#but cant let go of hundreds of years of habits and trauma | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

midnight-circus · 5 years

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another bullshit meme

from sidebloggable

answered for logan and lucius bc i dont talk about my big dumb idiot enough

and im actually gonna answer for their original Fable timeline bc ive been feelin nostalgic recently

Their physical weak spots

Logan - depends on his age and/or stress-levels. He has a fair amount of upper body strength from swinging twin swords around all the fucking time, but it wouldn’t be ridiculously hard to overpower him if you could disarm and get hold of him - however, he’s fast, agile and extremely skilled, and it’s getting hold of him in the first place that’s the issue. In the middle of his reign, on the other hand, his body condition takes a dramatic dive - he’s pretty severely underweight and loses a lot of his muscle tone, and it really wouldn’t take much at all to best him.

Lucius - Lucius is a big, heavy mercenary who fights with a broadsword, so it’s hard to get the best of him in a one-to-one melee fight. However, he’s missing his left eye and is deaf in his left ear - subsequently if you use a little bit of stealth and come at him hard and fast from the left, you’ve got a pretty good chance of getting the jump on him. He’s also into middle-age and despite having decent reactions, a younger man of the same build as him might just pip him to the post.

Their emotional/moral weak spots

Logan - oh god lmao. Logan’s a mess, but his primary emotional weak spot is his siblings - be they his original two (hey queenie and dorian) or Morgan. I think he feels a bond that’s closer to paternal than fraternal, and I think the only way he can really justify to himself the pain he puts them through is telling himself he’s doing it for them. ok honestly, he will do fucking anything for them. at the climax of the revolution, the primary thought running through his head is how fucking proud he is. be nice if he said it out loud every once a while - hell, itd be nice if he’d just asked for some fuckin help before causing the literal death of hundreds of people - but yknow. thats just going one step too far i guess

Lucius - he’s a bleeding heart. when Morgan and his little band of rebels rock up in the Dweller village, Lucius is already there running supplies up and down the mountain to them; he watches way too many kids starve to death, and joins up with the rebels in order to lead them through Mourningwood. then he gets a crush on morgan’s little bitch face and just like. never leaves lmao. He’s easily blinded by injustice and gets worked up really quickly when he sees wrong being done - it can lead him to act recklessly or thoughtlessly at times.

Scars or painful spots

Logan - asides from the obvious scars across his lips (fencing wounds when he was a boy), he took some nasty damage from the Crawler during the three days he was trapped in the Auroran cave - he’s got a network of scars on his back that look a little like lashmarks. they hurt when they’re touched and he Does Not talk about them. he’s also got a few other scars here and there on his arms and chest from miscellaneous scraps and scuffles, and he has a deep puncture scar on his abdomen from an assassination attempt, but the less said about those the better.

Lucius - lmao Lucius is literally missing half his face to scar-tissue. he was attacked by a dog as a boy and it left him heavily messed-up. he’s also a merc, as i said, so he’s got a lot of miscellaneous old wounds but nothing quite as obvious as the ones his face.

Best places to kiss on their body

Logan - oh, the neck, bitch. he’s also kind of a slut for being kissed on the insides of his wrists; anywhere vulnerable, basically. if you could kill him there, kiss him there. freak-ass bitch.

Lucius - dude just likes a nice traditional french kiss man nothing crazy. but also definitely give him a blowjob. i know this question said kissing but lets be real thats kind of a kiss.

Guilty pleasures

Logan - he reads really terrible novels. like…really terrible. he pretends he’s reading something highbrow and intellectual but its actually a shitty romance recovered with something suitably acceptable and nobody can know

Lucius - he doesnt have any ‘guilty’ pleasures tbh, he just enjoys stuff unashamedly. he’s too thick to feel guilty

Their vices (physical or emotional)

Logan - lets be real, he’s probably done, like. an impressive amount of coke. i guess the terrible sleeping and eating habits are probably also a vice but like. it’s mainly the coke

Lucius - he smokes like a fuckin chimney

Their tickle spots

Logan - not only does he not have any, but you would also die for trying. Elrick disagrees.

Lucius - his ribs, but he is uncontrollably violent when he’s tickled so its a real good way to get a broken nose. he doesn’t mean to do it, he just spasms.

Bad memories/experiences

Logan - lmao. I’ll skip the most obvious (the 3-Day Auroran Extravaganza) because i think that goes without saying - it left him with crippling PTSD and damaged his mind heavily and insidiously. he was already pretty traumatised by his childhood and i think being forced into so many responsibilities so young also messed him up a little. it’s more like….rather one one or two specific experiences, its more just a general feeling of Bad that has stuck with him throughout his life. It was worsened by his later experiences, and essentially primed him for failure.

Lucius - yknow i was thinking about how to word the answer to this question and i realised that i accidentally made Lucius into Batman. His family farm was attacked and burnt to the ground by bandits when he was about 12; his parents and siblings were killed, and he only escaped by hiding in the coal-cellar. Later, he joined up with the mercenaries to try and track down the group that targeted them. fuck hes batman. i didnt mean to batman

Humiliating memories

Logan - oh man his father was a pro at humiliation. mistakes or oversights werent just punished, they were fuckin learned from, and he figured the best way to do this was humiliation - generally through public displays of What You Did Wrong and repeated recitations of the mistake in front of the people whose opinions Logan valued. It was kind of the catalyst for his inferiority complex and intense desire to succeed without input from others.

Lucius - again, Lucius doesn’t really experience embarrassment - he’s kind of too laid-back for it. yes, it was embarrassing the one time he fell over carrying two milk buckets and threw them all over himself in front of the handsome boy from the next farm over and the guy started laughing at him but like. you live and learn and the dude turned out to have a really ugly laugh anyway so who cares

Fears/phobias

Logan - he’s always had claustrophobia, but after the Auroran Experience this intensifies to a whole new level, and he also develops crippling nyctophobia. part of this is due to his hallucinatory psychosis - he sees things pretty much constantly, but it worsens in low lighting - but it’s also due to the fact that there may very well be actual Things in the dark and he struggles to tell reality from hallucination

Lucius - dogs. fuckin dogs. he hates dogs theyre literally so scary even the small ones bc the small ones move so quick and you never know when theyre gonna come at you

Bad or petty habits

Logan - oh, he’s just a petty bitch. he’s also outwardly arrogant, even if his internal feelings don’t match up to that. drily sarcastic, too, tho a person only really sees that when they get past the walls he throws up - Elrick is very familiar with it.

Lucius - he’s constantly standing to the right-hand side of people and then he wonders why he cant hear them properly

Grudges and vendettas

Logan - he’d hold a grudge against his father if he wasnt dead. he also holds a pretty heavy grudge against Theresa for not just fucking telling him.

Lucius - at first, only against the bandits that killed his family, but once he deals with them hes kind of at a loss as to where to go next. fortunately Logan starts starving people shortly afterwards, so if nothing else it gives him a kickstart into the rest of his life. Subsequently, Lucius will hold a vendetta against Logan for the rest of his life, even after he has been in a relationship with Morgan for years - he will never forgive him for the shit he put the common people through, and he doesnt really give a shit about the ~pressures~ Logan was under at the time. fuckin excuses, man.

Ingrained habits/forces of habit

Logan - his terrible sleeping/eating patterns. even before trauma and night-terrors made it almost impossible for him to sleep peacefully, he didn’t get more than 5 or 6 hours a night, if that.

