#quick hand movements and frantic leg kicks

[peacelovepandora]

Exceeding It All

Jake Sully x Daughter!Reader

@missdreamofendless : "I’ve always wanted to see something with Jake and his newborn daughter, I just think it would be adorable"

^ thanks for the idea love !

enjoyyyyyy <3

. *. ⋆

Within the confines of the elders' quarters, Neytiri was in the process of giving life to you. Pacing frantically, Jake struggled to check his emotions as he awaited the birth of his third child. His two sons, Neteyam and Lo'ak, were being watched by other members of the clan. Though it was the middle of the night, far into the hours of eclipse, adrenaline kept Jake wide awake.

Neteyam and Lo'ak had both been quick births. However, tonight, Jake's mind raced as he noted how much longer you were taking.

Was everything okay? Was there a complication? Was Neytiri alright?

It took all of his strength not to burst into the tent. He'd already interrupted the elders four previous times. He knew that--should he make it a fifth--that they would be far from pleased with him.

As he tried to control his breathing, he looked down at his hands, dusting them at his sides.

Were his hands clean enough to hold you? What if he infected you with something and got you sick?

Frowning, Jake shook his head. He'd already done this twice before. Why was he so nervous with this one? What was different? Searching his mind for an explanation, he couldn't help falling into a cycle of affectionate thoughts.

What would you be like? Would he have another son to accompany his two others?

Relaxing a bit, Jake chuckled to himself as he envisioned three rowdy boys padding through the forest. Then, looking down at his hands, he finally made up his mind.

"Yeah, I should go wash up," he whispered to himself.

As he prepared to leave, a faint jakesully caused him to halt his movements. Turning around, he was met with the sight of Mo'at, holding the entrance beads back with one hand.

After a moment's silence, Jake finally spoke. "Mo'at?" Jake asked breathlessly.

"It is time," she replied, before nodding towards the inside of the tent, "Come."

For a moment, Jake stared at her, mouth agape and eyes wide. Then, swallowing thickly, he brushed his hands over his torso before sucking in a breath. With a small smile, Mo'at waited for Jake to approach the entrance before turning around and walking inside.

As Jake's heart pounded in his ears, he pulled the beads aside before stepping into the fire-lit quarters. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust--for he'd been relying on the bioluminescent lighting of the forest outside. Once they did, he spotted Neytiri's limp figure. Eyes closed, she was taking deep breaths as exhaustion crossed her expression. Moving quickly, Jake kneeled by her side, cupping her face in the process.

"Baby?" he whispered, rubbing a thumb over her cheek.

"Let her rest, Jakesully," Mo'at instructed, "She has just been relieved of the burden of birthing your daughter."

"I kno--" Jake spun around, eyebrows creased as his mouth fell agape. "Daughter?"

Mo'at raised her eyebrows. "Yes," she answered, "Eywa has blessed you with a daughter."

Sticking her hand out, Mo'at gestured towards two other elders. They were two women, both sitting on the floor, backs to him. After standing up, moving at a careful pace, Jake stepped towards the women. Feeling his presence behind them, one of them glanced back, meeting his gaze before scooting to the side. As she did so, he was finally given a view of you, his daughter.

Your small body was lying on a weaved blanket. Small, nearly inconceivable, noises were coming from your tiny lips. Instantly, Jake was taken back to the births of his two sons. Both boys had been loud babies, crying as soon as they'd reached the world.

But you, you were quiet. Your coos grew softer as your legs kicked out. Then, reaching out, your small hands grew agitated--reaching out for a purpose that was unknown to you.

Jake, however, was fully aware of that purpose. An aching paternal instinct fueled his heart with a fierce protectiveness that had never been so strong before.

Your eyes were closed. You had entered the world only minutes before. And yet, your newborn instincts could already recognize someone of your own blood. The small fibers in your body felt his presence and knew to reach out for him.

"Oh my," he breathed.

Gingerly, the woman sitting closest to him scooped you up. Jake had little time to register the moment before you were being handed to him. Sucking in a breath, Jake reached his hands out, cupping your back and head.

Quickly realizing this was an awkward grip, he readjusted himself to cradle you. Leaning back slightly, he released his breath as he tucked your head into the crook of his arm. Though he was capable of supporting you with one arm--given that you were just that small--he tucked his other arm beneath you for extra security.

Daughter, his mind echoed.

For a long moment, he remained silent as he gazed down at you. He hadn't realized that his mouth had fallen agape until his throat grew dry. Closing his mouth, he forced a swallow before nearly panicking as your eyes popped open.

Jake blinked, feeling his heart race as he held your gaze for the very first time. However, as your fresh gaze morphed from sudden-alertness to curiosity, Jake's demeanor softened, as well.

After releasing a long exhale, he finally broke the silence. "Wow," he spoke breathlessly, feeling a small smile tug at his lips, "Hey, baby girl. There you are."

"Were you expecting another son?" Mo'at asked, raising an eyebrow as a smile tugged at her lips.

"I don't know what I was expecting," Jake answered distractedly, never ripping his gaze from you, "but this . . . God, this exceeds everything. Every expectation I ever had. She exceeds everything."

As a small whimper escaped your lips, Jake frowned, instinctively searching your body.

"She's uncomfortable," Mo'at explained as Jake gently bounced you, "Fresh out of the womb, her body temperature is still warm. We must bathe her now."

"Let me," Jake spoke up, a little too harshly.

The women grew silent, staring at him. Jake's gaze shifted between the three of them before correcting himself.

"I mean . . . I never got to bathe my sons. It would be greatly appreciated if you would do me the honor of allowing me to bathe my firstborn daughter."

The two women looked to Mo'at. Lips pressed together, Mo'at scrutinized Jake's possessive grip on your small frame. After a few more moments of silence, she released a sigh before nodding once.

"Very well," she agreed, "but I will instruct you on how to conduct this properly first."

. *. ⋆

"Okay," Jake breathed, gently lying your body against the carefully-arranged leaves, "Alright."

Releasing his grip from behind your head, Jake began arranging the bathing supplies. In a militant manner, he repeated Mo'at's steps within his mind.

However, after a few minutes of feeling the absence of his hands from your body, a small whimper escaped your lips. Immediately, Jake turned his attention from the soap and ointment, focusing his sharp gaze on you.

"Hm?" he hummed, reaching out to take your small hands between his pointer and thumb fingers, "Hey . . . hey, baby. Easy, sweetheart, I'm here. I have you."

Upon feeling his touch, your whimpers dissolved. A smile tugged at Jake's lips as he caught on to your desire to remain close to him.

"Yeah," he whispered, nodding slightly, "I've got you."

Leaning down, he placed a light kiss on your forehead. Then, turning his attention back to the soap and ointment, he continued to organize them, keeping a loose grip on one of your hands as he did so.

When he was satisfied, he released a breath before giving you his full attention, once again. Turning to face you, he returned his grip to both of your hands. He rubbed his thumbs over your skin as he spoke in a hushed tone.

"Okay, baby girl," he began, "you wanna do me a favor and make this easy for me? It'll be better for the both of us in the long run."

Cooing softly, you held his gaze before tugging your hands from his grip. Hands outward, you reached for his face.

A tender smile pulled at his lips as a fond expression crossed his face. Leaning down, he allowed your hands to hover over his cheekbones. Then, closing the distance, he gently pressed his forehead against yours.

A delighted coo left your lips, before a giggle followed it. Jake, who had temporarily closed his eyes, snapped them open. Leaning back, he gave himself a full view of your tiny face. A smile danced on your lips as you giggled up at him.

Shaking his head, he placed two kisses on your forehead. He followed them with two kisses on your cheek.

