise. “couldnt wait atleast an hour could you?” you teased, walking closer.

“well now that your here, could you lend a hand?”

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

james has a daddy kink😐 literally that’s one of his most prominent kinks. i mean your his angel, his darling girl he would do anything for you i mean he just wants to make you happy. and i mean you calling him daddy while withering under him just makes him 😁

“daddy... please.” you begged him.

“ive been a good girl. i promise!” you were almost yelling at him, wanting him to understand.

“sweetheart we’re you a good girl when flirting with sirius?” his face got seemingly close to yours, asking you the question while raising one of his eyebrows.

“no daddy.” you said, embarassed. you had been waiting for james attention all night long but instead he was stuck all up in detention for a prank against snape.

and then when he finally arrived to the common room he barely spared you a word, so you did what you had to do to grab his attention and... it worked.

“so tell me baby, whyd you break the rules?”

“i just wanted your attention daddy! i just wanted you!”

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

i think his fave would be the dorms in the bed. but the prefects bath is a very close second. and he surely doesn’t mind the common room or broom closets that are very open to public where you both could get caught in comprising positions.

you heard the slosh of the water beside you, as you moved your hips onto james’ submerged underneath the prefects bath water as u straddled him.

his hands came to steady your hips as your buried your head in his neck, and continuously grinding your cunt onto james’ dick.

“fuck angel... just like that.” he moaned while tightening his grip

“f-fuck jamie-“ you whimpered in his ear, clawing at his shoulders.

“you’re doing amazing pretty girl, keep doing- fuck- you feel so good around me.” he praised you while groaning.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

SO JAMES LOVES HAVING HIS HAIR PULLED IN BED; WHEN HES GOING DOWN ON YOU, IN MISSIONAIRY, WHEN YOUR RIDING HIM JUST ALL THE TIME SO WHEN U PLAY WITH THAT MANZ HAIR HE COULD THROW YOU OVER IN SECONDS AND GET U ON THAT BED.

“so fucking tired.” james muttered walking into the common room after a two hour detention with filch.

he saw your body displayed on the vermillion couch, very opening that his body could just rest on yours while you were in a conversation with remus and sirius.

he quietly sprawled his head on your lap, his arms arranging around your waist as he gor comfortable.

you mindlessly started caressing his hair, and pulling on the tuffs lovingly, that was until you felt a hard pressure pressing against your calf that you remembered james’ small dirty secret.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

i don’t feel like he would be into hurting you? like slapping, knife kinks, seeing you hurt i don’t think he would find that arousing he would more just be concerned because he doesn’t like to see your hurting. i think he would still like spankings but i don’t think he would slap you in the face or anything.

“so y/n, d’you think you’d try it?” sirius asked you, while your eyes paid more attention on the potions text book infront of you.

“try what?” you muttered, clearly disinterested in the conversation.

“knives in bed.”

you brought your head up to look at him, cocking an eyebrow confused at his question.

“um, probably not. i don’t know that’s an odd question pads.” you muttered turning your attention back to your potions book.

“but wouldnt that like... hurt her?” you heard james say in a concerned and confused tone to sirius.

“could if you wanted too, but it’s more of the thrill.” sirius replied to james.

“no, i don’t think i want the ‘thrill’ m’good, thanks.” he agitatedly replied to sirius and looked at his own book.

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

i feel like he would like both equally but he’s more of a giver at heart. it’s kind of whatever happens in the moment because when your thighs are wrapped around his head it’s like heaven but your pretty lips wrapped around his cock? also heaven.

your hands braced his thighs as your plunged your mouth deeper onto his girth, trying to take him all in while breathing for your knows.

“you take my cock so well pretty girl.” he praises to you, his hand in a makeshift pony tail holding your hair away from your face.

you went back to his tip, kissing and swirling your tongue around trying to catch your breath before pushing your mouth onto him keeping a fast past.

“i’m gonna cum-“ he groaned and his own release shooting ropes of cum down youve throat cut him off.

he slowly rid out his high as you continue to suck and then swirled your tongue around the tip and opening your mouth to show that you had swallowed his release.

“good girl.”

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

i feel like he changes pace a lot? sometimes it’s really fast, and deep but sometimes very slow and passionate and deep and loving. he’s a man of many talents and whatever the mood is he can keep that pace.

his hand had one firm grasp on your waist as he pounded you from behind and the other gripped the root of your hair.

“you gonna be a messy little girl?” he taunted you through gritted teeth

“y-yes.” you muttered through moans.

he had just lost a quidditch match to slytherin and you offered a solution.

something nice and rough.

and that’s exactly what the both of you wanted.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

i feel like they would happen from time to time but i feel like he would be more into proper sex because you are literally his only priority like getting you off is all he cares about so maybe there’s a quick a few times but definitely not all the time.

“shh if you’re not quiet someone’s going to walk walk by and hear.” james taunted you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your head dug into his neck trying to hold back your moans.

“james- i- i cant s’too much, too much.” you said while biting your lip, unable to see much do you the darkness of the broom closet.

“well sweet girl that’s what happens when you get needy during school hm? is my pretty little slut gonna cum all over my cock while anyone could walk in?” he began to mock you.

“mhm- yes.” your lip becoming dry and chapped from all the incessant biting, “please can i cum?”

“go on, cum y/n.”

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

i feel as long as it wasn’t hurting you or it ended up with you or him like getting with other people he would try it?

“are you sure, m’scared i might hurt you.” james murmured while tying your hands up to the bed post.

“m’fine, promise.” you assured him, that night you were trying something new. both of you had previously talked about ties and bondage and you wanted to try it once to see if you’d both like it.

you pulled on the ropes a bit making sure they weren’t cutting off the circulation of your wrists.

“see? m’good jamie.”

“ok but if something happens tell me, i don’t want you to hold back because i might be enjoying it you’re not.”

“james i promise.”

“i love you, y/n.”

“i love you too.”

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

that man happens to be a QUIDDITCH PRODIGY. HE IS A SEEKER. WHICH MEANS HE CAN LAST AWHILE. i believe that he would stop when you wanted to stop, like he could fuck you all night if he wanted too.

“one more darling, one more f’me.” his voice hoarse from the previous three rounds.

he wanted to know if you could go any more, ready to stop at any time.

“one more?” you said breathily to him.

“just one.”

“yes daddy, i want you, please.” you plead to your bespectacled boyfriend, you began clenching around nothing feeling empty again.

“mhm please, please i want you.”

“alright darling, no need to fret. m’right here.” he assured.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

i think he’s more like “why would you need those when you have me.” type of guy. like i don’t feel like he would have them even for punishments he would rather do it himself, even because he would feel closer to you like he’d rather fuck and tease you then silicone (bruh 😭)

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

i feel like you would do more of the teasing because he would automatically become obdient to you. if he was teasing it wouldn’t be for long because he would fuck himself from watching you squirm and tease you.

his palm rested on the inside of your thigh, tracing little shapes as goosebumps rose onto your skin.

“nervous, darling?” he teased in your ear while you were trying to converse with peter about arithmancy homework during dinner at the great hall.

“james. stop. teasing.” you said through gritted teeth, your legs squirming at his fingers grazing your panties.

“but you’re so beautiful like this, about to make a mess during dinner? think that’s polite y/n?” he mocked you, he loved that he had that effect on you.

you turned towards his face that was almost touching the shell of your ear.

“if you keep doing this i won’t fuck you for a month.” you whispered, venom like words leaving your throat.

his sapphire eyes quickly widened as he moved his hand by the cap of your knee. you smirked as he was almost frantic by your words.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

he wants the whole hogwarts castle to know that you’re his so he is loud. he groans, he moans, he dirty talks, he moans your name like he is EXTRA with it. sometimes you almost have to shush him but he’s not having any of that.

“james, hush! you’re going to get all the prefrecfs scrambling around the room if you’re to loud!” you said covering his mouth, feeling him smirk against your palm.

“but darling, that’s the whole point. don’t you want everyone to know who you belong to?” you flushed and pulled your hand away from his face.

“that’s what i thought love.”

“you know sirius will never let us live this down, bet he can hear from the common room.”

“then let’s give him a show, shall we?”

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

cockwarming. if you’re being a brat that’s one of the ways he’s gonna punish you, while he’s working on a prank and his arm is just around your waist to make you stop squirming.

“if you’re going to be a brat angel, i’m gonna start treating you like one.” he murmured to your squirming figure as he tried to figure out a new prank on snape.

you were sat on top of his cock, clenching and squirming almost begging for him to touch you.

“jamie please i need you, please, please please.” you begged him, yet no avail. a determined look on his face as he was scribbling on the parchment.

he swatted your bum, you jolted a bit at the sudden friction of his hand and began to whine.

he looked at you, a dark look in his eyes which shut you up immediately because you knew what that look meant.

“hmm, so you can listen to the rules? good girl.”

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

that man is big and thick and he KNOWS HE IS. i’d say 8inches hard?

you rested your bum on to your calves before scooching up to this belt buckle as he was standing, holding a faux-ponytail of your hair between his calloused fingers.

“are you sure, y/n? you don’t have to if you don’t want too.” he looked down at you, puling your eyes to look in his sapphire ones.

“m’sure james.” you assured him, undoing the buckle and swiftly pulling down his boxers and uniform pants at the same time.

his shirt discarded on the floor earlier, his dick slapping his clenched stomach. he was already hard from your teasing and grinding earlier.

your eyes widened at his size, nervous how you would fit it all in your mouth.