Lucius - if something is smaller than him, he’ll protect it. he’ll also protect things bigger than him, if given half the chance. hes basically a golden retriever in human form, which is ironic considering his feelings about dogs.

What it takes to make them cry

Logan - would rather die than cry, quite literally.

Lucius - his heart is softer than butter, he’ll cry at anything. he’ll cry at an injured pigeon on the street.

Dark secrets/’skeletons in the closet’

Logan - never, ever, ever talks about what happened in Aurora. The details die with him.

Lucius - he doesn’t really have any - he’s not ashamed of much in his life, and he’s never done anything terrible enough to render it a skeleton.

People they’ve hurt or indirectly killed, and how it affected them

Logan - L M A O. yes, it affected him terribly, but tbqh however much its affected him kind of plays second fiddle to how much his actions affected other people.

Lucius - has killed a lot of people who deserved it during his mercenary years, and justifies it to himself by being absolutely certain that they did deserve it. sometimes he doubts this, though, and that doubt plays a big part in his eventually getting out of the game entirely

People who’ve influenced them greatly

Logan - Walter, tho he’ll never admit it in a million years and he still definitely kneecapped him right at the start of the game so idk what that says about him

Lucius - Morgan. it’s real gay, i know, but there it is.

#logan1 #lucius1

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notbecauseofvictories · 6 years

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FIC | were my lover a comet

han, leia, and the five first times there weren’t (plus the one there was)

[read on AO3]

..yavin.

This would be an easier story to tell if he’d been drunk. If they’d stumbled together in the frantic aftermath of the Death Star, giddy in their temporary immortality (the fear it wouldn’t still be there, come morning.) It would have been easy, a story told a hundred times before, too much cheapshit ale and a beautiful girl he doesn’t deserve, flushed and smiling, at him, at him; one night of pretending he was worthy of her. It’s an old story. Older than the stars.

But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t—

He’s sober and so is she, though the way the sunlight filters through the viewports—retracted, to let in the rain-washed air—is headier than it has right to be. Luke had left, something about sabacc with Antilles; but it’s easy to stay here, with her, lazing in the warmth of her rooms and teasing her for how serious she looks, bent over her datapad. Occasionally, she reaches for something on the desk; instinctively, because she always looks up when she can’t find it, shakes her head as though chasing away a thought.

He wonders what used to sit on her desk on Alderaan. He wonders if he can ask, or if that’s impolite, reminding a girl her planet is dead.

Really he just likes watching her, the graceful economy of her hands, the way she touches her mouth sometimes, checking on her lip. (Her ‘war wound’—she’d worried at her lower lip all through the battle of the Death Star, torn it open. It still bled when she smiled.) He’d tell her she’s beautiful, but he gets the sense that she’s heard it before, though maybe not quite the way he means it. He imagines princesses get called ‘beautiful’ like paintings or vases do, not ‘beautiful’ like women, like her, like the nape of her neck and her lip, bleeding.

Likely there’s some royal bantha-fucker out there who’s promised her hand in marriage, but there’s no harm in Han looking in the meantime.

“Stop looking at me like that, Solo,” she says then, like she can hear him thinking it.

He grins, letting his head fall against the back of the chair. The Massassi left every inch of the stone carved, back when this was their temple; the ceiling of her quarters is the coils of a monstrous snake, swallowing a planet. Han hopes it’s not this one. “And how exactly am I looking at you, princess?”

He doesn’t think he’s heard her laugh before. She should do that more often.

“You’re funny, Solo.”

“I am kriffing hilarious, Your Worship, but you haven’t answered my question.”

She scoffs. “I wasn’t raised in a tower. I know what that look means.”

“Enlighten me.”

“…you’re not going to make me say it.”

“I would also accept a practical demonstration,” Han offers generously. His grin is wasted on the carved ceiling.

“Oh, suck on a gruntling.”

The laugh is startled out of him this time, and he can’t help looking—she’s smiling too, or as good as, her eyes warm and on him. He swallows. “I’m impressed, princess, that was almost a real curse.”

“Almost?” she protests.

“Yeah, almost. Now…” He makes a show of considering his options. “‘Go fuck yourself.’ That would have been a real curse.”

She lifts her chin imperiously, and it’s dangerous, how much Han likes it when she does that, the way her eyes go hooded. “I was worried you’d take it as an invitation,” she says, slowly and carefully. “And the custodial droids get so upset about…fluids.”

There’s got to be at least a yard between them—her behind the desk, him in the chair, maybe a yard and a half—and there’s something new and trembling in that space, warm in the air. Han’s a little worried to mess with it or even look at it straight, in case he spooks the thing. It seems friendly.

“Nah, princess, that’s not an invitation,” he tells her. Her eyes are dark, and when he smiles, they follow his mouth. He clears his throat. “Now ‘fuck me’—that’s an invitation.”

…or, he could just walk up to that newborn thing and grab it by the scruff of its neck.

All the imperiousness vanishes from her face in a moment, replaced with wide eyes and a shock that makes her look very young. Han grits his teeth against a follow-up—there’s pretty much no good way to take back fuck me, not the way he said it.

Lando had warned him about that, ages ago. Han always showed his hand too early.

“See,” Leia says into the silence, and her voice is soft. “Knew you couldn’t make me say it.”

Han forces himself to look back up at the snake swallowing a planet which may or may not be this one. “Well,’ he says, and then stalls out. His voice rasping and uncertain, even though it’s just the two of them here, witness to Han’s stupid over-eagerness, what Lando always called his readiness to fall in love. (He was probably right, Lando always had a bad habit of being right when it came to Han.)

Han’s still looking—up, at the carved snake, the planet in its coils---when Leia settles on his splayed knees. The white-ish dress of a senator rides up on her thighs when she straddles him, and Hand doesn’t know what to with that information. Not when he invited her, not when he said fuck me with that much sincerity.

“Well,” she says, her dark eyes lingering on his mouth.

Han lets out a shocked little breath, looking up at Princess-Senator-Commander Leia Organa. She’s young---as young as Luke, and Han had fucked him guilelessly, under the impression this was just a dumb farmkid with pretensions of greatness. It was strange now that there was...promise of actual greatness, the Death Star-killer, Jedi power lurking in his blood. (Han thinks of Lando again suddenly, wonders what he saw when he looked at rangy, hungry eighteen-year-old Han Solo, an orphan desperate for passage off-world; if he thought once or twice, if he considered how young---

But Han knows Lando from long ago. He knows Lando considered it, and dismissed it, because sometimes youth was just hunger, given shape. And that was to be respected.)

“What are you doing, princess?” Han asks idly, letting his hands come up to cradle her waist. She’s balanced on his knee, grinding into his thigh absently, and that’s dangerous; the cant of her hips, the way she’s looking at him. Like he’s something that can be owned. Used for more than a fuck or a quick job, like she can buy him for the Rebellion she loves so much with a quick hot press of her mouth, or a tumble, and Han is---many things, but he’s in this for the money, all right---

“I’m seducing you,” Leia announces, finally. Han hisses in a breath through his teeth. Her hips feel small and round in his hands, spanned by his fingers. She’s trembling, he can feel it against every place they touch.

“Oh, are you?” he asks, as lightly as he can manage when she’s so warm, and heavy against him. “Well, all right. Seduce me.”