"You're so beautiful. You're such a--"

He interrupted himself, placing two kisses on your stomach, eliciting giggles from you. "Such a pretty girl," he finished.

As you quieted, he kept his gaze trained on you. "Alright," he rasped, gently wrapping his hands around you, "Let's do this."

Carefully lifting you, he positioned you over a carefully carved bathtub, which was filled with soft shrubs and lukewarm water. A soft pillow, which had been folded together from a leaf, laid at the edge of the tub---giving cushion for your head to rest on above the water. Gingerly, he lowered you into the water, holding his breath as he awaited your reaction. To his relief, the slight change in environment didn't seem to disturb you.

Puffing his cheeks out, he released a breath. "Okay . . ." he whispered, trying to bury his apprehension.

He knew from experience that his babies could sense his emotions, and the last thing he wanted to do was make you nervous. After releasing you, allowing you to grow accustomed to the water, he grabbed a cloth and the first soap.

Your curious eyes watched his movements, as he dipped the cloth into the water before soaking it with soap. After placing the soap down, he turned his attention back to you. Meeting your eyes, a small smile tugged at his lips.

Tilting his head slightly, he spoke up. "Alright," he whispered, lowering the cloth to your skin, "let's start with this little belly, shall we?"

With a feather-light touch, he moved the cloth in circular motions against your skin. The combination of his motions, and the water, relieved your overheated body. A small smile tugged at your little lips as you cooed up at him, enjoying the sensation.

He smiled, a playful glint evident in his gaze. "There's that smile," he said softly, "Is this what you needed, baby? Feels nice, doesn't it?"

Your legs kicked briefly in response. As he began to move to your arms, gently grabbing your little limbs and washing them, he continued to talk to you.

"Guess it makes sense that you'd be pretty warm and uncomfortable after being in the womb for so long," he whispered, before meeting your eyes, once again, "but you're here now, aren't you? As beautiful as ever."

He moved to your legs, gently running the cloth over your soft skin. “I gotta tell ya, you were quite the little surprise,” he continued, “but that isn’t your doing. That was all on me. It’s like I forgot there was a possibility that I could have a little girl.”

When you eyed him curiously, he chuckled. “Aw, cut your daddy a little slack. After having two sons, it’s easy to just expect another one.”

Finally, he slowly poured water over you, washing the soap off. “But I’m so glad that I got you, baby girl," he finished, a small smile tugging at his lips, "You were the last thing I ever expected and the best thing I could've had."

He remained attentive to your every move as he finished washing you. Then, gripping you carefully, he lifted you from the water and placed you on a large, warm cloth. His eyes grew distant as he spoke.

"Never really thought about having a daughter, but now that I have you, I think I subconsciously wanted one all along."

He releases a breath through his nose before locking eyes with you. A content expression crossed your face as you squirmed slightly.

"Ah!" you said, responding to his string of sentences that you had yet to understand.

He chuckled, nodding his head. "That's right, baby," he replied, leaning closer to you, "I'm talking about you."

Gripping the sides of the towel, he dried your damp body with gentle pats. Then, shifting his gaze for a moment, he grabbed the ointment before placing it next to your little body.

"Okay," he breathed, "The hard part is over. Now, we just gotta lotion you up."

Dipping his fingers into the cup of ointment, he scooped up a generous amount before rubbing it together in his palms.

Watching his movements---with fresh eyes that marveled at everything---you found humor in his actions. A giggle escaped your lips as your eyes zeroed in on his hands, observing him rubbing them together.

Jake paused his actions, glancing down at you. He raised an eyebrow before briefly rubbing his hands together for a moment, testing your reaction. When he paused his actions, another giggle escaped your lips.

He let out a brief chuckle, furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity and slight confusion. Then, he rubbed his hands together again, before pulling them apart and showing you the ointment on his palms, wiggling his fingers to flaunt the liquid texture.

His actions elicited a fresh wave of giggles on your part. Chuckling softly, he glanced at his hands before looking back at you.

"Is that funny, baby girl?" Jake asked, affection seeping through his tone, "Do you like seeing Daddy struggle with pampering you?"

You cooed in response, a small smile still dancing on your lips. He shook his head, smiling softly as he lowered his hands to your body. With a tender touch, his fingers moved in circular motions over your smooth skin, massaging in the moisturizing liquid.

When he went to get another scoop of liquid, he made a show out of his hand movements, exaggerating each rub and wiggling his fingers in the air. To his delight, this sent you into a fit of laughter.

He tilted his head back in laughter before tilting his head. "This is really gettin' you goin', isn't it?" he asked, "I can't help wondering what you find so amusing about this . . . but I guess it doesn't really matter. If it makes you laugh, I'll do it all night."

Once he finished moisturizing you, he swaddled you in a light blanket, making sure you wouldn't grow too warm. Finally content, he lifted you into his hands and cradled you in his arms.

"There we go," he whispered, adjusting you slightly, "How's that, sweet girl?"

Your eyelids grew heavy as you blinked up at him. Still awestruck by your existence, he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead before leaning back to take you in. Once he began rocking you, it didn't take long for you to nod off in his arms.

"A daughter," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, "A daughter that's all mine."

As he held you, he reflected on what having a little girl would entail---the journey that was ahead. Though Neteyam and Lo'ak were still young, he never had a second thought about who their future partners would be. His mind had never lingered on what teenage girls might find them intriguing during their adolescent years. And yet, as he stared down at you, his little girl, he was overwhelmed with a strong wave of possessiveness as he pictured your adolescent years.

No boy would come near you. No boy would touch you. He would make sure of it.

Jake's mind grew still as he caught himself in the midst of these racing thoughts. This was new territory for him.

You were his little girl. As he thought about how he would go about raising you, his instincts veered from what he'd done with his sons. Of course, he wanted you to be strong, and to know how to defend yourself, but that instinct wasn't at the forefront of his mind---like it was for his sons.

Instead, more than anything, he wanted to . . . shield you. He wanted to hold you close and keep you away from harm. He wanted to see you blissfully pad through the forest and marvel at Eywa's creations, just like your mother. He didn't want to see you fight---not if you didn't have to.

Jake made a vow to himself. He promised to not only protect you, but to remain in tune with your emotional state. He knew that raising his tender baby girl would require different approach---compared to how he was raising his two rowdy boys.

"I'm here for you, baby girl," Jake whispered, brushing a thumb over your cheek, "Always."

. *. ⋆

omgggg I finally put this out! thank you so so much for your patience, and a special thank you to all of you that have remained loyal, continued to check in, and/or simply stuck around for me! I cherish you all and I hope you are all doing well and having a great summer!

as usual, let me know what your thought are about this! it's been awhile since I've delved into this universe, so if anything comes off a little rusty, I apologize!

anyways, all my love!

hugs and kisses x.

Taglist : @eywas-daughter @pturnersblog @bombshe77 @faatxma @scryarchives @gamorxa @222krn @ellabellabus07 @perfectprofessorloverapricot @raefoxiegirl @vampxra @itssiaaax @tinkerbelle05 @brittclass-18 @missroro @aisylazzy @leomatsuzaki @joey-hoey @eternallyvenus @mae-is-crazy @nyotamalfoy @mashiromochi @theghostofshadows @httpsplanetmarsdotcom @cmfouatslota77 @laylasbunbunny @fanboyluvr @phxntomx11 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @ellabellabus07 @abbersreads @23victoria @sully-stick-together @uselessbutinteresting @fleursbending @missdreamofendless @prty-poisxn

#jake sully x daughter!reader #jake sully daughter #jake sully #jake sully x reader #jake sully x you #avatar way of water #Jake Sully fluff #Jake Sully x y/n #soft #protective Jake sully #Jake sully 2009

[eros-kisser]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ₊ ⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆.

pantalone x sub!mreader. nsfw. dubcon(?), drugging

“Enter.” A rich voice, one that had been expecting your arrival. When you gently opened and closed the door shut behind you, you felt dark eyes gaze at your exposed body, your open skin visible through the clothing you wore. The clothing he requested you to wear. “You’re late.” His words were cold, but his tone wasn’t, and was instead one of much amusement.