“what’s wrong darling?” he started to get concerned at your frozen state.

“nothing.. y-your just, so big.” you said looking at his cock and hearing a chuckle in the backround.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

i feel like it’s pretty high but it’s always depending on you, he would rather die than force you to do anything if you weren’t feeling it or just didn’t want too. so if you’re up for anything than so is he.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

if it’s during the day i don’t think he would get that tired, but if it was during the night and he just finished aftercare i feel like you would lay on his chest if he hadn’t worked you hard enough and you guys would just talk about anthing. but if you guys did a lot of rounds and you were on the verge of slumber he would just kiss your hairline and praise you as you fell asleep.

“my good girl.” he said while kissing your forehead. “i love you so so much, you’re the only one for me.” his hand dragging against the arch of your back, the only thing seperating him from your skin was the shirt he put on you.

“my sweets, does everything for me. how could i have gotten so lucky.” he whispered on the shell of your ear.

“hmm, jamie been asking myself the same thing.” you murmured, sleep almost pulling you under but not enough for you to reply to him.

“goodnight james. i love you.”

“i love you more, my sweets.”

taglist: @mushroomfleur @fathermarty @kittykylax @famdomhideout @90steaology

if you’re username is crossed out that means the blog name is incorrect and you need to resubmit your form form my taglist!

#james potter fluff #james potter fic #james potter fanfiction #james & peter & remus & sirius #james potter x oc #james potter x you #james potter #james potter x y/n #james potter one shot #james potter smut #james potter supremacy #james potter series #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter smut #harry potter

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chocolate-parfait · 3 years

Note

I see the askbox is open 🙂 You don’t know the speed at which I raced here.

But I was really hoping that you could do headcanons for Arthur (vamp), Masamune (Sen), and Mitsuhide (Sen) with a s/o who is an author? Like Tolkien almost, she writes high fantasy and is super well known? (bonus points if she goes back in time with one of her novels on her to show them exactly).

I hope it’s not confusing^^

I adore your writing so I hope to see whatever you publish in the future!

Thank you so much!!

Waa thank you sm for your support!! It really means a lot, thank you ❤ ❤ I hope you enjoy!

Author!MC who writes high fantasy novels - (Arthur, Masamune & Mitsuhide)

Arthur

Arthur is extremely amused and intrigued when he hears about your occupation, and even more so when he discovers that you’re a pretty big shot, too. For once, he completely discards appearances (although he still thinks you’re very pretty) and is genuinely interested in your job, frequently asking details about your writing process, your stories and such.

Your books come from two completely different universes, as we have realism and crime against fantasy and supernatural. Yet, when you offer your book for him to read, he falls absolutely in love with it. Although it may not seem like it, Arthur is quite the superstitious man, and has always had a certain interest in the occult and paranormal. Long story short, he becomes your number one fan.

He asks Comte to bring back your books from the future so that he can read them all (if you find out he’ll admit it with a sheepish smile and a blush on his face), and even then he feels like he doesn’t know enough about the different worlds described in your books and about their writer, you. If the topic pops up during conversations he'll take his chance and curiously ask you more and more questions about your job; if not, he'll pick up hints along the way whenever he can.

Your writing schedule will easily adapt to the domesticity of your relationship. You both write together in the same room (sometimes his, sometimes yours, or even in the dining room) as it can be very motivational, and you’re both ready to comfort the other whenever a lack of inspiration puts a stop to your writing. Furthermore, it’s very practical when it comes to taking breaks! He’ll cuddle with you while asking how everything’s coming along and if you need him to help you get some ideas. (this man will def sneak kisses whenever you're absorbed in your own little world because he adores the pout that magically appears on your lips whenever you're concentrated)

Overall, he’s very supportive of what you do. He understands the struggles of being a writer, but he also adores how much of a professional you are. Would probably be a fanboy even if you two didn’t know each other (he’d buy your books in secret so that Theo doesn’t tease him; the great mystery writer who adores realism, falls in love with high fantasy books. The man would never let him see the end of it)

Masamune

Even before knowing that you actually come from the future, Masamune is extremely curious to see some of your works once he hears that you’re a writer. As someone who writes poetry, knowing that you have the same passion makes him like you even more; although your occupations are as different as they can be, he still enjoys finding a common ground with you. Sometime later, after he has already discovered about your particular situation, he’ll also come to learn about the differences between what he thought you did and what your job really is. Fundamentally the job is always the same, but the whole process and the final products are almost completely different than what he had expected.

He doesn’t know what high fantasy is, but when you do tell him about all the various genres and such, he finds himself not too weirded out by the idea; it’s very similar to popular folklore, after all.

When he asks you to tell him one of your stories, you find the perfect situation to show him a physical copy of one of your best-sellers. He’s amazed by the weird-looking book. It’s experiencedly crafted and perfectly written (that’s printing for you<3), and he curiously fidgets with it as he asks endless questions about it. Unfortunately, he can’t read anything (even if it was written in modern Japanese he’d probably be able to grasp 3 words in a whole page or smth, lol), so you find yourself narrating your stories to him. (you receive great in-depth feedback for each chapter in return!! Masamune will be 100% honest with you and takes it v seriously). It becomes a daily occurrence that neither of you wants to miss. Each night, just before bed, you read out loud part of your book as Masamune quietly listens to your every word, wholly enraptured by the story.

He’s the most supportive partner one could wish for, and he’s always ready to show your works off to everyone he knows. He’ll help you get in touch with local printers and see what he can find amongst all the imported goods to make your job easier. If you ever find yourself stuck, he’ll gladly take you on a stroll to help you get your mind off writing for a bit to come back more refreshed and inspired.

Mitsuhide

Mitsuhide is a man who mostly communicates through lies, vague descriptions or distorted realities just to confuse others. As such, he finds your writing skills and wide imagination to be quite useful and admirable. He can be a capable storyteller if needed, so you often wonder why he doesn’t try writing every once in a while.

This said, he never expected for his kitsune story to strike up a chord in you to the point you’d write a story with a character heavily based on him as the protagonist. He’s quite flattered to say the least. When you hand the finished manuscript to him as a gift, he reads it all in one night. (let's pretend he'd be able to understand ahahah...) He’s amazed by your skill and the world you managed to describe through such vivid wording, but you'll have to read between his teasing words to grasp his real feelings about the gift, although he sincerely thanks you profusely.

The novel is the first work of yours he has ever had the chance to read, so he stores it away very carefully in a corner of his room, but curiosity makes him wonder about your previous works though he doesn't directly ask you anything about them. Sure, he'll probably drop some hints here and there concerning this hidden wish of his, but that's totally up to you to understand. Sooner or later he finds two copies of some of your books in the bag in your room (it was totally accidental, he wouldn't just barge in your room and look through your things like that), and he feels like he's fallen in love all over again. There's this particular level of mastery with which you handle your words that leave him spellbound and amazed. Who would have ever thought that his little clumsy mouse was such an expert writer?

In general, Mitsuhide is the closet fanboy. He won't be as open about his love for your stories as Masamune, but he's not afraid to be direct about his feelings every once in a while, especially if you really need to hear supporting words from him. If anyone ever brings up your skills during a conversation, he'll hum in affirmation with a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips.

#answered #ikemen sengoku #ikemen vampire #ikevamp arthur #ikesen masamune #ikesen mitsuhide #tplosh #date masamune #akechi mitsuhide #my writing #ikevamp imagines #ikesen headcanons #ikesen imagines #ikesen scenarios #ikevamp scenarios #ikevamp headcanons

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wardenannie · 3 years

Text

A lot of baby/pregnancy fic tends to focus on the end of pregnancy/the beginning of the baby’s life. But I wanted to do a little character study into Levi, so here he is over the course of 10 hours after learning Hange is preggo~ (mildly nsfw)

Ao3

10 Hours

Hour 0

“So...” She faces away from him. Her single eye locked on the sky beyond her window. Hange Zoe, fourteenth Commander of the Survey Corps, will not turn to face him. She is sat at her desk, hands folded on its top. Levi cannot see her expression, but he expects that it is as grim as her tone.

He braces himself for bad news.

“I’m pregnant.”

The birds beyond the window stop singing. The clouds cease their trek across the cerulean sky. Levi’s breath is stuck in his chest, a painful lump between his lungs.

“Come again?”

This time she does look at him, pinning him to the floor with an emotionless glance over her shoulder.

“Pregnant. Expecting. Vertically impaired bun in the proverbial oven.”

The short joke is lost on him. He exhales sharply, like someone punched him in the gut, “Oh.”

Hange sighs and resumes her staring out the window, “Just think on it. You don’t need to say anything right now.”

Levi swallows thickly and gladly takes the excuse to exit the room. His head is spinning, heart thundering in his chest. Pregnant. It doesn’t feel real yet.

He retreats to the relative safety of his quarters.

Hour 1

Levi punches a hole in his wall with a snarl. Untoward anger radiating through his limbs.

Sheetrock and plaster rain down, dirtying his pristine floor, further incensing him. He kicks a second hole in the wall, shouting with the impact of his booted heel. More debris falls.

He paces back and forth, occasionally tugging a hand through his hair. He’s sweating, he feels filthy.

But he knows that Hange isn’t lying. This is not the sort of sick joke she would pull. But they had been so careful, hadn’t they?

He replays the penultimate moments of their last few encounters over in his head, and quickly realizes that they haven’t been as careful as he’d thought. There is nothing quite like losing himself in the depths of Hange... Commander Hange.