She hesitates, then tentatively curls a hand around his neck, like that’s---

It shouldn’t work as well as it does. It absolutely shouldn’t. (It does.)

“Okay,” Han says shakily. Her hand is very hot at his throat, and he blinks to try and clear his vision from the hazy want that’s flooding his veins. “You ready? Cause get ready, princess.”

Her mouth hardens. “Go on, then, Solo,” she says, and he laughs aloud even as he cups his hand over her breast---she’s wearing too many layers, he thinks dizzily. He shouldn’t be doing this in the late-afternoon sun of Yavin, when any minute Luke could burst in and demand they join in his sabacc game with Antilles---when Draven or Mon Mothma could be here and shatter the moment---except there’s no one. It’s just them, him and her, playing this dangerous game.

He kisses her, first. Then he palms her stomach, feeling it swell and flatten with every breath. She’s so fucking warm; he thought Alderaan was a snowy planet, all mountains and chilly noblesse, but she’s warm and wet, especially when his hand slips down, past the folds of her white, white senatorial gown and into her pants, properly.

She jerks forward when he touches her, a howl caught between in her throat. “Warn me,” she snaps, enough that he feels the press of her teeth against the shell of his ear.

“You like it,” he says, softening it with the touch of his mouth at her cheek. She eases into his touch slowly, when he presses his fingerpads against the soft skin of her labia. A kind of signal-flare: I am here. I mean you no harm.

“Hey,” he says. “You with me?”

“I’m here,” she breathes, and he thinks he’s imagining the little hitch in her voice, like she realized halfway through she is. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He’s terrified by the smallness of her, how much of her skull fits in his palm, her wrists waiting to be swallowed up by his hands. She makes a little noise when he digs his thumb into her clit, and Han almost misses it, that’s how loud his own pulse is in his ears, matched by her half-sobs and ragged breathing. Everything feels outsized; him and her, with him being huge and horrible, needing the press of her skin even if it’s wrong, and her so fragile, fine. A clumsy creature handling Chandrillan china, except the china is breathing, and hot, and when he drops his head and sucks at her throat she makes the sweetest noise he’s ever heard, something high and sharp and needing, without knowing how or why.

(I could fall in love with you, he thinks, and is horrified by it, tucks it away quick in some place in his skull he never ventures, where he keeps the tragedy and trauma, and this too, how much he wants this.)

He teases her with his fingers until she’s wetter than any girl he’s ever had, not quite drooling but slick and hot at every angle his fingerpads reach. “You ready, princess?” he asks, smirking against her shoulder, and she just makes an angry cat-like noise, her hips grinding down on his thigh.

They fumble through the first through strokes, her wincing, eyes screwed shut---“It’s okay,” he says, but she shakes her head, a jerk of her chin.

“I can do this,” she grits out, and he forces himself still, lets her settle herself around him. He thinks of grav-ball scores and that one time he’d seen Chewie’s knot, and not how tight she is, or how afternoon Yavinese sun paints her in soft golden curves. (He wishes he’d asked her to take off her shirt, or unbutton the standard uniform far enough that he could see her tits, mouth at her nipples through the thin fabric of her breast band. It would be nice, he would make it nice. Her Highness, her Worship, and he could worship her. Like this, with him, and not whoever she’s thinking about in the secret chambers of her heart.)

He can tell when she’s ready; she drops her forehead against his neck, and her legs stop trembling. “Okay,” she says. “Han, okay.”

He keeps his first stroke shallow, testing, and he feels her tense. “Hey,” he murmurs, and her ear is so near his mouth that he leans forward, tugs at her earlobe with his teeth. She laughs, soft enough that all he registers is her exhale of breath. “You can lead,” he murmurs, like it’s a concession and not something he’s thought about, or wanted. “C’mon, Your Worship. Show me what you like, okay?”

He swallows a sad whine when she pulls back, but a moment later she’s sinking down on him again. It’s a different angle, he feels it---hotter, but not as tight. “Like this?” she murmurs breathlessly. Her arms around his neck, hot and sweaty at the palms, the crook of her elbows. It’s humanizing, somehow, to think that she’s not any more perfect than he is, than any human he’s been with. Just a girl, trembling and hot. “Can we...?”

“Yeah,” Han says, and when he thrusts forward, she makes a noise as sweet and destructive as a Death Star, but better because she’s so fucking hot and soft and within the reach of his arms. (He’s never fucked a princess before, but this is---what he would have imagined, sweet skin and something tentatively discovering, pleasantly astonished that you could be this animal and survive.)

“That’s good,” Leia says, sounding surprised. “Yeah.”

It’s slow until he almost can’t bear it anymore, but she’s already moving faster, anticipating him and whispering, faster, come on, come on. He’s already delirious with her; he’s gone, he’s not sure how he lasts as long as he does, except he wants to see her fall apart first.

She’s so quiet when she comes, he almost misses it; just a sharp breath and then she’s taut against him, eyes screwed shut and her fingers digging into his shoulder. He can feel the bite of her neat, rounded nails.

“I’sokay,” he mumbles against her jaw, a curl of her hair stuck in his mouth and he’s delirious, spice-addled, working a hand between them, just to touch her, just a little. He wants her to say something—proof of life, proof she’s here with him and not fucking some other lucky bastard in her head. “Come on, sweetheart—Leia, Leia. Come on. Come on, princess.”

He thumbs at her clit and her hips jerk—she lets out a strung-out noise, like a sob, like his name in her throat, and that’s it for him, he’s done, he’s gone. “Oh,” he can hear her say dimly, when he finally lets his head drop to her shoulder, fighting for breath as he shudders with the aftershocks of it. “Oh.”

Afterwards, he watches her plait her hair again, tracing the slope of her bare shoulders with his eyes and wondering what it is he’s done.

..hoth.

All he wants—

It’s late. There are only a few hours of daylight at this point in Hoth’s solar cycle, and Echo Base doesn’t have any viewports to see them through, but ‘late’ is a universal constant and it’s happening right now. Han can feel his eyes itching with it; the grey, scrambled tiredness sinking into the cracks in his brain. It makes things loopy and soft, like someone’s unfocusing the world. All he wants, all he really wants, is to be horizontal on a surface that does not smell like wet tauntaun, but she won’t stop yelling.

He doesn’t even know what she’s yelling about anymore, it’s just noise.

She looks tired too, he thinks. They’re all tired these days, pale and choking down vita shakes to make up for the lack of sunlight, cold fear gnawing at their guts as the Empire draws nearer, chasing them from base to base. Luke’s lost enough weight to have carved new notches in his belt, and Han’s always restless, more and more each day, roaring like a trapped thing and sulking when Chewie roars back.

Leia has dark circles under her eyes, like bruises.

Later, he won’t be able to say why, except that her mouth was so near, and he was so tired.

She keeps yelling at him, all through the kiss, biting Han’s mouth in reproach, shoving him back against the wall. (He sucks in a breath through his nose, the cold sinking through his gear and into his skin, except for where her skin is, against his.) He lets himself be greedy, his hands wandering down her shoulders and brushing the sides of her breasts through her flight suit, down. His fingers curl into her belt loops, trying to pull her even closer, trapping her between his legs and holding her there.