“I-I’m sorry Sir-“

“Pantalone.” He strided, standing up from his desk, which sat at the wall of his expansive room. It was darkly lit, and with only a few vague shapes to go off by, you could assume this was his quarters. A shiver ran through your body. “Why so nervous? I told you I’d please you tonight, did I not? All you have to do,” he reached where you stood now, and cupped your chin in his palm. “Is relax.”

And then he began his craft. A play for his eyes. “Strip.” There was a hint of a cruel smile in his voice, but he had hid it well. You eyes shook as you flinched at his order, shrinking. "Are you deaf? That was a command, and I expect you to follow through. Though..." He closed his eyes in a smile, hiding his dark gaze. "If you aren't able to, I'll do it for you."

You shuddered, opening your mouth to speak, but the man had already determined your answer. He forcibly grabbed your arms and threw you onto the bed, where you landed with a soft thump. The area where he had gripped your wrists stung, something that was sure to bruise. "S-Sir, I-!"

"You talk too much." Something entered your mouth abruptly, his fingers, covered in the fabric of his gloves. "Suck on it."

He didn't give you much of a choice. He forced his digits into your mouth, and you weakly swirled your tongue around them. His other hand roamed your defenseless body, tearing away at your clothes and disposing off them. When he finally took his fingers out of your mouth, a string of saliva trailing from your lips, you glanced down at saw how exposed you were, fully naked with nothing to hide in front of Pantalone's sharp gaze. Suddenly finding it rather hard to breathe. Pantalone seemed to notice this, and a knowing smile graced his lips. "Ah, has the drug finally kicked in? About time. While this isn't exactly my preference, it's better than watching you flail about as you desperately try to take me. Don't worry, it's not all that potent. You should still be able to feel everything."

Take... what? Your mind had grown hazy, and you could barely register Pantalone taking his gloves off, revealing his slender, pale hands, and spreading your legs apart. Your stomach felt funny... how strange... and your body was burning.

"It's... hot..." You whined, unknowingly bucking your hips against Pantalone's fingers, which were busy pumping in and out of you, coated in your slick and spreading your hole.

"Is it?" With a smirk and a quick glance at your member, he slowed his fingers, earning a huffy moan from you. "Come now, let's not be too impatient. After all, I can't have you cum when I haven't even put it in yet, can I?"

"Ah...?" Your throat felt dry, and you gripped at the sheets in a frantic attempt to sit upright. It was useless. His held onto your hips as you continued to thrash, movements gradually slowing, and kept you locked in place as his free hand undid first his coat, which he threw off the bed in a careless fashion, and then his pants, which he unzipped, revealing how hard he had already gotten. He was big, and you struggled against his grasp once more at the sight. Tears filled your vision as lined himself up to your hole, breath shallow. "N-No, it's too- It won't- Ah-!"

Your complaints were cut short as he entered you all at once, giving you no time to adjust as he thrust into you relentlessly from behind, blurring the line between pain and pleasure, and you desperately clawed at the mattress, gasps quickly turning to pants. It hurt, he was going to rip you apart, you were almost sure of that - yet soon, your pained noises turned into moans, and the dick that was sliding in and out of you filled a once empty you full.

A hand snaked up your body and toyed with your nipples, flicking and teasing them, only eliciting another shameful sound from your mouth, and you trembled under his touch. It was too much, he was only going faster now as he reached his high, your chest was sensitive and the wet sounds of his body slamming into yours resounded across the walls, yet the fear that someone would hear you had already faded under the insurmountable pleasure that coursed through your body. Your own dick stood upright, leaking cum from your previous... how many... orgasms...? There had been too many to count, each time you climaxed, sparks flying in your vision.

Pantalone's face was flushed the slightest, his brows furrowed, but he didn't even seem exhausted, how was that possible? You were shaking, light-headed, and could barely move your hands to grab at his wrists in a futile effort to whine at him to stop. As good as it felt, the pleasure hurt with how sensitive you had grown orgasm after orgasm... or was that just a lie that you were telling yourself to remain sane? This couldn't have been normal had it? Sir Pantalone, as you called him, was just your superior in your field of work... despite that, he had been the one to reach out to you first, offering you a position under him, instead of where you had been working under general forces previous. A big promotion, sure, and now you cursed yourself for it, tears slipping past your eyes and staining the bed sheets as you mouth remained ajar, sounds of your shame being jerked out of you. You bit your tongue in an attempt to silence yourself, but instead felt stinging. Pantalone was staring down at you in earnest glare, his hand flush where he had slapped you across your chest.

"Don't be quiet. It's better if you're loud, darling."

Darling?

His pace grew more erratic, the bed creaking with his every brutal movement, and you swore you could see where his dick pumped in and out of you - a bulge in your stomach, and an unfamiliar emotion you couldn't describe surfaced. Either way, he had picked up his pace once more, and at some point discarded his glasses, removing any obstruction to witness his dark eyes, gleaming sinisterly. It was hot, hot, and you could feel his touch like electricity spread throughout your body... were you going to cum again? Was there anything even left to cum?

Your thoughts slipped away as his teeth found his way into your neck, pressing deep kisses and lapping at your unmarked skin, and that's all it took for you to wail, sending you right over the edge, and you felt Pantalone grow even harder in you, shoving in once, twice, before releasing his ropes of cum, painting your insides white.

Your chest heaved with every breath, vision already flickering as sound faded in your ears. "I-Is... Is it over...?"

His laugh was cold, cruel. "Oh darling, surely you didn't think we'd stop after just one round?"

©eros-kisser.

> if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging as it supports me a lot as a new blog! thank you !! still a lil inexperienced in writing smut so feedback is very appreciated :) thank you for reading!

#˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ₊ ⊹] eroscreations!! #genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #smut #pantalone #pantalone smut #pantalone x reader #pantalone x you #fatui harbingers #genshin impact fatui #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin x male reader #pantalone x male reader #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin thirst #genshin headcanons #genshin oneshots #yandere #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin x you #yandere pantalone #pantalone imagine #sub genshin impact

[narcissisticmf]

swim | benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

description: on your honeymoon, you and benedict decide to have a picnic beside a lake, which leads to his desire for a swim.

trigger warnings: nudity, seductive behavior, fluff, suggestive/implied smut, etc. please do not proceed in reading if you are under the age of 18. thank you.

word count: <1k

The sun was setting as you and Benedict were laying against a blanket, against the soft grass. You gently ran your fingers across the greenery amongst the ground, letting it tickle your fingertips. Your eyes grew weary as you gazed at the thin clouds in the orangey, pink sky.

In front of a babbling river stream, you listened to the soft movements in the water. Fish popping up here and there and water running across a line of rocks. You were wearing a long, floral sun dress.

"If I had the choice to stay here forever, I think I would," You admitted in a sigh.

Benedict's lips curved into his famous lopsided grin, you could hear it without even looking in his direction. "Me too," He agreed. He was sitting up with his hands folded, arms around his bent legs. "I don't suppose you'd wanna go for a swim?" Benedict grinned cheekily and poked your side, making you chuckle softly.