Shit. He curses himself and perches on the foot of his bed, resting his head in his hands.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

Hour 2

Eventually he finds himself spread eagle across his bed. His eyes trace along the wooden grain of the ceiling. His head still spins when he thinks too deeply about anything, and a strange ache has settled into his chest, like a fist around his heart.

Does he love Hange Zoe? Would it be fair to bring a child into the world if he didn’t?

They’ve never said the words aloud to one another, but he knows in his heart-of-hearts that he does love her. She anchors him to reality, instills in him a drive to live where there might have only been despair.

His fists clench and unclench rhythmically in his linens. Levi shuts his slate eyes and breathes deeply, trying to calm and steady himself.

He is in love with Hange Zoe. He can admit that to himself now, in what feels like the most dire of circumstances.

But can he love a child? Is there enough room in his heart?

He rolls onto his side and covers his face with a pillow.

It still feels unreal. A bad dream playing out before his waking eyes.

Hour 3

He oscillates back into denial, then anger.

Who are they to bring a child into this terrible, cruel world? An Eldian child, a scapegoat, a martyr for Marley to string up and burn.

She has to be lying. Hange cannot possibly be telling him the truth. No Walls, no Gods, no omnipotent powers could be so terribly sordid as to bring an infant into the world now. Not while they are on the brink of war.

Hour 4

He remembers his childhood; years spent wasting away in a whorehouse. Starving while his mother wasted her ill-gotten wages on booze. Levi was a bastard, fatherless. The only male role-model he’d ever had was Kenny, and look where that had gotten him.

“I can’t be a father,” he whispers into the dying light of his quarters.

He doesn’t know how.

Hour 5

He takes his supper in the mess hall when he would normally eat within the privacy of his quarters. He hopes that the noise might distract, that interacting with his... his kids... might help him to better grasp his current situation.

The irony of it isn’t lost on him as he sits in silence amongst his young comrades. In a way he has been a father to them where their own had become titan food.

He watches Sasha scarf her food with abandon, Connie teasing her between his own hearty mouthfuls. He watches Jean roll his eyes at the two of them, then take a moment to proudly pet the patchy stubble that has begun to grow in around his chin.

Levi listens to Armin excitedly pontificate to Mikasa and Eren about Marlean cuisine and meal customs. Mikasa listens on in contented silence, a small smile on her lips. Eren’s eyes are distant, like he isn’t listening at all.

Levi wants to smack him on the back of his head. The twerp has been acting up a lot more as of late. Secretly, it worries him.

His kids.

Who needs a baby when they have it this good?

He sighs and looks down to his tray, food untouched.

They’re Hange’s kids, too.

Their baby. Theirs.

Hour 6

He returns to his quarters, stomach tied up in painful knots. He remembers Kenny, how the man had taught him the cruel, ruthless ways of the Underground.

He remembers Isabel and Furlan. How he had allowed himself to love so selflessly only to be burned and brutalized in the end. What if that happened to Hange? Hange who he had come to rely on more than anything, anyone. Childbirth was a dangerous thing, everyone knew that. Even with the new, fancy anti-biotics being imported from the mainland the risks were high.

What if he lost her?

Her remembers Erwin who he had loved as a father, a brother, a martyr and a dear comrade. He remembers his Commander dying on that rooftop in Shiganshina. He remembers the blood. Icy blue eyes cold and dead as Hange peeled back his lids.

Levi’s stomach rolls and he flips his upper half over the side of the bed and promptly vomits onto the floor.

Behind his eyes an image has begun to take shape. Hange laid out in bed, naked from the waist down. Bloody, sweaty, weak and dying as a shapeless creatures squalls on her chest.

“No,” Levi rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He feels so weak, so helpless in the face of this indominable thing. The sleep that takes him is unbidden and restless.

Hour 7

Levi dreams of a cabin tucked away amongst the massive boles of the trees beyond wall Rose. Smoke rises from the chimney, filling the crisp forest air with a pleasant, homey smell.

Sunlight breaks through the canopy and speckles the ground. Everything is bright and beautiful and alive. The simple wooden door of the cabin beckons to him, and he is helpless but to answer its call.

Inside the space is cozy and quaint. The kitchen and living area inhabiting the same space. Hange is waiting for him, sitting on a small, plush sofa. She isn’t wearing her eye patch, revealing the milky iris and silvery scar she usually guards so carefully.

“Levi,” she beams at him. For a moment he is stunned by her simple, unkempt beauty.

He knows he is meant to be anxious over something, but suddenly he cannot remember what it is.

He sits down beside her takes her face between his hands and kisses her.

I love you, he wants to admit the truth. He’s ready. But his lips will not part. The words will not pass his tongue.

When they part Hange’s expression darkens, long shadows falling over her hawkish features.

“Levi...” she breathes.

Shadows begin to creep in from the corners of the cabin. The walls suddenly feel as though they are caving in, and suddenly his peaceful dream has become a nightmare.

“You’re pregnant,” The sound of his own voice is alien and distant in his ears. He feels small. Smaller than usual. Miniscule and helpless. Why can he speak now?

Hange nods and then the pair of them are besieged by shadows.

Hour 8

Levi sits bolt upright in his bed, sweat is gathered on his brow and sharp shivers wrack his limbs. He pants and wipes his face with his palm.

“Fuck,” he curses.

He’s used to nightmares, but more often than not Hange is in bed beside him waiting to soothe them away.

Here, in his quarters, he is completely and utterly alone.

Levi doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

He tugs on his boots and stumbles out into the hallway, not caring how disheveled he must appear to any passers-by. He wants to be with Hange, he’s cursing himself for leaving her alone to begin with.

How selfish does that make him? He’s not the one bearing the brunt of this burden. It isn’t his body and life that are at risk. What must she be feeling now? All alone because her lover left her in a fit of selfish upset.

When he reaches her door he doesn’t bother to knock. It opens with a rush of air and he finds her where he left her; sitting at her desk, gazing out the window. Her elbows rest on the dry ink of a half finished letter.

“Levi?” She spins sideways in her chair, facing him entirely.

He shakes his head and closes the distance between them in two easy strides. He seizes her face between his hands and kisses her roughly, because he isn’t good with words, so he’ll show her how he feels.

“Mmpf!” She makes a noise of surprise, but then she melts into him, hands lifting to rest on his chest, then caressing around to link behind his neck.

When they part she gives a small, sad smile and says, “I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight.”

“I was being an idiot,” Levi grunts, and he helps her to her feet. “A selfish idiot.”

“No you weren’t, Levi. It’s a lot to take in, I know,” her thumb brushes his lower lip. “I love you.”

Hour 9

The words are difficult to speak, so he shows her out he feels. He shows her in the reverent way he peels her clothes from her body, the rough, desperate caress of his touch, the slide of his thin lips over her chin and collarbones and breasts.

He holds her hips and kisses from her navel to her abdomen, and he kisses her there too because despite everything he does want this baby. He loves this baby already, because it is him and it is Hange. The best of the both of them taking shape in her womb.

Levi abandons all gentleness as he makes love to her. It is animal. Primal. His hands will leave bruises on her hips, and his lips suck hers swollen.

When he finishes, just after her, he doesn’t bother to pull out. It doesn’t matter anymore. And as he pumps himself into her he whispers raspy and desperate into her sternum, “I love you.”

The words hurt in such a sublime way. He’s never said them before, not once in his life. But here he is, speaking them, meaning them, bleeding them from his soul into hers.

He loves her, and he’ll love this baby, too.

Hour 10

They lay in bed, Hange’s fingers comb rhythmically through his hair, and she presses the occasional kiss to his crown.

Levi has one arm wound around her waist, his cheek pressed into her sternum, his other hand cupping her abdomen, thumb caressing gentle circles into the skin there.

“I know you’re afraid,” Hange finally speaks. Her voice is soft and loaded with emotion. “I am, too. But I think we deserve this, Levi. It’s a chance for a life beyond the Survey Corps, for a real family.”

Levi tilts his head up and kisses her gently. She’s right, but he still cannot help but remember his vision and his nightmare.

“There’s so much that could go wrong,” his voice is pained. He holds her tighter.

Hange sighs and rests her cheek on his head, “You’re not wrong, but we’ve got eight months to figure things out, okay? For tonight, just hold me.”

Levi sighs and melts into her, shutting his eyes.

In Hange’s arms his sleep is dreamless.

#levihan #my writing

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cheekygreenty · 3 years

Text

In My Head - The Darkling x Reader

Supppeer angsty and kinda sad?

The fire engulfed the golden kefta in a water-like rhythm. The cracks and sparks echoed in the open field amongst the silence that settled around all of you. Alina was exhausted, Zoya was grieving, the Ketterdam criminals looked shaken too. But you were unmoving, as still as a painting and not showing a single emotion. They had all witnessed your heartbreak as it fell and crashed the world around you, breaking every part of you. They watched as realization flooded you that you never truly knew Aleksander. They watched as he tore your heart from your chest and threw it into the depths of the Fold to rot.

Painted a picture,

I thought I knew you well

It was humiliating. Alina had tried to warn you but you played her off as selfish and unwilling to use her powers for the good of all Grisha. You told her she was stupid and foolish for loving an otkazat'sya when in reality you were the fool for loving a man that didn't exist.

You told her she was crazy, that Aleksander would never lie to you and that he was good because you knew him. In truth, you were no better than him. You blindly followed everything he said, completely ignoring the alarm bells in your head. You had grown used to them as weeks went by, to the point of the alarm playing a low comforting tune in your mind all day and all night.