“You gonna keep me warm tonight, princess?” he asks when she pulls away a little to catch her breath. She snarls, and he is officially disastrously nerve-burner for this girl, because Princess Leia Organa growling at him isn’t funny at all; it is, in fact, the least funny thing that has ever happened in his entire life. He wants to growl back, he wants to know what other noises he can wrench from her throat, guttural and heated like that.

She scrapes her fingernails through his hair, and he hopes it aches tomorrow.

“You’re not even—kriffing fuck—angry at me,” he grits out as she sucks at his throat, leaving what will probably be a godawful love bite tomorrow morning. “It’s not my fault Mothma won’t give you some stupid assignment, as though—”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Oh, that’s real rich coming from you. Surprised I get a word in edgewise when you get going—”

Her mouth went tight and pinched. He wanted to bite it open. “At least I—”

“Yeah? At least you what, highness?”

“Ugh, Maker, shut up!”

He wants the bruises she’ll give him. “Make me.”

(He has to stop showing all his cards.)

Her room is closer than his. Mostly, he remembers how the pillow smelled of her hair, how warm she was after, tucked into the curve of his body.

..the falcon.

They manage until third week.

It’s been a long time since Han went without a hyperspace drive—he’d forgotten how much space there is in the galaxy, all that blackness falling away behind them and more ahead, and nothing to do in the interim but dance around one another in the Falcon. If anyone was around to see, it’d probably look like some sort of perverse Imperial waltz—Chewie and Han moving past each other in the corridor silently, changing partners every few hours to keep anyone from dismantling Threepio in a blind rage. Leia and Han circling one another in ever-tightening rings, clinging to stiff politeness in the galley.

(They don’t talk about the kiss.)

They manage until the third week, until a shouting match in the mess turns into Han shoving he up against the cabinets, turns into Leia fisting her hand in the collar of his shirt as she yells at him. Her hips are flush against his and her mouth is so close, Han is only human---he figures this is his last chance, his only chance, so he kisses her like it.

He’s only mostly shocked when she kisses back.

They stumble back to his bunk in a furious tangle, half anger and half whatever else is between them. It’s like arguing, but with tongue. She bites at his lower lip, and he digs his thumb into her hip hard enough to leave bruises. He brushes his knuckles against her half-exposed breast, lingering to make her shiver all over; she gasps against his jaw, and when she mouths at the skin beneath his ear, he groans, grinding his hips against her leg for some sort of purchase, the friction he craves.

They don’t fall into bed, because falling implies gravity, and not the frantic, ungainly desperation of two people shedding their clothes as quickly as they can. Han hasn’t wanted anyone with all-consuming, eclipsing desire since Lando, and Leia hasn’t wanted anyone like this ever. (Luke doesn’t count. Luke is---he doesn’t count for either of them, somehow.) This isn’t about Luke or Lando though, this is about the press of flesh on flesh. What they do defies gravity. It is the opposite of entropy, the creation of somehow more energy. Kinetic and frantic and when Leia straddles Han, wearing nothing but her regulation grey underwear, it is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

He wants to fuck the Rebellion, he wants to be good despite a lifetime of being otherwise, and she’s a shortcut. He’s in love with her, and that’s not fair, to be in love with a girl and an idea at the same time.

“Come on,” he says finally, digging his fingers into her hips and pulling her up, towards his shoulders. When she gives him a startled, uncomprehending look, he grins. “Trust me, princess. I’m good at this.”

“Dangerous,” she murmurs, and he’s not sure which part she’s referring to.

He starts out slow, the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric of her underwear. Her knees tighten on his ears, her breath coming in little gasps—she’s hunched over in the bunk, gripping handfuls of his hair so tightly he dizzily wonders if there’ll be blood. This is the least comfortable way to do this, but it’s the closest thing he can imagine to losing himself in her, once he peels the fabric down her legs and gets his mouth on her properly.

She’s sensitive, honed and trembling like a string, her whole body jerking when he tongues softly at the folds of her labia. “Shh,” he breathes into the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she actually whines, which Han is ranking up there with that medal they gave him in terms of personal achievements.

He paints the inside of his eyelids the color of her, wet and red, just in case he forgets. (He’ll never forget the way she says his name, wrung out of her like a sob as she comes.)

He smooths his hands over her thighs as they shake, breathing through his nose until she settles. Finally, with agonizing slowness, she slides her knees back over his shoulders to either sides of his chest, moving down his body to straddle his hips. He can feel how wet she is, soaking through the fabric of his pants, and he’s forgotten how good it is to be light-headed and warm and weighted-down, listening to someone else’s breathing.

“You don’t…you don’t have to,” he says thickly as she fumbles with his fly. He jerks a little when her hands brush his dick through the fabric and his voice is hoarse when he says, “Leia, it’s. It’s okay.”

“I want to,” she says. He almost misses it in her hand curling around his dick, the uncertain twist of her mouth as she keeps it there, canting her hips forward and rising up a little—

He’s never been a believer in anything he couldn’t put his hands on, Luke’s Jedi shit be damned. But here, now, he could be convinced of any higher power you like—just watching her sink down onto him, bracing her forearm against the too-low bulkhead while working her bottom lip between sharp, neat teeth.

(He wants more than anything to show her how, to make it good for her, but she’s got that look, the stubborn one, and he’s learned not to get in the way when she goes flinty like that.)

“Fuck,” she grits out, like she’s trying that out for the first time too, and he huffs. “Well, that is the idea, sweetheart.”

She actually laughs, her mouth softening like he’s the first person who’s ever made the stupid joke, and he decides he hates them—every single fumbling boy who ever touched her and didn’t taste her or make her laugh, who didn’t think of it, selfish noble pricks—

He doesn’t realize he’s saying this shit out loud until she reaches down, rests a hand on the curve of his stomach. “Shut up, Han,” she says softly, her eyes screwed shut as she moves that last agonizing inch, punching the air out of his lungs.

She’s so kriffing wet.

“Han?” she breathes, her eyes still screwed shut and her mouth a little slack. Her hand is still flat on the curve of his stomach.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching out and settling his hands around her trembling thighs. She makes a soft noise. “Show me how you like it, okay? Can you—please, Leia, can you move for me?”

She gives a little abortive roll of her hips and Han grunts, suddenly forgetting the mechanics of breathing, what comes after an exhale. Her hand follows his stomach as it hollows, as he sucks in a breath. “Mhm, Leia, that’s—that’s—gods, you’re so good, Leia—”

He can tell when she finds the angle and the rhythm she likes, because she starts fucking herself in earnest, fucking herself on him, and it’s been a while. It’s been a really long time and three weeks of strained waltzing around her, his hand the only comfort he indulged in, which is probably why he comes too soon---

Afterwards, she laughs in the back of her throat as she kisses him. He can feel her smirking. “Fuck off,” he mumbles against her mouth, but there’s a too-cheerful thrill of shame that runs down his spine. (This is the dynamic that defines them: he is below her, unworthy and wanting despite that; her, moon-faced and lovely above him, smirking, sure. He wouldn’t know what to do with all this excess wanting if he couldn’t spend it at her feet, hoping that the desire made up the difference.)

He sleeps in the timeless blackness of space, with her cradled in the crook of his arm. Sometimes he wakes up, and despite the warm weight of her against his chest, he assures himself this is fine. He feels nothing for her but a kind of affection, the rapport of two soldiers staving off death, enough to excuse a kiss and a fuck, but mostly nothing. She is not in love, he is not in love. He knows---

---he feels nothing.