You turned to look up to him with blown out pupils. He was mesmerized by your beauty as you laid there so comfortably.

"I would hate to ruin your moment of peace and tranquility.." Benedict started and moved so he could hover over you, his free hand holding himself up on the other side of you. You were trapped beneath him now as he lowered his head to gently kiss your jawline. "But.." He breathed out, "I'd like to go for a swim with you."

"I must admit," You smiled. "You are very persistent, it is hard to say no."

"So is that a yes?" Benedict smiled, pulling his head back to stare at you lovingly. His other hand cupped your face, caressing the apple of your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

You nodded softly as he smiled like a school boy, rising to his feet as he begun to remove his clothing. You laughed as he was acting so frantic to get out of his attire, as though the water would dry out if the two of you hadn't been quick enough.

"Ben!" You laughed as he struggled to get his shoes off. "You can slow down, the water isn't going anywhere!"

Benedict smiled as soon as he became fully undraped, scurrying across the soft grass to leap into the cool water. You watched him with so much glee in your eyes. You took your time removing your dress, corset and stockings, as well as your boots. You laid all your clothes onto the blanket once you were completely uncladded.

"Come on, Mrs. Bridgerton!" Benedict smiled as his head was aboved the water, waving his hands so you would follow him.

"Is it cold?" You asked on your way toward the water.

"Refreshing," He grinned as he watched you jump in, splashing his face with the water lightly. He was laughing.

You kicked your feet to the surface of the water and smiled widely, so much so that your cheeks begun to sore. The water was cool against your skin, utterly perfect and — as Benedict described — refreshing.

His arms snuck around your waist as yours fell, resting across his shoulders and upper back. You let your nose brush against his cheek as your faces were centimeters apart.

"I never noticed.." He whispered, dreamily.

"What?" You smiled.

Once he noticed you were caught off guard, he smiled mischievously and lifted your waist tossing you further back into the water. He was cackling loudly as you yelped as soon as you hit the water again.

"You idiot!" You scolded once you resurfaced.

"Aww.. what're you to do, darling? Gonna tell my mother?" Benedict pulled his lips into a forced frown.

"I very well just might!" You grumbled.

Benedict couldn't take you serious as he swam towards you, smiling brightly.

"No, stay over there," You pushed the water to splash his face. He was laughing as he wiped his eyes with one hand and snuck the other around your waist lowly. He moved his hand from his face and held you tightly with both arms.

"You're absolutely adorable when you're frustrated," Benedict whispered into your ear as his hands moved down to your bum, gripping your cheeks softly. You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide.

"Benedict," You whispered, squeezing his shoulders.

"What? I'm just appreciating your body," He snickered, with that most beautiful crooked smile.

You returned a smile and cupped his face, putting your lips to his softly. A rumble of thunder was heard in the distant skies, but that didn't stop either of you from pulling away. Out of nowhere, grey clouds darkened the sky and rain began to pour, hitting the tops of your heads with high pressure.

Pulling back from Benedict's kiss, you looked up at the sky with parted lips. He did as well, but his gaze at the dark clouds didn't last very long. He looked back to you and pressed warm kisses to your exposed neck, making you smile dreamily. Your fingers tangled in his wet hair, breathing softly.

"We should probably go back to the house," You muttered in a whisper.

Benedict smiled against your skin and you knew there was no stopping him now; and you were comfortable with that.

.

a/n: this is the cutest thing i think i've ever written 🥺 i love it so much!! i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i had fun writing it! if you'd like more bridgerton content, PLEASE let me know! i'd love to write more for this fandom! thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed! be safe, my darlings. <33 — angelina.

#smut #imagine #reader #x reader #edit #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x y/n #anthony bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #eloise bridgerton #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton #honeymoon #daphne bridgerton

[blue-sadie]

A Dark Slumber

they accidentally hurt you when having a nightmare

Steven Grant

The nightmares only started after the whole experience death and finding out his purpose of living he felt used and betrayed, he couldn't stomach looking at marc for a while let alone talking to you about it but what hurt him most was his mother's death.

You both layed soundly in your bed the only noise was from the fish tank that released bubbles every few moments, it was peaceful well for you, Steven's nightmare started with his leg twitch then to his hands pulling at the covers, he started muttering words no one could understand.

He woke you up when he accidentally smacked you in your face making you squeaked out which made him sit up in alarmed by your noise, he'll look around frantically intill his eyes landed on you holding your cheek and he immediately knew what he did.

The first thing he did was ask if your ok he wouldn't come close to you unless you tell him it's ok, he would feel ashamed and full of guilt and breakdown he would tell you everything that's been on his mind mostly about the nightmares and of the things he saw when he died "i-ive just been so stuck in my mind I guess my feelings were just catching up to me"

Marc Spector

He always had nightmares from his childhood but they've never been this bad, after the countless missions he's done he would think that killing would get easier that the guilt feeling would subside but it never did it was actually getting the best of him sometimes.

You were pretty used to his slight movements and bumps in the night he was a restless sleep it was very rare when he had a peaceful slumber, his hands would grasp the blankets tightly his breathing uneven as he twist and turned.

You woke up gasping as you felt your air way close your hands immediately wrapped around his he would only wake up probly when you gasped out his name, he would immediately release your neck and stare blankly at his hands.

He would quickly raise fron the bed and refuse to get back in, you'd have to coax him back in after nights of him on the couch he would take alot of convincing and time to even touch you again the images of him strangling you crossing his mind everytime he comes into contact with your skin "I don't know what came over me it felt as if I lost control of my whole body it was... scary".

Jake Lockley

He never had dreams only nightmares but that hardly ever happened anyway since he normally stares up at the ceiling as you slept beside him, he'll do anything to stay awake the thought of sleeping repulsed him but it was actually the fear if what he'll see that stopped him.

He only closed his eyes for a minute only wanting a slight rest but that was quick to turn into a long slumber but that miracle turned sour as his body started to flinch and his rapid eye moments were frantic, his body thrashed around kicking the blankets off of him and he squirmed around.

The thing that woke you was when you came into contact with the ground the coldness and shock of the fall caused you to scream making him fling himself out of bed to your rescue but it took him a minute to figure out it was his doing that got you onto the floor.

He would profusely apologize and help you back into bed while cursing at himself in spanish as he took got back into bed, he would cuddle you whispering apologizes and praises while making internal promises to himself that he'll never sleep in your presence again afraid it would be worse next time "I'm so sorry mi amor I promise I'll get better"

#marvel #marvel headcanon #marvel angst #marvel x reader #marvel x reader angst #marvel angst headcanon #moon knight #moon knight angst #moon knight x reader angst #moon knight headcanon #moon system #moon system angst #moon system x reader angst #marc spector #marc spector angst #marc spector x reader angst #steven grant #steven grant angst #steven grant x reader angst #jake lockley #jake lockley angst #jake lockley x reader angst

[flower-cage]

The Wolf And The Dragon | Chapter Seven

by @flower-cage

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.

Ao3 | Main Masterlist | TWATD Masterlist | Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | NEW Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 coming soon

Chapter Seven: The Wolf and The Dragon II

Chapter summary: The several days that make up your recovery are bright and fanciful like this in his company, despite the looming promise of battle.

Words: 6,192.

Warnings: 18+ only; explicit sexual content, mentions of blood.

A/N: This is such a filler chapter - all fluff and longing and smut, barely any plot. Smut has entered the chat. Minors, do not interact.