There weren't enough apologies in the world to say sorry for the things you'd done and said to Alina and she'd insisted that no apology was necessary because it wasn't your fault, 'It's not your fault you only see the good things about people' she whispered to you before she left to change. But the good things about him weren't there; they never existed. It was all in your head, a mind so desperate for love it concocted a whole new Aleksander, one which you loved so much and would do anything for.

I got a habit of seeing what isn't there

'We were all fooled Y/N, Don't blame it all on yourself' Despite her grieving and sorrow, Zoya's hand rested on your shoulder briefly as a sign of comfort. Without her, you wouldn't have been here right now, alive and breathing.

'I don't blame myself. I hate myself for being so blind'

'Me too'

I thought that you were the one

But it was all in my head

------

You could feel the nothingness of the Fold threading through your hair even inside Alina's tunnel of safety. You stared at her shackled feet, pushing the guilt away and replacing it with a sense of righteousness. There was nothing else that could be done to keep her in check, if she wanted to escape and hide from her destiny forever then she would do so over your dead body.

The Fold needed to be gone and if chaining her to the skiff was going to be the only way she obeyed then so be it. Your mind quickly spiraled back to her hasty words back in the tent. She was panicked and desperate, clinging to your arm like a wailing child begging to be heard. Her lies were bizarre and abundant, no doubt the works from her long journey to the Stag but they were unbelievable. So extreme even a Fjerdan would laugh at their ridiculousness.

The skiff suddenly stopped, Novokribirsk visible in the distance with lines of First-Army troops standing in neat lines.

'Why have we stopped?' A dignitary asked and you wondered the same thing. You searched the skiff for anyone with an explanation, but everyone looked equally as confused but Alina looked mortified. What is going on?

'One more demonstration. You’ve seen what the Sun Summoner can do' You whipped your head around to him slightly moving away but his arm pulled you back to his side with an edge. You heard the loud jangle of Alina's chains as she tried to move. 'Now bear witness to what I can do… with her power.'

He pushed you to Ivan, who took no time in holding you back by the arms, caging you in his grasp. You resisted on the simple basis that you didn't know why you were being restrained just like Alina but the answer came all too soon. There was no time to shout or gasp as Aleksander raised his own hands and the black shadows of the Fold expanded into Novokribirsk, killing everything in its path.

You stood motionless as the horrible sounds of volcra swarming and humans screaming flooded the air. Alina's words came back to you again but you didn't listen. No, you didn't want to. Zoya seemingly came down from the mainsail and looked at the black void in a hypnosis-like stare but nobody dared say anything. There was a silence on the skiff while hundreds and thousands of lives ceased to exist in a matter of seconds.

The comforting tune in your head had suddenly turned into a blinding screech, rendering you frozen and flabbergasted. He did this, Aleksander did this. How could he do this? You tried to fight the heartrenderer off, squirming desperately in his arms to cover your ears from the slaughtering sounds. Your knees had given out by now and Alina was on the floor of the skiff, struggling to get up due to the heavy and awkward chains. I put them there.

'Today, we redraw all the maps. With the power of the Sun Summoner at my command, I control the Fold.' A sob erupted from your throat right at the minute you realized Alina was right. You didn't listen, this is all my fault. Ivan pulled you back up, roughly smacking a hand over your mouth to stop your pathetic cried of betrayal. You fought a little harder, trashing around in hopes of escaping his hold or at least getting someone's attention but nobody seemed to care. They all feared for their lives.

'All countries will answer to us. For who would oppose us now?' He briefly shot a look in your direction but spared you no emotion. It was then that you saw the real Aleksander, blood-thirsty for power and revenge. The Black Heretic.

Everything you are made you

Everything you aren't

The next five minutes were a complete blur. You somehow found yourself fighting for your life and those around you. Your head was empty of its usual whirling thoughts as survival mode kicked in. Kill or be killed. You stopped counting how many hits you got or how many bruises were forming on your body. It was primal and in your Grisha nature to protect those around you, and in that haste of battle you made your allegiance to Alina obvious.

There was no time to think about Aleksander. You weren't quite sure you wanted to think about him. He was on this skiff with you, on the opposing side that just murdered a town full of people yet the part of your brain, your imagination, craved to be by his side. To please him by obeying, to get his touch in return. You were addicted to the man who had ruined your innocence.

'You betrayed me' His voice was right behind you as was his hand, creeping up the side of your throat and forcefully pushing you against the barrier of the skiff, ready to throw you over to the unlit Fold.

'I betrayed you?!' Your shout was loud and hearty, overflowing with sadness and shame at being relieved for being next to him again. You clawed at his tightening hand, feeling your airways restrict and your vision become fainter and fainter. You would die at the hands of the man you loved.

'Look what you made me do Y/N, do you think I want to kill you?' Your head bopped but your stupid heart grasped at the sadness in his words, he still loves me. 'I don't want to. I really don't'

'Then don't' you chocked out, your hold on his wrists becoming limp. You felt the ever-so familiar touch of his lips grace your temple and then he retreated.

The world went dark but your body hit the deck of the skiff, not the soft sands of the Fold and your lungs abruptly filled with forced Squaller air.

Yes, I did it to myself, yeah

Thought you were somebody else

'What are you going to do now?' You still sat by the fire while everyone stood. Zoya had left your side and was talking with Alina but you filtered out the noise. Your head was too full of your own self-hatred to stand any more voices so Jesper's question to you went unnoticed. 'Y/N?'

You looked at him and shrugged. You didn't want to move, your body still ached too much from being dragged away from the brink of death to make your way somewhere safe.

You would never admit it around anyone, but as Alina spoke of the Darkling being dead, a wave of grief washed over you. It was cold and unpleasant; unwelcome. But you knew love didn't disappear overnight. You didn't know who saved you on the skiff, whether it was he who had let you go, or was it Zoya who battled to have you freed from his grasp.

As much as you had created the Aleksander you viewed, the foundations were all him, you had only added on or omitted the parts you did and didn't like. You prayed it was him who spared you, you prayed there was something real about your Aleksander, that that was a foundation.

The tears that fell down your face in a stream were assumed to be for the betrayal and the horridness of what the Darkling had done to you and others, when if fact they were for him. You cried because you would never see him again, you cried because the people who had helped you get out of the Fold were the same people who had killed him.

-------

When Mal caught your deathly stare in his direction, he had to do a double-take. You had the same look in your eyes as the General did when he fought him in the Fold, that exact replica of coldness and rage; revenge. But surely he was wrong. You were happy to know the Heretic was dead. He betrayed you the most out of everyone here and almost killed you. Why would you be vengeful?

He waved it off with a shake, it's all in my head.

------

Masterlist

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waatermelon-sugaar · 3 years

Text

Bliss

Pairing = FO! Poe x reader

Words = 6k (don’t look at me)

Summary = You watch your husband throw a knife, sparking 18+ thots

Warnings = SMUT (18+ only!) KNIFE PLAY, reader masturbation, fingering (f receiving), violence, like one non-graphic sentence of imaginary blood, but no actual blood (PLEASE message me if you wanna know more before reading and I’ll answer any questions you might have :) )

A/N 1 = This is basically pure smut and I’m sorry, it’s all from that training video

A/N 2 = You and Poe are married in the fic, and love each other. There is also discussion of the scene involving the knife. In real life, this discussion should be much longer, and less one-sided, going through details with much more depth. If you ever try knife play in real life, please never use the knife during actual sex in case of injury. You should also always have a first aid kit, and certain places of the body (the neck, inner wrists, groin area) should never come into contact with a sharp knife because of the high risk of lethal injury. In this fic they do it because it’s fiction. Please always do your research and make sure your partner does too, make sure you keep communicating and also that you trust the person you’re with.

If you have any questions about the content of this fic before you read, send me a message, if you have questions about knife play, send me a message, I’ll be more than happy to talk about it!! (Actually I’ll talk about anything to anyone if you ever want to chat! ☺️)

Also PLEASE let me know if I missed any warnings!!

Posted to AO3

Masterlist

***

“What do you think … Captain?”

You pause for effect before pulling out Poe’s rank. It’s a little too tough and impersonal for your tastes, usually preferring the purr, the rough and ready of ‘Sir’, but you know that Poe enjoys the rare occasion when you do use it, and if it means you get what you want, you’ll call him every name under the sun. Your husband’s brown eyes darken as you pout, giving him your best puppy dog eyes.

You’re sat on his desk, far enough back that you can swing your legs a little, hands tucked under your thighs, while Poe relaxes in his seat, looking like work, all sharp angles and dark looks. He trimmed his beard in the refresher this morning, emphasising his jaw, and that perfect, pink mouth. You can’t wait to get him home so he can relax properly. He works far too hard for a thankless job in your opinion.

Anyway, in your defense, it was Poe who planted the seed of the idea in your head in the first place.

You knew Poe was proficient at fighting, and weaponry, and that his skill in a TIE fighter was unparalleled in the First Order, but you’d thought that his particular area of expertise was constrained to blasters and other long-distance weapons.

Not knives.

You were supposed to be the best at knives. After all, Poe had recruited you to work for the First Order after watching you take down some disrespectful asshole who had been twice your size in close quarters, a small hidden knife strapped in your boot being the deciding factor in your victory. All over a dispute of cheating.

It was a shame, really.

All that loss of life … for nothing. All that chaos, just breeding more chaos, and who was the real winner?