..cloud city.

He takes her wrists in his hands and pins them above her head, the transparisteel window cold under his knuckles. “Don’t look down,” he murmurs into the shell of her ear, chuckling when she makes a frustrated noise, trying to twist herself out of his grip, exert a little control. “Careful, princess,” he taunts. “You might fall.”

“I’ve done—all my falling,” she says, her voice catching when he lowers his mouth to her throat, presses his lips to her pulsepoint. She means in love.

He means other things, like out of it.

He fucks her slow against the viewport, all of the sky spread out behind her.

..jabba’s palace.

His sight clears enough to see how she keeps her hands curled in tight fists all the way back from the sarlacc pit. He watches her try to loosen them once, standing at the railing of the speeder—but they’re shaking badly and she immediately curls her fingers back in, burying her nails in her palms. Lifts her chin, sets her mouth.

Her expression is smooth and cold as durasteel when she catches him looking.

Han’s not surprised when they get back to Jabba’s palace to find it empty and looted. (Say what you like about your average goon, but a goon knows when to get the hells out of town. And he definitely grabs whatever he can carry, on the way out.) They amuse themselves for a while, wandering from room to room and seeing what’s been left. Luke has his arms full of scavenged bits of hardware—he handed his lightsaber to Lando, who’s been holding it like it a live ion bomb and keeps throwing Chewie hopeful looks.

Chewie hasn’t seen them, too busy walking close to Han and churring wordlessly, petting Han’s hair.

Still, Han keeps—

Leia’s quiet. She’s quiet trailing after them and quiet responding to Luke’s occasional asides. She’s quiet as she wrestles a robe out from under some Force-choked body, just to cover up the idiot costume Jabba put her in. Her hands are shaking even fisted in the broadcloth, and they’re still shaking when Han falls behind a few steps, and catches her by the wrist.

“Hey.”

She glances at Luke and Lando’s retreating backs, then something about her seems to ease. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Fine, fine. Been working so hard for your Rebellion, it was nice to get some time off, catch up on my sleep,” Han drawls, and is pleased to see the corner of her mouth twitch.

“I meant your eyesight, nerfherder.”

“Oh, that’s fine too.”

He’s lying—it’s still sort of blurry, darker around the edges. But it’s enough to see when she steps towards him, and it’s enough to know where to put his hands, when she presses herself against him.

When she kisses him it’s violent, all teeth, sloppy in trying to forget too much in his mouth. He lets her, lets her push him up against the wall, keeps his hands chastely at her waist; hers are shaking where they touch him, curling into his clothes, his hair, as though scrabbling for purchase, something to anchor herself to.

Han’s never been anything but a comet, an object in motion, but if there’s anyone he wanted to drag through space with him—

“I want you to fuck me,” she mumbles against his jaw, and the air leaves his lungs like he’s been spaced.

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, those words out of her kiss-bruised mouth, some dead man’s robe gaping to show the cantina girl getup beneath. Han’s imagined this a hundred times, dreamed of it even in carbonite, but it had always been her, burning and brave and sure. Not whatever this is, whoever she’s trying to be instead of scared, with bruises at her throat.

“No,” he says, very gently, trying for ‘someone who loves you’ in fewer syllables.

She freezes. “What?” she demands. It’s not angry or wounded, just panicked, her hands shaking when they come away from his skin. “After three years, you don’t…”

“No!” he says, desperately grabbing her hands back, cradling them to his chest like an apology. “No, I just—I don’t…I don’t want this to be the memory,” he says, because he’s an idiot, and can’t think of the other arguments, the good ones. “You’re a—I want it to be better. Not here. Not—like this. I want it to be good. Do you understand?”

Her mouth is pink and chapped, when it opens, and Han exhales shakily, hoping not to hear---

“Okay,” Leia says. Her jaw is clenched tight, and he wishes this were...something else, somewhere else, and not the ugly orange of Tatooine’s suns on her face, the hard-scrabble awfulness of so much sand and slavery. This is where Luke came from and Han can respect that, having clawed up from ugliness himself. But Leia is a princess, she’s something---soft and hard and brilliant at once, clean and terrible as a vibroblade, and if Han is going to fuck her, he’s going to try for making love and all it’s stupid romantic echoes. He wants a world where that’s possible, somewhere softer and loving and kind.

Somewhere with trees. He’d like to see Leia dappled by the green shadows of trees.

“Okay,” Leia says, and when she leans forward and kisses him, he’s satisfied she knows. Understands, the insane thing he’s trying to say. (I love you, but not as---that was so destructive and fragile, war and love and---

He does love her. He knows she loves him. That’s what make it all so awful.)

“Okay,” Leia says, and then her hand is sliding down his stomach and slipping past the band of his trousers, and Han chokes---

It’s not the worst hand job he’s ever had, because he was a stupid randy kid in a back alley at one point, and nothing beats that for lack of quality. But it comes close, and he swallows a curse. “Princess, I love you, but you’re going to take the skin off,” he grits out, trying to slow her hand, just to get her gentle.

She shoots him a look, and he almost laughs, she’s so offended. Honestly, it’s sort of a relief to find something she’s shit at, puts him in better company. “Lick your palm,” he offers. “If we were doing this properly, I’d have something better, but we’ll—what are you doing?”

“It properly,” she says, so matter-of-factly, going to her knees on the hard-packed earth.

If Han had any follow up questions, he doesn’t get a chance to ask them.

He chokes, all of his skin suddenly heavy against his insides, more aware of the inside of her mouth, of her lips and tongue, than he is of any inch of himself. She hollows her cheeks, sucking curiously and his breath catches; when he manages to exhale, it's a moan. (It’s so much, too much, like the carbonite but in the opposite direction, death by muchness, all that overwhelming heat and light of her enveloping him.) He reaches out with shaking fingers to touch her hair—doesn't want to force her, doesn't even want to try, just wants to know where he ends and she begins, and maybe this will help, the fragile line of her skull under his hand.

He just manages to warn her (a breathless “shit, I’m—”) and then he’s coming onto the hard-packed dust of the floor. A little on her chin, he wipes it away with a thumb.

“I love you, princess,” he says shakily as she rises to her feet. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” she says absently, touching his jaw with her fingertips. Too much, he thinks, it’s too much. “I know.”

..endor.

It’s an old story. Older than the stars.

They stumble together in the frantic aftermath of Endor, giddy in their temporary immortality (the fear it wouldn’t still be there, come morning.) It’s easy, a story told a hundred times before, too much cheapshit ale and a beautiful girl he still doesn’t deserve, flushed and smiling, at him. Her hair falls around her shoulders like a veil, and through his hands like water, and they keep bumping into trees because neither of them is looking anywhere but the other.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly, pulling away for a moment. She makes a frustrated noise and he laughs. “No, hey, Leia. Listen.”

It takes a moment for either of them to hear anything but their rough breathing, Han’s pulse pounding too hard in his throat. Far-off is the music and laughter of the squadron, occasionally interrupted by the bark and howl of Ewoks, calling to one another through the trees.

Leia is a dark shape set against the green dim of the forest.

“What am I listening for?” she asks in a whisper, and he grins.

“It’s the sound of a Republic being born.”

Her laugh is low and throaty, and Han thinks wildly about licking it out of her mouth. “That has got to be your worse line yet, Solo.”