Tall, warped, and grey is the world that enshrouds you. It flashes past your eyes as you pierce through it unwaveringly. Towards where your legs take you, you are unsure, for an innate calling takes the lead and you trust it fully, you trust it blindly. Thick and hot as it drips down your flushed flesh, flying off and fouling the air with the taste of iron is… your blood? Pain is there too within your bones and desperate agony thrums and stings in your gut.

When it all stops, you know not where you stand, only that it grants you relief so great you surrender yourself to your exhaustion. The world that was once frantic turns void and silent.

When you wake up next, it is to the warmth of the sun licking against your cheek. It melts away your heavy drowsiness slowly and, gently, you stir your limbs to wakefulness, relishing in the silken linens and in the satiation of a full night of rest.

The low murmur of the comings and goings of the palace and the city below have long become a constant comfort, and this room, whose purpose you initially suspected was that of a glorified cage, has become a home in this land of treacherous politics.

Even if your wishes were to rise and soak in such sunlight, however, or watch the capital buzz or the sea lap its shores from your lavish balcony, a twinge in your chest reminds you there is little movement you can undertake without splitting it anew. The sting of it steals your breath so immediately, it awakens you to the ache that also persists head to toe. Alas, solemnly you lie still and impatient despite the medicine-induced lethargy that slows you, tolerating the dull throb until a maid finally disturbs your empty contemplations.

“Oh!” she gasps in delight. “Good morning, my Lady!” 

She is quick to open your curtains further and bring forth a dress and jewels, now accustomed to the commanding presence of your wolf, and prance about rummaging through the many items Queen Alicent has donned you. You take the scene quietly, yet reluctant to join in the busyness of the royal palace.

“Now then,” she claps her hands together once, eyes running across your chamber disorderly, likely cataloguing her duties of the day, “I’ll request your breakfast and summon Prince Aemond,” she announces as she curtsies and turns to exit, not quite meeting your eyes as she dashes through her own actions, her disposition much too chirpy for your still dazed mind.

“The Prince?” you break your silence, finally, when her words settle in. “What for?”

“He demanded to be informed when you rose, my Lady,” she smiles like she knows more than she should.

Heat rises to your cheeks, then, and your heart skips a beat only to kick off at full force when you are flooded with the memory of the night previous, of your unpremeditated, timid admissions.

“Wait!” you yelp as she turns to speed off once again. “Assist me in looking presentable, then.”

Your hairdo and the discrete jewelry the lively maid prepares in no time, but it is a true effort to help you into a tight bodice and a hefty, courtly gown in your state of fragility. Thus, when Aemond strides into your chambers, you are still gasping for air and in pain, sitting on the chaise in your modest living room.

“Rough start?” he quirks an eyebrow as he approaches.

There is a beat to his step and a levity to his brow you don’t think you have previously witnessed. It is but a faint trace of joy and tranquility on his typically stern countenance, one a stranger would take it for granted. You are far from strangers, however, and you cannot resist when your own expression softens at his easy disposition.

“My body is still awfully weak,” you grimace, a palm pressing below your bust, grounding you in your laborious breaths.

“It needs time to recover, is all,” he murmurs when he reaches you, towering over you.

Your heart gets caught in your throat when he bends to your height, holding your gaze, terrified to think he will claim your lips in front of the servants who set the table. In a startling motion, however, he takes your waist in his strong hands and brings you to your feet. Hardly a gesture proper between an unwed pair, his touch elicits shame to burn your face and desire to tickle where his fingers had gripped.

He allows you a moment to recover from the abrupt movement, hands steady at your quivering waist and oblivious that you take it to recover from the effect he has on you instead. His dark velvet vest glares back as you regain your grip on reason, keeping at bay the impulse to simply take him.

You have accepted your undeniable, burning passions, had a glimpse of his carnal pleasures, and admitted he has unequivocally conquered your regard. Whatever lies beyond is muzzled, indiscernible, and scares and excites you in the same breath.

His firm grip on your elbow pulls you toward breakfast as much as it pulls you from your uncomfortable wonderings.

It is another difficult, glacially slow feat to eat on your own, but you insist your body needs the practice and Aemond sits with you patiently, briefing you on the latest developments of the council and picking on your fruit. You note, without deliberation, his taste for the sour: green apples, green grapes, the slices of lemon on the lemon cakes. 

It is immensely strange to have him there in your chambers, simply keeping you company, under no pretense of duty whatsoever and of his own volition. It is immensely contrasting to the image of the Dragon Prince you know he works so hard to sustain, and it invades your chest with a tickling warmth you never knew could be attributed to him.

“Any news of my father?” you ask him when his short reports lull to a halt. He hums through a pout, a quick frown, peeling an apple. His long fingers, roughened by the sword, cut the fruit gracefully and meticulously - delicate yet sinister.

“The last we heard of the Northern army was several days ago when they were set to cross The Trident,” he tells you, unaware his every movement grasps your full attention. “The last raven has gone unanswered.”

The Trident - in between The Eyrie and Riverrun, one a sworn enemy, the other an inconstant party.

“A messenger was sent to find what has happened-”

The clattering of your silverware against fine porcelain interrupts his foreboding tellings. A shuddering breath escapes you and you stare at the delicate tabletop in search of reassurances for which you are scared to ask aloud.

Punching through your gut, stealing your composure, your icy fear flies through your veins, freezing your blood and hopes alike.

“I promise you,” he states firmly, promptly, taking your hand in unexpected sympathy and recapturing your attention. He is so warm the cold never truly reaches your fingertips. “If something has indeed passed, I will fly to them on Vhagar at a moment’s notice”

His eye is gentle yet fierce, tempting you with trust and affection.

“A letter arrived from my lord uncle in Old Town just two nights ago,” he tells you, clearing his throat and sitting back, releasing your hand and taking with him all warmth. “Though his fleet will join us, and some of his men, he is to ride to Highgarden.”

“Highgarden?” you repeat, the strategist in you instantly, thoroughly engaged. “But the way from Old Town is far too treacherous for an army,” you argue, “they could easily be stranded-”

“Not for a dragon,” he cuts you short, smirking like he had wanted for this reaction. For a moment you think he intends to forsake your plans and fly to the Reach on his own. Affronted, feeling strangely betrayed, you ready yourself to passionately oppose him. 

Then it dawns on you-

“The Blue Queen,” you conclude in awed breath.

“My brother Daeron will keep the Tyrell and their bannermen from advancing on King's Landing,” he explains, taking his cup between his smirking lips, holding your gaze and most unquestionably taking pleasure in your befuddlement.

“Do not tease me…” you mutter under your breath, huffing as you recollect yourself. “Seems most unlike this court to commit to such clever schemes,” you stir the honeyed wine in your hand, avoiding his mocking gaze, “rather than to plunge into battle.”

He hums in return and you hear, too, the smile that paints his amusement.

“We have recently learned a thing or two,” he tells you.

“Is that so?” you raise your eyebrows, meeting his eye and hiding yourself behind your own chalice.

A sweet sparkle ignites in his eye, likely meeting its twin in yours, but he is quick to turn his face and bite into his cheeks not to unveil it entirely. And you… you try not to get lost in the sharpening of his most beautiful features, in the tantalizing column of his neck that he exposes to you or the masculine lines that make his profile.

Easily you fall back into comfortable silence, picking on the remnants of your meal and enjoying each other’s, for once, easy presence. He goes to excuse himself for a council meeting from which you had been excused when your cups are nearly empty, but you insist on accompanying him.

It is a laborious task to help you to the council chamber. Your body can scarcely hold itself upward, your chest can barely bear the movement of your breaths, with each movement threatening to bleed it anew. Even so, Aemond takes up the task with patience, stopping every few steps to guide you to steady your breaths before you can even wince in warning. With an arm curled around your back and a firm grasp on your elbow, he becomes your steadfast support.