Poe had shown you how nice it felt to bring order. He’d shown you how nice a lot of things felt.

So you’d just assumed that Poe wasn’t as good with knives, and therefore wasn’t as disposed to use them. You’d never asked, merely enjoying the way his eyes lingered on you when you practiced your skills in training, and really enjoying the sex afterwards. And even after a year of marriage, it had never come up.

But last week, you and Poe had been among a larger group of officers fighting your way out of a Resistance base after blowing their central intelligence systems. You’d shot once, twice and then a third time at a particularly stubborn oncoming Rebel, finally hitting them in the stomach, causing them to double over in pain.

Stars, your new job had made you rusty. You’d have to practice using your blaster more.

You’d stood over the rebel to deliver a final shot to their face, taking them out of their misery and turned just in time to see Poe throwing his blaster to one side, smoke issuing from it, and pulling a small knife from a holster on his thigh. Your mouth dry, you’d continued to watch as, almost in slow motion, Poe had thrown the knife with deadly accuracy, the small silver flash burying itself into the Rebel’s exposed neck.

Fuck that was hot.

Why was that so hot?

The rebel had stood there with an expression of surprise, cocky bastard, blood already dribbling, a bright red stream running down their throat, but you just had eyes for Poe. You’d ignored the way the Rebel’s body slumped to the ground with a heavy finality, and moved forwards, suddenly desperate to feel Poe’s lips on yours.

Damn the Resistance, and damn the rebels.

You would kiss your husband, and you would kiss him right now.

Poe had turned, his eyes automatically sweeping for you, surprise in his eyes at first at how close you already were, but he’d allowed you to push him into the dusty wall, one of your hands looking for his and twinning your fingers together.

Your deadly hands, spun together for eternity.

Your other hand is automatically reaching for Poe’s neck, fingers grasping at his hair, pulling his lips towards yours. You can smell his sweat, the familiar scent pooling under his cologne, filling you with a sense of safety, even amongst the very-real danger the two of you are currently facing. His free hand is already gripping your hip, pulling your body towards him as if you weren’t as close as you could possibly be.

It’s moments like these that you think the two of you are made for each other. You couldn’t imagine needing to kiss anyone else in the middle of a mission, couldn’t imagine anyone else letting you do such a thing, couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting you the way Poe wants you. The way you want - no, need - him.

The way he needs you.

Even though your eyes are closed, you can still see how Poe’s fingers moved, causing the knife to fly out of his hands, even as they grip your hips, one of his legs pushing nicely between yours, canting upwards slightly towards the ache you’re already feeling.

The movement is replaying over and over again behind your eyelids, and you never want to forget it.

Poe’s mouth slots perfectly over yours, and he gasps into you when you pull on his hair slightly. He’d had it cut recently, and it’s still a touch too short for your liking, unable to properly tug unless you hold the curls on top of his head.

You take the opportunity to taste him, dipping your tongue into his mouth, and he lets you, lets you bite his tongue, as his beard tickles your skin, scratching deliciously. And then you bite his lip as you pull away, and he groans deep, hitting your body lower, warming you up.

But you don’t let yourself move against his thigh. Not now. Not yet. Not even as you move your mouth to his throat, where his salt and pepper beard gives way to tan skin, kissing him desperately. You don’t stop, even as your hands untangle, and Poe reaches for your holster, raising your blaster and letting off a shot in your ear. You keep kissing him, following the line of his beard up to his ear, nipping lightly at his lobe, ignoring the sounds of a body falling behind you.

And now he’s plastering kisses to your skin, wherever he can get his mouth, on your forehead, down your cheek, along your arm, only separating from you as he delicately kisses each of your fingers. There’s further swooping low in your belly as you look at him, kiss swollen lips, hooded eyelids, dark eyes.

And then your gaze is broken, other members of the First Order catching up to you, whooping and hollering in success. Their shouts are enough to make Poe reach for your hand again, holding it as he pulls the two of you back to his TIE fighter, back to safety and freedom.

But the image of Poe throwing a knife didn’t leave you, even after the mission, taking up most of your brain during the debrief, and even popping into your mind later that evening, before Poe joined you in bed, where you found your hands trailing fire over your body, pinching your nipples, as you imagine Poe pressing a cold knife into and around the flesh of your breasts.

You’re naked, and the room is cool, goosebumps prickling along your flesh despite that familiar heat spreading through your veins, slowly burning you up from the inside. You can feel sweat gathering despite the chill, along your hairline, your upper arms, your stomach.

Once you’d started you couldn’t stop, pressing your thighs together as you worked yourself up, fingers teasing your skin as you imagined Poe walking in, still in his uniform. He’d stop at the end of the bed and just watch you.

And then he’d lean over you, still watching you with those dark eyes, and take out that knife, just tracing it up your leg, gently pressing it into the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your pussy, and you pause, with your head tipped back on your pillow, mouth open, eyes closed, imagining the feeling.

Letting out a small whimper, you’d lowered your hand, dipping your fingers between your folds, and delicately traced around your clit, spreading the wetness that had gathered throughout the day around.

You’d settled into your familiar rhythm, slowly building the speed and pressure of your fingers on your clit, letting out little gasps when you hit the spot just right. And then your fantasy Poe opened his mouth, and you imagined him playing carelessly with the knife. “Put a finger inside yourself.”

You remember letting out a noise of agreement, not quite a word, inching your fingers further down, when your imaginary Poe clarified. “Just one, baby.”

You’d immediately lifted your head in protest, even though he wasn’t actually there, and you could have done what you had wanted to, but you’d obeyed. It’s part of the fun. You’d slid your middle finger in with little resistance, and closed your eyes in pleasure, your head falling back to your pillow.

You’d bitten your lip, muffled any quiet sounds that escaped you, imagining again and again and again how Poe would look holding that knife, ready to use it on you, carve the cold metal into your skin, not hard enough to hurt you, but enough that you can feel cool trails over hot skin.

Your single finger was slowly pumping in and out of you, and you were so wet you could hear it in the silence of your bedroom, your small gasps gradually increasing in volume. When you thought you couldn’t bear it anymore, you’d imagined Poe telling you to “Insert another one baby.”

So you had, letting out a small moan as a second finger joined the first, and gasped out Poe’s name. It was easier than when Poe did it, your fingers being smaller than his, but you could still feel a slight stretch.

You’d kept moving your fingers, gradually circled faster, ground your hips down so your clit caught on your palm, curved your fingers inside yourself. Your breaths were coming faster now, shuddering through your chest as you imagined Poe trailing the ice-cold knife up your legs, getting closer and closer to the juncture of your thighs.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, you imagined locking eyes with Poe, and he opened his mouth. “Cum for me, baby.” His voice was velvet, soft, but commanding and familiar as your toes started to curl. You couldn’t hear the noises coming from your mouth anymore, only dimly aware that you were moaning, the sound drowning out the squelch between your legs.

Your orgasm was a slow builder, and you remembered the last time Poe brought you to orgasm, how he whispered filthy praises in your ear as his cock dragged slowly in and out of you, coaxing you through it then as his imaginary doppelganger does now, watching you gush and spasm over your fingers, legs shaking in pleasure.

After you’d come, you’d lain there, panting on your bed, sweat cooling your skin. Languidly, you’d raised your fingers, cleaning them off with kitten licks, the tangy taste coating your tongue and wishing Poe would come to bed, he always enjoyed watching you clean up.

Your fantasy confirming just how into the idea of playing with a knife you were, you’d stewed over the idea a little further for a couple of days, imagining how it would actually feel, sure that in real life it would be different. You’d curiously pressed the blunt side of a knife on your inner forearm one day when you were alone in the kitchen, sending furtive glances towards the partially closed door. Technically it was nothing special, technically nothing exciting, not in that way, and it was the blunt side, but it had still sent a delicious shiver through you. You could feel your heart rate increasing as you trailed the cold metal up your arm, biting your lip as heat pooled low in your belly.

You even went so far to press the sharp point into your skin, stopping short of making yourself bleed, but enough you could see a small indentation in your skin. Your little ‘exercise’ cemented the idea further into your brain, the idea of something so dangerous being used in such a vulnerable position was intoxicating.

You’d taken your time, thinking over the idea, and carefully considering. You wanted to be sure of yourself before bringing the idea to Poe. He wouldn’t judge you for changing your mind, but still, it would be a little embarrassing to change your mind. Poe was careful with your boundaries, always checking in when the two of you went a little further than normal, and you knew that this would be no different.

All this had led to you coming to Poe’s office on your break and asking what he thought. He was considering it, as you knew he would, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are raking over you already, but you give him time, even though your palms are sweating and you’re sure your heart rate is through the roof.

It’s only when he moves, fingers twitching in their grasp of the chair that you react, leaning forwards, your feet swinging slightly at the motion.

“Ok,” he nods, and before you can fling yourself at him, he holds a hand up. “But. We have to establish some rules, like what kind of knife are we going to use?”

You nod, already pulling up the bag that had been resting on the floor, slumped over and forgotten in your excitement. You rummage around for a second, trying to find-

“Here!” You hold the knife out for Poe to take, grinning at the amusement in his eyes. “It’s blunt on both sides, you’d have to apply some pretty serious pressure if you wanted to do any damage.”

The knife is - and there’s really no other word for it - pretty, with a black blade, and decorated handle. It’s small, about 15 cm long, but the metal is heavy, and one that will stay cold for a long time. It had raised a few eyebrows when you’d asked for a pretty knife with two blunt edges, but you were a Dameron, and had some sway of your own. If you told those lower than you to obtain a specific knife discreetly and with no questions asked, so it happened.