“Worse than—”

“Yeah,” Leia breathes, and the shadowy shape of her goes up onto its tiptoes to press a kiss to his mouth. She tastes of the dark, green and laughing. “Definitely worse.”

Later, she's in his lap, pressing him down against his bunk, her hands wrapped around his wrists, pinning them just above his shoulders—she uses the leverage to rock up and down on his cock, pleasing herself just as she likes. It's his turn to whimper, his breath catching whenever he remembers how important breathing is. He can press a kiss to the top of her head when she ducks down to graze her teeth over his nipples, the tip of her tongue tracing aurebesh he can't read against his skin. She arches her back just so, and all his consciousness narrows to a singularity at the base of his cock.

“Hey,” she murmurs, stroking his jaw with her thumb as he comes down. “Hey, Han, listen.”

“Yeah?” he asks lazily. “What am I listening for?”

She kisses him, slow and lingering and maybe reverent. Han’s already grinning when she pulls back.

“Heard that song before, Princess.”

“I know,” she says. “But I like singing it.”

#star wars #the warry stars #tw sex #I'M REALLY BAD AT WRITING SEX so uh instead you get this stuff #we shall never speak of it again.#this is a thing I made

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cosmicchronicles · 3 years

Text

En route to Absalom pt. 1

Detective Olanti knocked at Taroyn's door. He hadn't seen her around the ship in a while and surmised she'd sequestered herself in her quarters.

A gentle outward push of his psionically-derived senses would generate a unique signature for each individual who crossed into the radius. The upside? He didn't have to worry about sightlines or barriers. Downside, there was a small but distinct amount of invasion of privacy involved. Though he hoped the average person would have enough awareness about Contemplatives to know they were wholly dependent on psionics to cope in common society. Virtually the whole world to them was contained (or at the very least filtered) in the minds of the people surrounding them. It wasn't so much an intent to snoop as it was just a benign natural behavior.

Kephales hoped his companions saw it that way. It required more effort than he'd like admitting to keep himself purposefully in the dark with them, and he wasn't sure if they even realized he handicapped himself out of courtesy alone. That's how he would build trust and companionship.

At least, that's how it had always been in the past.

Now he usually worked alone.

But here he was again, working with a team. And it was a member of that team who was still very much a stranger to him that had him knocking on her door. The woman on the other side had experienced real trauma, that deep aching kind that carved out a piece of you and crushed it as a final sacrament to lost hope.

Taroyn died.

There was nothing for it now. He'd known death too, intimately in his own way, and he had perhaps the faintest clue as to what she might be going through.

"Taroyn?" he knocked again, "Got a moment?" he played his small reedy voice through the amplification speaker to be heard by those more auditorily inclined..

Taroyn heard a knock on her door. She ignored it, hoping whoever it was would think she was asleep. She continued to contemplate her recklessness of late, especially since she became more comfortable with her new friends. She thought about the time she spent alone on Verces, how careful she'd been then, how deliberate, how professional; her heart ached. In a way, she thought, she and Verces were sharing the same fate, both being shells of their former selves.

She couldn't help but relive those horrible moments over and over, two of the worst moments she had experienced; first, the swarm of dead ships bombing her home of over a hundred years, and next, the swarm of dead dragons attempting to use her as a sacrifice. She watched again as the knife went into her throat, felt again that deathly cold creeping through her body as the very essence of her life flowed out of her and formed a pool on the floor underneath.

She was surprised by the knocking, and this time heard Keph's voice through the door. She wiped some tears from her face as she stood up from her bed before putting on her goggles.

"Sure," she said, and opened the door. "Please, come in."

Keph carefully pressed the button that would slide open the door. There was a marked lack of subtlety in space ships. As lavish as it was, it wasn't home.

Nothing about the Idhani was laid out like Contemplative architecture. There was so much focus on light, color, and comfort. Such trappings were lost on Kephales. Things he appreciated were non-90-degree surfaces, so that his arms could reach things properly -- it is noted his brain's radius is ever so slightly greater than his reach, so he would, for instance, be unable to press a button on a wall without adjusting his body's angle of levitation. Most everything he did was with telekinesis, first out of necessity, then eventually out of habit.

He floated into the room. He was wearing only his white collared shirt and brown trousers. His green tie was loosened and he wasn't putting in much effort to keep his small secondary set of vestigial arms tucked anywhere. But over his shoulder, he carried with him a small bag.

"Not to assume, but... I've been through a few crises in my life, and I get concerned about people isolating themselves after a traumatic event. The need to reflect is important, but it can turn into a meltdown quickly if the control rods are out...so to speak" He stopped near her and set his things down, "This is a wellness check." he finished plainly. His tone was painfully nonchalant, as if he were ordering hamburger.

"Well," Taroyn said hesitantly, "I...I've been through..." She paused, wondering how much about her past she should reveal, "...difficult times before this. My parents were killed by pirates when I was a girl and I was kidnapped and kept as a slave..."

She shut the door with an easy button press and sat down on the corner of her bed. "And Verces... that was my home. I saw the destruction before we had to jump away." She stopped again for a moment to wipe away another tear that began to form under her goggles. "By the way, I hope you don't mind the dark."

"Of course not," he replied. He could hardly tell the difference between light and dark anyway. "What happened on Verces and now my own home of Akiton is... unbelievable. The mind is not equipped to fathom tragedy on such a scale. It's okay to feel adrift. We must cast a wider gaze for now and consider the galaxy as a giant game board. Each move we make is for a longer goal. Our weakness as a team thusfar, has been that we are all the kind of people who react rather than stay a step ahead."

As he spoke in his quiet voice he removed two very small glasses from his bag and a small bottle, so small in fact he didn't use telekinesis to open it. His small limbs worked in tandem opening it and filling the small glasses. He scooted one over to her.

"I was saving this, but I think its needed more now."

In her hand, the glass would be almost like a shot glass, but squatter and with a protuberance that would evidently be a means to grip it, though she wouldn't need it.

"I cant guarantee you'll get drunk, but it will quiet down the ruminating. I like to think I'm an expert on overthinking. It's normal for us to have trouble sleeping." Kephales tipped it back and drank a good gulp with his near-invisible mouth orifice. The glasses and beverage were clearly not designed for Drow-sized people in mind, though it would fit nicely in Fisk's hands, but he didn't make a comment about it. It didn't matter to him, because there's nothing more important than including a stranger in something cultural. That's what made them trust you. That's what made them like you. And then, maybe eventually, you'll start to believe you like them too.

It wasn't that he didn't like Taroyn, or anyone for that matter, it was that it was easier to lose people if you never let them in. He'd learned to maintain a detached clinical association with people ever since.....

"I mean, that's why its called a nightcap right?"

To be continued...

((A compilation of text-based RP between Keph and Taroyn))

#Starfinder #ttprg #kephales #taroyn #contemplative #drow #player characters #cosmic chronicles #cosmicchronicles #roleplay #RP #scifi #en route to absalom

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geminimoonbeamx · 7 years

Text

Bucky Barnes x Plus size reader Confessions

Word Count: 3K +

Warnings: Smut. Oral(male receiving) Mentions of violence and trauma. Mentions of Anxiety. Lotssss of cursing

Bucky wasn’t feeling so hot, the run in with the Hydra agents a few days ago was still taking it’s toll on his body. Being a super solider, genetically enhanced to be able to take a beating, was the only reason he was still alive. His three cracked ribs we’re all but mended and most of the superficial bruises and cuts we’re healed, leaving in their wake little scars and lumps. The gash that had been sliced into his head, the one that Bruce had said would have been his doing in, if not for the “super healing”, was all stitched up and still throbbed, but had begun to scab up and was reacting to the stiches well. He still had to wear the bandage that annoyed the shit out of him and itched something awful, but it was a small bargin to make.