The gown that grazes the tiles and catches the sunlight does not cover your collarbones, so that your still-healing gash, too sore to cover in close-fitting dresses, is on full display. It catches the eyes of the nobility on your way through the Keep, but, perhaps for the first time, you do not feel cruelly scrutinized. 

The indistinguishable chatter that bubbles from the council can be heard many feet away, though its door remains dutifully shut. When it is pushed open for your entrance, the room becomes silent for no more than a heartbeat before it erupts again in renewed, vigorous cheers. It startles you - the claps, the hails, the cries of your name.

You look at Aemond in search of answers, finding nothing but admiration in the gleam of his eye, in the smile on his lips. The effect is so alluring, dizzying, that you force yourself to turn quickly back to the members of the council, before the craving for his full attention - his touch, his lips - traps you in immodesty.

“Hail Captain Stark!”

“Great to see you standing, Captain!”

Polite nods and smiles are all you manage in your startled state. Soon, the uproar dwindles with a stern word from the Hand of the King, allowing for the session to take place as usual. Only this time your word is not once taken for granted and Aemond does not join his mother’s side.

He comes to you often, now. Every time the thought of him is accompanied with longing, he shows up at your door, at the library, at the gardens, wherever it is you are.

Every day he comes to you, sometimes in the morrow, sometimes at tea, each time a different excuse on his lips, a different activity on his mind. It is not difficult to see right through them, but you don’t dare teasing him so he is not discouraged from pursuing you, for you crave his company just as eagerly.

“Allow me to accompany you to the shores of the river,” was his first cover, “the maester says fresh air and light walking will help you regain your strength.”

You hummed in delight, gladly abandoning the embroidery you had taken up at the encouragement of Queen Helaena to take instead his arm.

Every night you sit in a small clearing you have claimed in the woods just outside the city walls, watching and instructing him as his fists fly, his eye veiled, against a bag of dirt that swings from a tall tree. You chuckle every time it hits him powerfully in the back of the head because he allows you the trust to do so.

The several days that make up your recovery are bright and fanciful like this in his company, despite the impending promise of battle. He is silent and intense and rigid as has likely always been his nature, but he no longer assaults and insults you.

In these days of your recovery, he is generous with his amiability and his tenderness which were once rare and quickly followed by hatred. And for the most part, you enjoy the comforting quietness you have found in one another, not knowing how long this deception of peace will last.

Before you know it, his friendship becomes a grounding force in this land you still don’t belong in, in the face of duties still greater than what you were ever meant to shoulder. It brings you relief and room to breathe, but it also dulls the ardent fire that would once burst into impassioned moments of affection or aggression. Now he grants you himself so freely, all your urges turn into potent longing, ever-pounding in your ribcage and stretching on and on as it is scantily fed by lingering touches, soft smiles, gentle gestures. 

The longer you spend in his presence, the more you truly see him - the mere man he lets slip from the cracks in the shell they call Prince Aemond One-Eye, the Kinslayer - and you yearn for him ever just as ardently. Yet the lack of angry, adrenaline-filled rushes turns rational the mind that granted you the courage to deliver yourself so effortlessly to your base desires. The same effect has overtaken him, you imagine, for he, too, has not taken that dangerous leap again.

He takes you flying when your wound is but a long line of red, taut skin stretching from shoulder to shoulder.

“Vhagar needs the exercise,” he explains as he pulls on his leather riding gloves, “and you need the sunlight.”

You get sunlight from your balcony. 

Even so, you join him, and he takes you to an island perhaps an hour from King’s Landing, forgotten in the Blackwater Bay. It is but a couple of grassy hills and dried acacias, deserted of wildlife but abundant in sunlight and cool, salted winds.

Just before you land, he veers Vhagar so that her wings graze the ocean, spraying you with saltwater, and freely relishes in your surprised yelps. It is in a dream-like, high-spirited state that you dismount his dragon to stand on a hilltop and enjoy the whimsical beauty that stretches on before you.

Across the vast expanse of deep blue, you see the Crownlands for the first time in a long while like the history books and fantasy stories always described it - sun-soaked and plentiful. You close your eyes and pretend you are a simple lady who enjoys the luxuries of the capital and the attention of a Prince who courts you. You enjoy the tall grass as it grazes your ankles and the breeze that flutters your silken skirts.

What if your interests had been simpler from the start? Would you have been content with a caring husband and a simple life like your sisters? Would the duty of motherhood suffice your ambitions?

Dull, your mind corrects you immediately. It is not your nature and has never been, but you delight in the glimpses of a different life you get in these escapades you enjoy at his side.

But they don’t last long, not at the brink of war.

Though council meetings are shorter and scarcer as the weeks pass, though your days are mostly filled with quiet joy, letters from all across the Kingdoms become more frequent. Though they mostly bring good news, they also make each day heavier and darker, luring war to break out.

Our fleet has joined the Hightower’s at the Arbor, whose succor we have finally secured. We shall sail with care and wait for Prince Aemond east of the Sea of Dorne, though I fear only a fool could hope for secrecy now, writes Jason Lannister.

We have made a small siege around Highgarden, but the Blue Queen suffices in terrifying the Roses back into their walls, writes Gwayne Hightower.

Corlys Velaryon’s fleet has now fully impeded trade into the Crownlands, confirms Borros Baratheon.

Some of the men from the Stormlands have made their way into the city four nights past, the men from Harrenhal six, and Lord Borros awaits with his fleet at the ready to join the advance coming from the west, awaiting you.

And yet no word from the Northern Army.

“There is no cause for alarm, yet,” Aemond often reassures you, “this wait is not unprecedented.”

But there is much uncertainty. This quietness before the storm does not sit well with you. No dragon has been sighted flying off Dragonstone, but you cannot help but wonder if this is all part of a ruse. After all, you had been spotted that night on Dragonstone and, for every bit of undisciplined, Daemon Targaryen is also known to be exceedingly sharp and tenacious. What if he had preemptively relocated the beasts?

These doubts and more haunt your dreams the closer you are to setting off for battle and, on the eve of the first strike, they grow so great they threaten to rip you apart at the seams.

You sit with them and allow them to consume you, under the eyes of the Weirwood Tree of the Red Keep, under the light of the new moon. For long you had engaged in silent devotion, searching for peace, protection, counsel, but it does little to soothe your disquieted mind.

No word from the enemy, no word from your father, and no word from the Riverlands. Their silence deafens you.

Resting upon a log, face to face with the image of the Old Gods, you close your eyes and revel in the warm breeze you seldom get in the North. It ruffles fallen leaves and twigs, seeps through the light fabric of your nightdress, and promises an unattainable liberty. In another shot at distraction, you listen closely to its path - northward - but the sound of crunching leaves a few steps behind you promptly awakens a feeling of foreboding.

Your hand tightens around the dagger on your waist. Something creaks a step closer. Without preamble, you jump and twist, your blade finding perfect lodging against his jawline, not for the first time.

He smirks, head tilted backward, hands in the air.

“I’m beginning to believe you take joy from having me under your blade.”

“Damn you, Aemond,” you hiss, stowing away your knife and releasing a shuddering breath that, predictably, does nothing to relieve you of your torments.

His very sight aggravates your affliction, when you take note of his rare dishevelling. Similar to you, only a cloak hides the cotton chemise he should be wearing exclusively in the privacy of his apartments, and his loose hair parts in the middle to frame his amused countenance. Both reflect the brilliance of the moon to don him an ethereal glow, and his casualty tempts you to believe he has invited you into his intimacy. 