Poe takes his time examining it, admiring it from all angles, shooting you another look, this time filled with pride.

“I did my research.” You flip your hair as if it was nothing, omitting how expensive the final bill had been, and how you’d charged it to your work account.

“That’s my girl,” he praises, still looking the knife over. Then he rests it in his lap, so he can roll up one of his sleeves, talking all the while. “Now tell me what you want me to do to you.”

So you do, explaining you’d quite like to be blindfolded but not restrained, to keep your colour system as the safeword, all while Poe is pressing the blade at different angles into his forearm, testing out different pressures.

When you pause, watching him, Poe glances up at you. “Go on.” Is all he says, and you nod, swallowing.

“I’d quite like it if you pulled the knife along my legs.” Your voice is quiet, but sure. “And maybe the same with my arms.” You pause, feeling nerves rising inside you and reminding yourself that this is your husband.

“I think… pressing the blade around my breasts would be sexy.” Poe pauses as he presses the flat edge of the blade into his forearm. “Just tracing around,” you continue, slightly braver now you have piqued Poe’s interest. “Maybe you could hold it against my throat? I don’t… I don’t know when, exactly, but I think it would be hot.”

You take a second, breathing deeper and you raise your chin to meet Poe’s gaze, feeling more confident as you continue. “Maybe you could hold it against my throat when you fuck me.” Poe’s gaze is fire, burning through you as he loosely holds your knife in his hands. “Maybe you could blindfold me and tell me that you wish the knife had a sharp end so you could carve your initials into my skin, showing that I belong to you.”

“And,” you start to move now, hopping off the desk so you can straddle Poe, easily plucking the knife from his hand, and looking down at it. “Maybe one day I can use it on you, and I can tell you how much I want to carve my initials into your skin.”

“Because we belong to each other,” Poe murmurs, his voice low. You nod in agreement, mouthing at his pulse point, and trailing sloppy kisses above the cut of his uniform. “I’d love that, sweetness.” His hands are running up and down your sides. “I love you.”

You just hum happily, content to be breathing in Poe’s scent, to feel surrounded by him. You’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and you just sag into Poe, the knife pressing slightly into your stomachs as you nose at his throat, unwilling to face the inevitable departure.

“What is it?” Poe’s voice is once again hard and forceful, impatient with whoever dared to interrupt.

“Sir?” The voice is young and you turn slightly, just enough to spy a young recruit in your peripheral view, not quite brave enough to enter the room, instead choosing to dither in the doorway, holding a number of files. “I’ve got these for you to sign.”

Poe just huffs, not bothering to address the recruit. You know what’s about to happen so you untangle yourself, before leaning over to grab one last kiss from Poe before the evening. It starts off innocently enough, a small peck on your husband’s lips as a goodbye, but then you back for another. This time his mouth is open as it meets yours, and you happily deepen it, despite the awkward angle that you have to hold yourself at. Your earlier conversation has fuelled your desire, revving you up, and the idea of waiting is hellish.

You taste all of Poe, moving one hand to his face, moving to feel the slight scratch of his beard underneath the pads of your fingers. His hand moves to cup your jaw, and you forget about the recruit standing in the doorway until there’s a slightly awkward shuffling in the corner.

So you break away, slowly, unwillingly, Poe’s mouth following even as you stand to your full height. “See you later,” you murmur, leaving your blunt knife in his lap, and pressing one more quick kiss to his cheek.

His hand catches yours as you leave, and he lowers his lips to your knuckles, soft lips juxtaposing with the harsh strands of his beard. “I love you.” They’re commonly said words between you, but they never lose their power, especially not when Poe says them, like you’re a goddess on a pedestal and he’s an unworthy sinner who wants nothing more than to worship at your feet. Said reverently, like it’s a privilege to love you.

The recruit is forgotten again as you look back down at Poe, still unable (or maybe unwilling, you’re not entirely sure) to tear yourself away. This time it’s a small, almost involuntary clearing of the throat that makes you duck down again for a kiss on the other cheek. “I love you too.”

Poe flashes you a quick smile, before all softness leaves his face and he turns to the files the recruit is holding out for him. You admire him for a second by the door, proud of the terror that Poe can instil in those below him so easily.

***

You’re lying on your bed when Poe enters the room. He’s already taken off his shirt in the refresher, exposing his chest, the warm glow of small lamps around the room making his chest look more golden than usual, as though he’d been touched by Midas. The belt holding his trousers up is slung low around his hips, and you can just see where his snail trail mixes into a darker bush, just peeking over the top of the fabric.

You’re wearing some of your favourite lingerie, bra matching your panties, straps criss-crossing your hips, and outlining your breasts. It’s soft against your skin, the satin material outlining your curves, allowing your nipples to poke through the flimsy fabric. Part of the reason that it’s your favourite is because Poe loves it so much.

You’d heard him enter your rooms, so the book in your hands is just for decoration, more concerned with the way you look resting among the pillows, upper body raised artfully against the headboard as you wait for your husband.

It still gives you a rush to call him that, and you idly wonder if it’ll ever fade.

He’s put his holster on, the one he wore on that mission, the strap doing nothing but emphasising his thigh. You recognise the handle peeking out of the shaft, and your mouth goes dry with excitement.

And Poe’s only looked at you, silent as he takes you in. Just his presence can have such an effect on you. When he does speak, his voice is hoarse, and your eyes flick down, admiring the already large bulge in his trousers. “Fuck baby.”

You swallow, your breath already coming faster, you look at Poe like it’s the first time, tracing the outline of his shoulders as if you don’t already know them by heart. He’s wearing his necklace, a familiar sight, the only change being that the ring that used to hang on his breast bone is now on your left hand, but Poe still never takes it off.

You plan on moving to Poe, plan to blow his mind before he can blow yours but before you can he’s already crawling on top of you, holding his weight on his forearms either side of you, dipping his head down to kiss you.

This kiss isn’t like the one in the office, more hungry, more urgent. There’s none of the calmness simmering between the surface, Poe’s let go of his control.

You automatically hook your legs around his waist, already canting your hips upwards as you grind on the seam of Poe’s trousers.

You separate your lips from Poe’s, moving down his throat, kissing, and biting as you go, beard scratching the skin on your face, pleasurable little bites of pain. When you can, you grab hold of his chain between your teeth, tugging on it slightly.

You move your hands up to bury your hands in the neat curls on top of Poe’s head, pulling in tandem with the chain.

And just like that, with a flash of fluid movement, the knife is pressed dangerously against the column of your throat, pushing your head back onto the pillows, forcing you to release the chain. It’s cold, and feels sharp, and Poe’s using it to force your chin back and up, pressing into your skin.

“Are you going to behave?” His voice is a growl.

You just grin at him, ignoring the thrills shooting up your spine, and the way your legs are tingling with excitement.

“Maybe you should use that knife and find out.”

Poe just rolls his eyes in response, fishing into his pocket as he leans back. “Put that on, sweetheart,” he instructs, tossing you a small square of black silk, your blindfold. “And lie back.” You do as you’re told, putting the blindfold on carefully, adjusting it around your hair for comfort, before scooting down the bed and lying back.

You close your eyes behind the blindfold, never enjoying the sensation of seeing darkness, and instead feeling like you’re floating as you wait for Poe to do something.

“Colour?”

Stars you can’t tell where he is.

“Green!” Your voice is embarrassingly desperate but you want to start and what is taking Poe so long? Why isn’t he touching you yet? You can hear him moving around the bed, feel the slight disturbances in the air, but you’re still not entirely sure where he is.

The first thing Poe does is pull at the waistband of your underwear. You lift your hips, helping him pull them off, and then you wait. You can hear Poe breathing, but he doesn’t do anything for a moment and you’re free to let your imagination run.

Has he discarded them, and he’s just watching you? Admiring you? Or is he holding them up to his face, still in awe of how wet you get for him, smelling you, tasting you, without you even knowing? You’re wet, you can feel the heat gathering between your legs, but has it been enough to leak onto your panties?

And then the foot of the bed dips, Poe travelling up to straddle you, coming to a rest on your thighs. He sits there for a moment, not moving, and you keen for him, desperate for him to start doing anything.

You can’t see the look on his face, can only imagine his expression, and it’s driving you wild.

When the knife first touches your skin, it’s a shock, cold thrills shooting up your arm from where the knife is resting lightly on the inside of your wrist. You giggle, releasing some of the tension building in the room, causing Poe to lift the knife from where it’s resting, instead leaning over to bite the skin under your ear, his chest brushing yours. “Concentrate,” he admonishes you, but you can feel him smiling against your skin at you, that softness that comes easy to him when it’s just the two of you.

You arch your back towards him as he stays there, enjoying the feeling of his chest against yours, the way his warmth spreads through you. You can feel his chain trapped between your bodies too, a warm, comforting presence, at such odds to the knife in Po’e hand.

You giggle again, his beard tickling your neck when he drops a kiss, when you feel the knife turn on your skin and curve up your arm. It’s cold, and sharp, and if you didn’t know it was blunt, you’d be worried about the amount of blood running into the bedsheets. The sensation is enough to stop your laughing, and you take in a breath, short and barely audible.

Poe’s sat up now, away from you, and you arch your back towards where he must be, desperate for contact as he travels the knife slowly up your arm and across the front of your shoulder.

You struggle to press your legs together, already attempting to relieve some of the pressure building. Poe doesn’t miss your subtle squirming, kissing the soft underside of your jaw, before talking. “That feel good?”