The whole group that had gone on the mission; Tony, Steve, Bucky, Thor and Nat were all recuperating from the blood bath that had went down were all still hurting for the most part.

Bucky had been forced to bed rest, to let his body be idle so it could recover fully, and hadn’t left your room in over 48 hours. He liked your room a lot better then he liked his, even though it was identical to his lay out wise. Being the S.H.E.I.L.D appointed “Baby Sitter” to the Avengers meant you had moved into the tower, Tony giving you a “bunk”.

It was like being back in college, and at first you’d been annoyed. For you, who had lived on your own for years, the idea being forced to share your space with other people was daunting. But the so called “bunk” Tony gave you was one of the large, modern rooms. You’d made the best of it. Made it your own. Your large bed was adorned with soft bedding; littered with soft faux fur blankets and piled high with decorative, throw pillows.

Bucky liked to tease you about them because “who in their right mind needs this many pillows?” but in secret, he loved your bed. Loved how comfy and homey you we’re able to make the space. He felt the whole building was a little to clean, too hospital like with Tony’s mod decoration, but not your room.

It smelled warm and sweet from the littering of candles. Just like you.

He’d all but moved in to it with you since you two had started “going steady”.

He never knew how much he hated sleeping alone til’ he’d started sleeping with you, your plush body reassuring next to him. Your soft arms and doughy thighs wrapping around him, welcoming him to cling to you. The nightmares that had plagued him nightly now came in far lest frequent bursts, something about being lulled to sleep by the sound of your muted breathing, was like an all natural sleep aid…what he didn’t realize is that you, and your sleeping habits had become dependent on him too.

On the warmth he seemed to generate, on his small wheezing snores, on his arms protectively thrown over you.

You hated when he went on missions, dreaded them like you dreaded nothing else. Waited for him desperately, throwing yourself into whatever work you could find to keep your mind occupied, until he came home to you. It was a little pathetic really. You, a (Y/A) year old woman, not being able to sleep. Or eat. Or think right with out this man.

You always imagined the worst while he was gone, tied yourself into knots, had to take more of your anti-anxiety medication then normal. What if he was taken by Hydra again? What if they killed him this time? They only consolation you had in those panic laden moments was the absolute knowledge that Steve loved Bucky as much as you did. Maybe even more. And that he would NEVER let any of that shit happen.

The latest mission had brought your fears to life, you knew it was bad from the news reports. From the frantic coms back to base. They’d been ambushed by a group of Hydra agents who had some weird, deadly alien weapon; a bomb. Twelve civilians had been killed. The group almost been killed. Watching them hobble into the tower was like watching a scene from a war movie. Slow motion, all of them bloody. Like something out of a fucking nightmare. You’d almost hysterically sobbed at the sight of him, limping- his hair matted with grit and gore. Even though Bruce and the other medical’s had assured you both that he was fine you was still pretty shaken up.

You were more happy to have your beat up soldier in your bed, where you could see him. Where he was tangible and breathing. You weren’t very sure you ever wanted to let him out on another fucking mission again…

You walk into your room and see Bucky sitting propped up against the headboard and a white furry blanket pulled around him as he watches the TV. His eyebrows are knitted together, and it would almost look comical paired with the bandage on his head(major grumpy cat vibes) but the TV flashes with News images from the battle that had ensued in Japan. That had left him bruised and battered and bed ridden.

You shut the door behind you, loud enough so that it catches his attention and his blue eyes snap over to your entering frame and he gives you a half grin as you kick off the pair of leopard print heels, eager to get into bed with him.

“Hey kitten” He gruffs out his special name, just for you, as you climb cautiously onto your side of the bed. He’d told you that he wasn’t hurting much anymore, that you didn’t have to be so carful but you weren’t listening.

“Hi baby” You reach over kiss his scruffy cheek, nosing the indent below his cheekbone for a moment. Just breathing him in. You’d had, had to leave for a few hours, go do your job and work on cleaning up the aftermath.

Why had the hours felt like an eternity?

He looks you over, frowning a little bit as his metal hand comes up to stroke your cheek. You look tired, not even the concealer could hide the bags you were sporting.

“You look ’s bad as I feel” He mutters, not liking the state of his girl. You huff a laugh. A sweet little sound.

“That’s not very nice, asshole” Your words hold no venom, only teasing as you pull away so that you can get a better look at him. He doesn’t look so great himself. You finger the edges of the bandage on his forehead feather lightly.

“You know I think your a dime piece” Bucky reassures and you roll your eyes “You look exhausted though”

“That’s because I am. I didn’t really sleep that much last week. And now you’re a cripple and I’ve got to be your nurse, you’re never going to give me a break, are you? Being with you is my second full time job now” You tease and he pokes your shoulder in retaliation, but it’s made him chuckle. Which was your goal.

You could always make him laugh. You we’re such a little shit.

“Why didn’t you sleep last week?” He thinks he knows why, but he wants to make sure. Wants to hear you say it.

“You know I cant sleep with out you” You admit to him, gnawing on your bottom lip for just a moment “Which is fucked up because I used to love sleeping alone. Did you take your pain killers?” You quickly switch the subject, leaning up on your arm to look down at him with a crooked brow.

Bucky sighs. He knows that you’re not very comfortable talking about your feelings like this, not even with him. In the four months that you’d been together, he’d learned that for as affectionate you could be, you weren’t good at voicing what you felt.

And he loved your voice.

“Yeah, I took some almost an hour ago- you know I cant sleep without you either right?” He pulls on your arm, trying to make your rigid posture loosen.

You’re unyielding, your mouth quirking and nose scrunching. He knows that’s your thinking face, you’re I’m unsure of how to feel face. So he goes on with how he feels instead.

“I had nightmares almost every night…I don’t remember them being so damn vivid, you know? Since I haven’t been having them as much lately. Steve didn’t really know what to do. I could tell he was real worried though. I felt like crap, I tried to suck it up but all I wanted to do was be here with you. In your arms. That’s all I ever really want, if we’re being honest here”

Hearing his confession makes you drop your head to his chest and wrap your arm around him, tighter then you’d let yourself in days.

“I thought you we’re dead, Buck. When Tony commed in- it was so fucking fucked up. And then you we’re all covered in blood and I was- I was just…so scared. I cant sleep when your gone. I cant eat. All I can do is freak out and be a total spazzy mess until your back” Your own confession comes in a fast woosh. Your words tumbling over themselves.

He rubs your back in soothing circles through your shirt. I’m here, it says. I’m alive.

“I’ll always try my hardest to come back to you. I’ll find a way back” Bucky vows and you just shake your head.

“You cant promise that. The shit that goes on out there is out of your control” it’s mumbled into his chest. Your voice cracks and it breaks his fucking heart, seeing you all torn up the way you are. Over him.