“How predictable is the troubled wolf who trails the woods in the shadows,” he mocks.

You award him a hard gaze, not partaking in his light jesting when your shoulders clench in distress.

“How despicable is the dragon who slithers in silence after her,” you bite, regretting it immediately when his smile drops and his eye softens.

He has learned your moods and attitudes as much as you have his.

“What is it that ails you?” he asks so softly you wonder when his instinct has become to extend his care in place of retaliation.

And his softness, akin to how his mother had once received you, waters your eyes in a heartbeat. You bite your cheeks, looking away so that your tears are not encouraged to fall.

“This tranquility does not sit well with me,” you whisper.

“You question yourself,” he concludes with a tone of realization, watching your lips tremble, your hands clenching closed.

“Something is amiss,” you beg, predicting his denial. Indeed, he shakes his head and takes a harsh breath as if preparing to fight you tooth and nail. “But it is, Aemond!” you insist before he gets his chance, recapturing his attention and astounding yourself with how swiftly you lose composure.

“This silence is most unnatural,” you tell him gravely. “We have had an army on the move for months, Highgarden is under siege, Daemon saw us!”

He stares at you, jaw tight, gaze hard, and unmoving.

“And they are- what?” you lick your lips, staring back with equal vehemence, but if he is shaken by your reasoning, he does not convey it. “Sitting and waiting?”

You had not known how terribly these thoughts had rotten within you, garnering a great fear furtively until this single stab allowed it to burst and eat away at you.

“We knew from the beginning they would be ready to meet us in battle,” he counters with a placidity you would never have expected just two moons ago. “We have prepared for it accordingly.”

“There has been no word from my father, Aemond,” your voice breaks, your eyes truly tearing despite your efforts, lips trembling with the toil of keeping composure. “Chances are at least one dragon has survived-”

“No,” he takes you by the elbows as you hiccup through tears, through dismay. “We would have seen-”

“And they will descend upon you and Vhagar first,” you lament, wet, glimmery eyes meeting his worried look, “and it will be my fault,” you finish in a whisper.

Your desolation takes effect on him finally, and he takes your damp face in his hands to force your attention, to force you to trust him. He brings you so close, so quickly, your hands land on his chest for balance. His fine chemise is so delicate you feel every hard line of muscle underneath and his warmth seeps in slowly through your fingertips, flaring your feelings yet further.

“That will not happen,” he emphasizes, enunciating each word carefully and surely, so that they may weigh and impress on you. His hands brush your hair from your wet cheeks, his calloused fingers wipe your tears, then descend to your chin, tilting it so that he may secure your attention.

It takes your breath away, that passionate spark of his. His diligent care - perhaps his passion - alights a warmth that fills your chest to the brim and you feel seen, wanted, cherished. And you want more of it, you want all of it.

“You will not lose me,” he whispers, almost an afterthought that betrayed him when he allowed himself the gentleness. “I will not lose you.”

Your lips part in surprise. You did not expect him to interpret your words in this way, but the tightening in your chest only confirms his bold suppositions.

“How can you be so sure?” you whisper back, afraid of breaking the delicate exchange. “How can you trust that when so much is uncertain?”

He hums, smirk pulling on his lips and trapping you deeper in your desires.

“You are certain. Nothing else needs to be.”

Driven wild by his affectionate words, your heart beats harshly in your chest, ailing your breaths and ringing in your ears. Your fingers tingle against his solid chest where they rest and refrain from bringing him closer. His gaze is firm and allows no challenge as you look at him in amazement.

“You think chance alone brought you to King’s Landing at the exact moment we needed you?” he asks though he evidently wishes for no answer.

“My father-”

“What sense does it make for the Gods to place us in each other’s path-,” your knees buckle when he grazes the lowest dip on your bottom lip, “- and achieve what we have so far, against all odds, only to fail at the very end?”

At a loss for words, you revisit the chain of truly unlikely events that have led you to this very moment. It is not that you accept his reasoning, but rather that you are overtaken by a desperate desire to acquiesce to him, to be in harmony with him now that he so eagerly seems to seek that himself.

“The Gods play cruel games, too,” you try meekly, but in the back of your mind you hear his mother's words:

The Gods have only destined us to achieve that which we are capable of achieving, and that is an encouraging thought.

Just as they did then, they compel you to give in and simply… believe.

“The stubborn Stark and her almighty direwolf,” he starts, smirking when he senses your resignation, fingers gliding softly against the side of your face, gaze admiring the skin they trail, “and the bad-tempered, one-eyed Prince, rider of the largest dragon in the world…” 

One of his hands leaves your face as the other cups the side of your neck, eliciting sparkling goosebumps to travel down your spine.

“Heirs to little more than what they have made of themselves,” his fingers travel down your arm to wrap around yours, “they seldom seem the types to end consigned to oblivion.”

You soften despite yourself, huffing good-naturedly. 

“You read too much,” you whisper.

He places your knuckles on his smiling lips, stealing your breath entirely.

“Trust your capabilities,” he insists against your skin, prompting a sob you didn’t know you still held, “as I trust your role in the great scheme of history will be equally as grand as you.”

“Aemond,” you choke around his name. 

It has become easy to regard him and see past his dragon features, past his titles, his prowess and his sins, to see a mere man. It makes you adore and yearn for all of him, in all his ordinary manners and his human insecurities and all the facets he hides from everyone else’s eyes.

“Often I have read about the heirs of the dragon,” you start, swallowing the heaviness that fights to leave you, turning your hand to hold his face in your palm, “of their bloodlust, their beasts… their pride.”

Your fingers trail up the scar that splits his brow, ever so lightly delineating its cut.

“Little did I know they could be so kind,” his one eye hardens when the tip of your thumb hooks underneath his eyepatch.

His instinct is to flinch, but you give him your best reassuring, pleading look, and when his eye softens again you know he, too, wants to give himself to you entirely, undividedly. 

“And so warm,” you take off the binding leather, “so beautiful,” you gasp.

A hand curls on your hair, fingers weaving through your loose strands to hold the back of your head.

“There is nothing cold about the daughter of the great, white North either.”

He pulls you in gently, but you reach for him all the same, and this time you meet his kiss with the same eagerness.

When your tongues embrace, his heat melts you to the core. He is not forceful, but his hunger is evident, for he kisses and takes you as though his sole purpose is to drive you delirious with pleasure. He is urgent as if he has long thirsted to have you on his tongue again, yet slow and deliberate so that he may truly savor you. It is sensual in its pace, passionate in its depth, and makes you crave for more until your head spins with your sensations.

You pull on his silver strands in response to his squeeze on your waist, and you break apart in a gasp which alleviates your haziness enough for a single trickle of rationality to defy your actions.

“We shouldn’t-”

“Then why does it feel so good?” he grunts and licks into your mouth too quickly. “Why does it feel like the best thing I’ll ever do?”

He sucks your bottom lip gently and you shudder at the sparks of pleasure that descend through you.

“Tell me you don’t want this, then,” he murmurs against your slickened lips, eye glued to them like he wishes for nothing but to devour them. 

“Tell me this doesn’t feel right,” his nose brushes against yours teasingly and your mouth waters. “Tell me-” his thumb leaves a trail of goosebumps as it caresses the hollow of your throat, “-it doesn’t feel as though every path you’ve ever taken has led you here to me.”

He rests his parted lips so lightly against your own, you are nearly convinced you have conjured the feeling yourself in your crazed yearning.

“Go on and tell me you don’t want me.”

They say that none can tell lies before the Weirwood trees of the Old Gods. And you find that you really, truly, cannot.

“I-I do,” you breathe. “Aemond, I want you.”