You nod, whining out a “Yes Poe, it-it feels so good, don’t stop, don’t stop, stars.” Poe adjusts himself, bringing one leg over your thigh so he can fit a knee at the junction of your legs. One of your hands flies down to grab Poe’s thigh, clumsy fingers looking for him before spreading across his warm skin. Your other hand is already fisting into the sheets at your side.

“Poe.”

It’s a whine, high-pitched and a bit pathetic, even as you shift your hips down, feeling the delicious grind of Poe’s uniform catching on your bare pussy, imagining the mess you’re leaving on his uniform not for the first time, feeling oh so good when you angle your hips in a certain way to press your clit. You’re soaked, you can already feel it slightly on your inner thighs and you dimly remember a time when you were embarrassed at how easily Poe aroused you.

He uses the knife to push the straps of your bra down your shoulders, cold and slow and achingly painful, but Poe doesn’t slide them all the way down your arms, even as he allows you to keep grinding your hips down against his leg.

He lowers his mouth to your breasts, mouthing at your nipples through the thin fabric, a wet heat pooling and you mewl in protest, impatient and wanting more. Always more.

More, more, more.

You don’t think you could ever get enough of your husband.

And his beard. The skin on your breasts is soft, sensitive, and you can feel the burn already, even through your bra. Each scratch sends a thrill up your chest, settling in your throat as you let out small noises of enjoyment for your husband.

Poe moves under your breasts, kissing and nipping at your exposed skin, and you move your hands to his head, fumbling a little at first, your knuckles accidentally knocking into the side of his face when you misjudge the distance, until you find his thick curls.

They’re soft under your fingertips, and you tangle your fingers in, tugging every now and then. Poe’s moving at an excruciating pace, and you want more now. Your arms are caught slightly in your bra straps and you impatiently push them down, not liking the restraint.

“Please, Poe.” You struggle to find his head again, before giving him another, harder, tug, and now it’s Poe’s turn to moan against your skin.

“Baby,” He sounds just as broken as you feel, even as he keeps his hands on your shoulder, the knife resting gently against the column of your throat.

Poe peels your now-wet bra from your breasts, undoing the centre clasp and allowing it to fall to the bed at your side. He kisses somewhere on your stomach, moving his free hand down, slipping through your folds easily, and dipping in his fingers, spreading the slick that’s gathered there, and you widen your legs further in an automatic attempt to make it easier for him.

You can’t help it, lifting your hips when he slides in one finger, gasping in pleasure. Poe gives you a second to adjust, before stretching you with a second finger, and you can feel his smirk as he kisses your stomach, crooking his fingers towards your sweet spot a couple of inches inside you, moving slowly as he teases you.

His chain just touches your skin when he kisses you, each movement jostling it a little, and you giggle, pulling at it in a futile attempt to control Poe’s movements.

Warmth is spreading all over your body despite the cool knife, and you can feel droplets of sweat beading, on your face, your neck. You’re sure there’s sweat on your breasts and stomach and legs too, but you don’t care.

Poe moves the knife from your neck, and you’ve lost your concentration, unable to figure out how he’s lying, lost in the sensations of the cold glide of the knife over your sweaty body as you moan, Poe working magic with his fingers. You can feel his weight on top of you and you allow yourself to float further, willingly losing yourself in the sensations.

“Colour?”

Poe’s voice is hoarse, even as he keeps moving his fingers inside you, building you up and up, the knife hesitantly pressed on the underside of your breast.

Your arch your back towards him enthusiastically, gasping out, “Green! Poe, it feels so good!”

The knife starts to circle the flesh of your breasts, pushing in the side of one, before Poe moves it to the other, and you’re sure your nipples are hard. You’re trying to push your body up, Poe making you feel light and airy and like he’ll raise you above such mundane things as lying in a bed.

His fingers are moving in and out of you now, and this is so close to your fantasy from the other day that you come close to your peak embarrassingly fast.

“You really like this, don’t you?” Poe’s purring in your ear, and you tip your head towards him, mouth falling open in response. You do. You do really like this.

The only sound you can make is a strangled moan, and you hope Poe knows what you mean, his fingers speeding up with your confirmation. He keeps talking, as though you’re going to be able to answer, his voice only spurring you on. “I bet you can’t wait to do this to me, my filthy little thing.”

“Do you want my cock? I can’t wait to get you bouncing on my dick again.”

“You’re so wet for me, you’re dripping around my fingers.”

And stars, you are wet, Poe’s fingers sliding in and out with a practiced movement, his thumb flicking at your clit, and you can hear the squelching of Poe’s fingers in your pussy, even as blood starts to roar through your ears.

“Fuck,” you swear, panting, your body hot. “Fuck, Poe. Poe.”

It’s like his name is the only word you can remember, the only word allowed to pass your lips, a prayer, a chant, repeated over and over again as he lifts you higher.

And then the tip of the blade is on your nipple and you’re going to come, you can feel it, your legs tensing even as your hips writhe on the sheets below you, keening for Poe, still desperate for more.

You cum with a breathless gasp of Poe’s name, hips bucking upwards into Poe, your pussy clenching around his fingers which don’t stop moving as he works you through it. He moves to kiss you, noses bumping as he adjusts his position, slowing the movements of his fingers as you continue to spasm helplessly below him.

And this is better, because as you come down from your high, your heart beating like a drum in your chest, you can feel Poe’s chest against yours, his heart beating nearly as fast as yours as your lips move slowly against each other.

Your hands come up, pushing the blindfold onto your forehead, preventing any sweat from dripping into your eyes and you take in the sight before you. You’re unintentionally giving Poe your bedroom eyes, you know, unable to open them fully, still giddy from pleasure. There’s a lazy smile on your lips as you drink Poe in.

His hair has become disheveled from your hands, errant black curls flopping everywhere, including his own forehead, which is gleaming from a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes are dark, that lovely brown colour almost swallowed whole by his pupils and his lips are pinker than usual, swollen.

He’s straddling your thighs, one hand resting on your hip with glistening fingers, the wet catching on your sticky skin while his thumb idly draws patterns into your skin. Poe’s other hand is holding onto the knife, and you let your eyelids dip, unable to keep them open for much longer.

Poe gives you a minute of rest, allowing you to catch your breath, before he moves. You don’t think anything of it, until you feel the knife on the inside of your thigh, scraping up your leg like an old-fashioned razor.

You slowly lift your head, opening lazy eyes and watch as Poe slowly moves the knife up. There’s slick liquid on your legs, proof of your release, proof of how much you enjoyed Poe, how much you enjoyed the knife, now collecting on the edge, white and shiny on the blade.

Your mouth’s dry and you can’t tear your eyes away, you and Poe concentrating on the same spot.

And then, oh maker, Poe closes his eyes, and fuck, he lifts the knife up to his mouth. There’s a flash of white teeth, pearly and sharp, then a swipe of his pink tongue, and your cum is gone, Poe swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Stars, he’s going to kill you.

There’s a drop stuck to his beard, but you can’t move, frozen as arousal courses again through your body.

Your heart is hammering in your chest as though it’s trying to escape. This time it’s your turn to move, pushing Poe down and straddling him, settling into his lap.

This isn’t the end.

***

Taglist: @darthdameron

Thanks for reading! Reblogs and comments mean the world to me 🥰🥰🥰

#first order poe dameron #FO! poe dameron #FO! poe dameron x reader #fo! poe x reader #knife play

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hauntedelation · 3 years

Text

Repeat

Description - The Hammer proves to utilize surprising ways to settle down after a rough assignment.

Pairing - Black Male Reader x August Walker

A/N - This is my first male reader insert and AW fic! I wasn't sure how I should write the man but I found my August to be a little unpredictable, maybe hard. (Maybe he has some feelings, but he won't tell you what kind.)

Word Count - 2.4k

Warnings - descriptions of blood, wound tending and cleaning, anxiety, surprise fluff and maybe pining? Just partners being partners.

(no real proofreading this time y'all sorry 😅)

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What he applied to your hand forced a pitiful sound from your body, something like a whimper subdued poorly by you.

By the sickly fluorescent light you can see it, the split that was the palm of your hand. Crimson upon crimson flooded the tissue, renewing again.

Your insides overturned, and for the first time in your career you averted your eyes. You had to. For a reason you couldn't place your finger on, you knew you shouldn't stare.

The way your pulse was working more warm liquid out of your hand, his fingers stained and slipping back and forth to tend, you felt unsteady.

The spaces in your mind were gradually being occupied. So there was no shortage, no problem taking your mind off of it.

You went back to that first mistake, back to where you foolishly under-packed. This assignment was far, but a swift turnaround. Accordingly, you thought it good to keep the amount of bags you carried to a minimum.

A good number of things were left, a tool here and there that didn't stand out. You had done it before. One notch carved into the wood and you were null of any mistakes up until this point.

What you couldn't grasp was that these absent devices were the key to this assignment. It hit like a ton of bricks the moment you were met with the complex screen of a security lock.

You were deflated when your eyes met the empty space of what could have been the bypass key. There you spent upwards of an hour working through the perimeter of the place.

The next one could have happened regardless, but it didn't make you feel less inept.

Where you went right when you should have gone left. The opponent you met was just as trained as you were: blank, unrelenting and practiced with a blade. You fell to a place where you were at a strident disadvantage.

Would you have picked your jugular or your hand? There had to have been something better, a third choice? You should have been faster than that.