“Hey, Y/N, look at me. Please, kitten” He nudges your head with his chin “Please?”

Your eyes rise to meet his. (y/e/c) meeting baby blue.

“I know I cant promise that, but what I can promise is that you’re all I’m thinking about when I’m out there. And it…makes me fight harder. Because I just want to come back and see your face, one more time” he squeezes your dimpled cheek in affection and your big teary eyes roll “plus, I’ve survived a hell of a lot. You repeat that to yourself when ever you get scared, kay? I do”

You nod, taking mental note.

Your man had survived an a hundred foot drop. The war. Hydra, multiple times. He’d survived being an experimental plaything, he’d survived being a prisoner. He’d survived Nat’s pancakes(which had almost killed you all).

“I love you” It’s not the first time you’ve said it to him, but the look in your eyes…the complete and utter devotion. Like you were admitting, to both yourself and him, that you were his. That you’re whole fucking world crumbled when he wasn’t around. That you needed him more then you’d ever needed anything.

It makes the pit of his stomach tighten and stir because no ones looked at him like that…ever. Not even before he was a murder, before he was tainted by all the shit he had been forced to do. To have you, giving yourself to him. You, who shown like sunshine. Who demanded attention and respect, who was the most quick witted woman he’d ever met- truly had the compacts to love a man like him.

It boggled his mind. It set him on fire.

He reaches so that he can press his lips to yours, kissing you with all the things he cant say. He doesn’t ever feel more like himself, James Barnes, then he does when he’s kissing you. Like if you could see something in him, then maybe it was really there.

“I love you. I love you. I love you” you chant it like a prayer between his kisses. All that pent up emotion coming out in pure, raw endearment. He goes to roll over on to you but hisses at the strain, at the pang in his ribs.

“Hey” You soothe, pushing him back lightly into his positon against the headboard “You’re still hurt, broken ribs don’t heal over night, not even for super soldiers”

You laugh but he groans.

“Come here then” He pulls at your waist a little, wanting the intimacy of your bodies being pushed together back and you’re more then happily to comply.

You drive him nuts, he’s so attracted to you it kills him sometimes, he’s in a constant state of love goggled want when it comes to you. And when you praise him, with your words and your lips the way you are now, he melts. He’d give you anything you asked for He’d do fucking anything for you.

“Kitten” Bucky sighs as you kiss the expanse of his bristley neck, nipping at his jaw, nosing his collar bone. He couldn’t really move right now, which you knew meant sex was off the table. But his groans and moans, his needy hands. The thought of him having nightmares without you. It all spurred you on.

You just wanted to take care of him. Wanted him to feel better. Wanted how much you loved him to surround him.

And you’d always been a very…physical lover. People who think big girls don’t care to have sex lives are wrong. You need that connection. Especially with him. And it had been missing for a week.

Bucky feels your hand slink lower on his chest, still careful for the remaining bruising. Running over every nook, every muscle that was taught with excitement. You let draw circles on the apex of his hips, just above where the ‘V’ of his hips meets his sweat pants and his lower stomach contracts, beautifully.

“Y/N” he hisses as you tug at the hem of the sweat pants, enough to allow his cock to release from it’s confines, stand tall, and slap against his stomach.

You don’t think you’ll ever get over that view.

“Going commando, are we?” You whisper in his ear as you stroke the underside of him with just your fingernails.

“Please don’t tease me” Bucky begs. He knows how you are. Has been edged for hours before “Not tonight”

You nod against his jaw and begin to move your hand “Okay, baby, okay”

There’s so much pre-cum already, you use the palm of your hand to rub at his tip and the strangled little moans you get in return are fucking heaven.

Then, your moving down him, not putting any of your weight his healing abdomen as you go eye level with his cock. It’s dangerously plump, red and swollen as you hold him by the base.

“Poor baby” you coo as you press a loving kiss to the tip, running it over your lips in an attempt to soothe the engorgement “I’m going to take care of you, Buck. Don’t worry”

Bucky’s head snaps back hard onto your many pillows as he lets out a long breath tough his nose as you proceed to leave open mouth kisses all over him, sucking the sides of his hard dick, giving him all of your attention. Wanting to get every inch of him before you take him into your mouth.

You’d never had that great of a gag reflux, but god damn it, your try for him. Take as much as him into your mouth, down your throat as you can. Your body rejects it, your tight little esophagus tightening in protest and the gags you let out loud as you fight to take more.

Bucky’s eyes roll because holy shit, you’ve never taken this much of him in your mouth before. He has to see, he lifts his head enough so that he can see down his body, to where his cock is burred in your mouth. Your (y/c/h) is tumbling around your head, falling onto his stomach so he runs his metal hand trough it in order to collect it, to get it out of your face, to help his good little baby doll.

You look up at him, your eyes teary, the makeup around them smudged and messy. His cock in stretching your mouth wide, your pretty lips bursting at the seams with him and he fucking loses it. His hips roll, even through the pain from his ribs, and he lets out a screeching moan neither of you had ever heard.

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t cum in a week. Maybe its seeing you, willing suffer to take him like you were, he doesn’t know.

“I’m cumming. I’m cumming, Y/N” He warns but you don’t pull away. You continue to gag around him, sucking and bobbing.

He cums harder then he thinks he ever has. The long milky spurts fill your throat and you breathe through your nose as you attempt to take it all. Bucky cant even form a complete thought, his mind has gone white hot, his ears are ringing and his whole body keeps shaking uncontrollably. You reach up and grab his hand, in an attempt to wordlessly support him, to anchor him.

I’m here, Buck. I’m here.

It’s impossible to catch it all in your mouth and it seeps from the corners of your lips, dribbling down your chin, your neck, into your shirt and cleavage. You don’t give up though, taking it until the spurts stop and he’s ran himself dry.

“Y/N” Bucky whimpers as he pulls on you hair, he’s too sensitive. Your mouth on him feels searing and near painful and you slowly release him with a little ‘pop’ and then look up at him through your eyelashes, your eyes cartoon like. Bashful and soft and young looking. Your lips were swollen and raw and glistening, your chin still dripping with traces of his cum. Your hair messy and wild from his fingers.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Haunting.

His fingers stroke across your forehead, pushing tendrils of hair away as his chest swells with fondness.

“Oh Christ, Y/N” His strong arms pull you up to him “Come here, baby”

“Your ribs!” Your protest but he doesn’t listen, he just holds you tight on top of him, cradling your face with his flesh hand, his metal one holing your soft waist.

“I’m sorry- I know you don’t like- you didn’t have to swallow” He whispers as he wipes at your damp chin. You’d never been a swallower, always begging him to tell you when he was close so that you could pull away.

You shake your head, hard.

“No, I wanted to” You insist, and he smiles at the fire in your voice.

He really was in trouble. Was in deep, when it came to you.

“I love you, Y/N” His tone…sounds something like worship “I love you so much. I cant- your-I need you more then I-” He still cant think completely straight, not after that orgasm and you press a small peck to his lips.

“I know, Bucky. I love you too”

Raise your hand if you’d suck Sebastian’s dick in a second *throws both my hands in the air* I got a lot of Bucky oral requests so here you all go! So I’m kind of thinking about doing a collection of these? With this certain reader who works PR an psychology for the Avengers? Maybe?😬

#bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes #plus size reader #mcu imagine #bucky barnesxreader #Bucky Barnesxplus size reader

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