You could have.

Still, your hand caught the edge and it wasn't until much later, long after you were walking away that you could feel heat trickling down your fingers.

It's like the movies until it isn't. You've got yourself thrumming, high from the situation. You're locked in and can take anything to your vessel, then you're coming down slow. All the little details enter your mind, focusing and you notice. He noticed, actually.

With the most austere set of eyes you had ever seen, he did.

Before you were given the chance to sit down he was standing over you, breath hot and charged from the brawl. On the top of your head you could feel it. The fabric of his suit was torn and twisted over his chest, rising and falling with his loosened tie.

He'd backed you to one of the steel tables, squinting through the dim and the dark. You had in mind that you were to be spit in the face, condemned for dragging the job to left-field. The glower had already been there.

You were bracing for it, balling both of your hands. The blunt object in your fingers collided with the brick floor. And it rang out, filling the empty spaces with a loud echo. Soon there was nothing.

That's how it was seconds after.

A pair of boots brushed against yours before there was a hand capturing your right arm. He'd brought your dripping palm up and opened your curled fingers. Your wound was inspected with cautious eyes, the extent picked apart.

His calluses dragged around the edges of your sticky palm. You sucked in a breath when he had gone a little too close, but he ignored it. There was a drilling leer into your face before he spoke, "You were sloppy."

The back of your throat had grown bone dry. You took a second, swallowing then pulling your eyes from his hardened face.

That had been the first time that you'd been told that. Knowing in the very depths of you that this was the beginning to many months of second guessing, wishing you could have done better.

You don't know why you had let this one go. Everything seemed feasible in the documents, from the time requirement to the objectives. You expected to have gone above and beyond.

That is close to what you told Sloane all those weeks ago,

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

"This one looks like it's going to be less of an issue."

She had her arms crossed in her crisp sleeves, her hip propped against the hardwood of her desk. You were called in to provide an updated report over your assignment, your feelings and projection.

It had gone to the point where you could no longer count on your fingers how many jobs you'd been on. The second anniversary from your first day recently passed, the bouquet still sitting on your dining room table.

You recall being introduced to your boss, the gratification in seeing someone like her in such an esteemed position.

(Someone who reminded you of your mother at times.)

Right then, the woman appeared to be getting ready to give a critical reply. Her brow was curled sharply but you could see the corners of her lips begin to upturn.

"You have been assigned an associate with this task, agent."

This was of no particular issue. It was not every mission that you collaborated with another. Be that as it may, you've grown accustomed to this practice, it evolved into something that you improved with. This was your dream, and you intended to flourish.

You were sure there was no one you wouldn't be able to work with.

When your superior uttered the name, 'Walker,' you had asked her to come again.

"You're up and coming, still figuring things out in this line of work. I'm placing you with my best on this one," Sloane announced.

You withheld any signs of protest in front of her, flashing professional countenance and a nod. She dismissed you with a lingering gaze, most likely holding the same thing in her mind as you were. You kept up the front until you were situated at the chair by your desk.

Upon your back touching the seat, a sigh was released, one that you felt in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted to smile at how comical his name sounded. One would have thought you were speaking about an exotic dancer, The Hammer. You didn't think it fit at first.

He's just a man, but he is the kind that exceeded the weight behind his title. He had discharged far more in his profession by the time you were approaching yours, taking the limits of what an agent could do to the stratosphere.

You could wax poetic about those stories, try to recount those details. But, truthfully there had been such a divide in your experience when compared to his. You could feel the pricks of uncertainty in your chest.

Perhaps you were only afraid.

He'd never once acknowledged your existence until you met on the tarmac the following Tuesday morning. The moon was leaving the twilight sky. Under an orange colored light, shining on the side of his face you could see him check his watch.

And then those eyes flicked over to you, sizing up your bags, your clothes. You think you may have even caught those blue slits drag along certain parts of you.

Your voice was weak, coughing low in your throat you tried to press out, "It's nice to finally meet, Mr. Walker."

(Ah, Mr Walker? You wanted to flinch, but you found no time.)

Then you provided him your name with a reluctant hand. It took far more composure on not showing the tremor in your limb but when the man peered down at you, securing your hand with a firm shake you knew.

He'd felt how clammy your skin was.

That mustache made a microscopic twitch, "Call me August, and, ditto."

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

You allowed your hand to remain elevated, but your period of self-loathing was eventually disturbed.

The sensation of his large hands appeared, firm and wrapping around your waist before hoisting you on the surface of the steel table. There was a soft thud from your good hand landing to bear your shift in weight.

It was then that you froze, ears pricking to that steady footfall departing from the table.

You listen and—what?

What crosses your mind is maybe you hit your head back there, sometime during taking that grunt to the floor. Yet, you don't feel anything, no pounding in your skull. The musing is washed away the moment the flicker of a pale-green light shines above.

The room is revealed to have been an abandoned kitchen of sorts. Pots and pans layered in a thin veil of dust with more grime to compliment. With your good hand you wipe at the sweat falling down your temple, you'd become a little hot.

Glass crumbles underneath his boots, he rotates his back around to you with a small kit that strongly resembles the one you stored in your bag.

The white plastic had your name scrawled on there in your handwriting. While you could sit there wondering how August retrieved that, you are still processing the way the man picked you up. How he brought you up like you were made of feathers. Why he…

He comes in real close, your vision floods with a view of his chest, his gloved hands shedding away the garment and laying them on the metal surface.

The soft click of the first aid box click echoes out, and under the hum of the lights above August murmurs down to you,

"At least you had enough sense to pack this."

His tone is the same, puncturing only not quite as breathy. The rise and fall of his chest had slowed far more, the dark curls on his chest soaking in the sweat running down his skin. And you blink, not realizing how enthralling the sight is.

Your pulsing hand is taken again, gingerly, by a pair of rough hands. You brace yourself on the edge of the table upon seeing the clear liquid bottle.

He's cleaning your wound throughly and you're trying not to take it like a kicked puppy. Through grit teeth, "You think I could skip stitches this time?" They never were your favorite.

"No dice," he breaths out, placing the bottle of alcohol down next to your thigh.

"You about had your hand sliced in half, Agent. You're lucky anyway. But,"

The needle and thread is pulled out, more cleansing and draining. Rinse and repeat. Walker was moving quickly, probably sensing the adrenaline in you draining by the minute.

Your communication devices buzz in unison, you don't have time to check your screen for any updates before he reaches with one hand in his pocket to retrieve his.

He sets your hand down on your own thigh and you listen to his voice shift to a formal tone. The female voice on the other line, (Sloane most likely) sounds curt and questioning.

Your stomach begins to roll in circles. Your fingers wrapped around the table's edge tighten around the metal, almost enough to leave marks.

Through those training sessions all those months, you learned to properly squash any threats of anxiety, distraction. You could feel yourself slipping, your body seizing up in front of the man. Walker seemed to have been approaching the height of his conversation with your boss, shifting so the phone rests between his ear and shoulder.

In the meantime, you were breathing. That familiar rhythm, flowing in and out, counting. You fall into the headspace that you became acquainted with all too well.

You lost yourself in it, not realizing that Walker was dissolving Sloane's interrogation. Every syllable. The way in which his voice formed the words was unknowingly steadying your brain, calming your heart rate down slowly.

All the while taking your wounded hand was taken in his, he set about cleaning it one more time before starting to close it with the thread.

"Yes ma'am. No, he had everything in his detail under control...Yes. That's correct. The only slip up had been breaching the security wall but we successfully infiltrated."

You could feel the sharp pricks in your skin, your arm tensing after each pull to the string when closing the wound. Eventually Walker drifted, and your eyes landed on the semi-clean criss cross stitching in the palm of your hand.

The man's eyes were dead set on his handiwork, narrowing on the lines before clearing his throat to part ways with your boss. There was a, "We will report back upon leaving this location."

He hung up the phone, and slid the device next to your thigh. You didn't think anything of it, only Walker's hand didn't leave where his phone was sitting. And you were encircled, the fabric of his shirt practically enticing his body closer to yours.

It had been a number of seconds before you could bring yourself back. The same exercise was reaching its tail end, and maybe, just maybe you could believe Sloane would not chew you a new one when you return.

Those words, It's okay, you tried your best. Everyone has bad days. You said them once again, inaudible and only in your mind. The room at this point only held the echo of the cars outside, Walker's heavy boots shifting before—

His fingertips were cold against your jaw, you almost jumped away from him. You should have, what was he doing? His thigh brushed so light against your knee, and when he guided your eyes up, you saw him already peering at your damp face.

Everything about the man's face was blank. Thick brows, lips hidden under a bushy trail of hair, all set in a firm line. You made no attempt to divert, you weren't sure he would let you. You had been planted there, decided by him your next move would be included.

Then those words fell silent.

His fingertips pushed up your jaw, against the grain of your facial hair growing there. Then you felt him cup your cheek, strong hands dragging along your skin.

Walker used his thumb to brush against your temple, wiping away something sticky. Red tint coated the little grooves in his skin and he pulled away, wiping his digit on the material of your pants. His tone was far more entertained then,

"Looks like you hit your head back there."

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Taglist - @mansaaay @hope-to-hell @feralrunaway @thetaoofzoe @luclittlepond @madbaddic7ed @brandycranby @emyearns

⊱ ───────────── ⊰

#August Walker x Reader #Male reader #Black reader #henry cavill x reader #Henry Cavill fluff #Repeat #henry cavill x black reader #henry cavill x black!reader

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