His every move is calculated, as though he has thought this through meticulously, has always known how he would like to touch and pleasure you. He leaves you dizzy when his mouth leaves yours at last, your lips hanging open in search of his tongue again, but through them escapes a gasp when his hot lips suck on your neck instead.

Gently he pulls on the hair at the base of your neck, exposing more skin to his wandering tongue. His kisses clouded your mind, warmed your body, drove you to hunger… But this positively electrifies your skin, pulling pleasure from every inch of your body, from your fingers to your toes, from your chest to your tingling spine.

You feel his hunger on his tongue as it tastes you persistently. His utter devotion you feel on the fingertips he presses against your waist and his desperation you hear on the breaths he takes against your skin.

Just as sure and seamless as his every touch, he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly and bending his knees to lift and deposit you on the cold grass beneath him. He recaptures your lips when he settles between your legs, but when he grinds his hard member against your core, you part in a broken moan.

It is most unnatural, you think, how your body reacts promptly and desperately to his every stimulus. It doesn’t make sense, you think, that you find yourself so soon at the very end of your wits.

Your hands paw at his soft shirt in renewed desperation, finding his hot flesh beneath it. His own hands deftly work to lift your skirts and venerate your bare thighs. And then the world slows down to a halt, if only because you need it to finally, truly feel him.

You close your eyes at the feel of his warm, naked back, your very soul re-energizing at the bare touch. A large hand travels to your shoulder blades, underneath your gown, sparking goosebumps in their path along your spine as your flesh desperately tries to cling onto its heat. His own skin does the same as your lips stroke reverently against his collarbones, up his neck. You take in his lovely scent and he takes your lips again, kissing you at the pace that the Earth spins, grounding you in the present, in his heartbeats, in his caresses, in his warmth.

Your wandering fingers cannot help but stroke though his lush strands, nor can they stop searching for the taut softness of his back as it ripples beneath them. You tease yourself by gliding your thighs along his own and settle around his waist, getting both lost and trapped in the tantalizing caresses and the promising heat of your close embrace. 

It is with a gasp that the spell of leisurely touches shatters, when he lowers his hips and presses his hardness against your exposed sex. It all too suddenly makes room for an intensity and a want that had laid dormant in your gut.

His hands journey further south and you moan into him when he squeezes and pulls on the back of your thighs, parting the lips that progressively slicken between your legs. It makes you ache for him, makes you moan and grip his hair a bit harder.

“Aemond,” you whine against his ruddy lips, when he moves you against him, building a pulsing pleasure deep within your cunt that strikingly resembles a desperate calling.

“I have wanted you,” he murmurs into you, blue eye made dark with lust, “direly,” he rolls his hips again, “fiercely.”

“Then have me,” you whisper, begging him as you shiver in desire. 

He holds your gaze with unwavering determination while you feel him reach between you. It is as if he yearns to watch every muscle on your face twitch and slacken in pleasure under his lustful ministrations. He gets his wishes when he lodges his leaking tip between your slick lips with a hiss, and you gasp when his thumb presses against the pearl of pleasure between your thighs. He gives you no time to decipher what he will do next, stroking you in earnest and grunting as your cunt flutters and squeezes around his most sensitive tip.

The pleasure builds far too quickly - you have craved him for far too long. You feel the heat and elation travel through your flesh in all directions before you truly peak. When you do feel it, it is immediately insufficient to satiate you, and your cunt contracts hungrily against his tip, begging for more while you deliver yourself to pleasure with deep gasps.

He answers your sinful cravings before you have to utter it, before you even stop quivering around nothing, sliding in easily, deeply, stuffing you to the brim. 

You yelp around a gasp when he does so, immediately delirious in your arousal, immediately and incredibly close to another peak. You never stood a chance - he has impregnated your senses with himself, driving you to s concupiscent frenzy; his masculine scent of sandalwood is intoxicating now it is spiced with the sinful scent of your sex, his warm, soft lips lick and suck until your thoughts dissolve to smoke, his thunderous grunts shudder you to your core when he sheathes himself inside you.

His gaze has never been more penetrating, regardless of how passionate it had always been. With his sparkling sapphire eye, lips red and abused by your urgent tongue, and fine silver hair clinging to his glistened skin, he finally conquers the parts of you that had thus far remained untouched by his alluring spell.

“Aemond,” you whimper, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, breathtaking desire and realization battling inside you.

When he finally moves, he does it studiously, coercing you to feel his every inch. There is so much of him, he drags and teases all the spots that make your knees part further for him. When he pushes back in, your eyes roll back and a moan breaks apart the sloppy snare of your tongues. 

“Nothing will take you from me,” he admits in a rough whisper, amidst a hiss and a gasp. “Not a thing will part us.”

His weight grounds you to him, protects you from all that isn’t bound to the space between your heated flesh. His freed hair shades you from the exposing light of the moon. He takes your hands from their eager exploration of his back to lace your fingers in his, restraining them against the ground.

He entertains these luscious, languid movements for the short time it takes for your slick to soak his cock, until your knees come up to wrap high and wanton around his torso. Then, with a grunt, he awards you with thrusts so powerful they punch your breaths out of your lungs, so precise they wet your eyes anew with tears of pleasure.

“Aemond,” is the only thing you can say.

“There?” he asks softly, nearly patronizingly, and redoubles his efforts.

You burn from the inside, from the mouth-watering sensations he evokes unforgivingly in your deepest, most pleasurable spot. You sweat through your clothes and your hair clings to your sticky skin. When one of his hands uncurls from your hold and gently wipes your weak tears, takes your jaw, and pulls you into a searing kiss, you think you might burst aflame, but you welcome it like you have been waiting for him to thaw you your entire life.

“I won’t be going anywhere,” he whispers against your mouth, incredibly gentle despite the rough thrusts that still deliver you closer and closer to insanity, “not without you.”

And then all your pleasure snaps like this: with your eyes locked to his, with your lips grazing his, and his words weighing heavily on your chest.

Taglist: @ficsrecsforhrnybitches @missusnora @let-love-bleeds-red @dark-night-sky-99 @arcielee @merakies @aemondsbabygirl @herfantasyworldd

#hotd fic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x stark!reader #aemond targaryen x stark reader #hotd #ewan mitchell fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen x oc #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon

[toournextadventure]

thunder and lightning

Summary: You're trying to study for your O-chem exam when a storm knocks the power out, and your skittish girlfriend needs comfort.

Word Count: 1.4k Warnings: light swearing Pairing: Enid Sinclair x Reader

The heavens had opened up to unleash a flood. Lightning lit up the sky and occasionally your room, which was lit with candles due to the power outage. The flashes were quickly chased by thunder that roared so loud you could hear the vials on your shelves shake. On any other night you would have loved it, might have even sat out on the porch to watch and listen.

But you very much needed it to not be storming at the moment.

You had an exam to prepare for. A very important exam that was going to be the deciding factor for if you would need to take O-Chem again. How could you be expected to study for it when your candles were burning out and you still had four more chapters to go over.

Another flash of lightning lit up the room, almost taunting your lack of adequate lighting.

"Thanks a lot," you mumbled as you looked out the window into the pouring rain. "A load of help you are."

Thunder quickly followed.

"Dickhead," you mumbled again.

You were digging in your drawer for another candle when you heard frantic knocking on the door. Your roommate was gonna be at a frat party all night so you hadn't been expecting any company. But you were nothing if not curious, so you abandoned the candle search and opened your door.

And there stood sweet Enid, pulling her jacket tight around her shoulders and shivering as if she had been stuck in the cold.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" You asked as you ushered her in, giving her a quick kiss on the corner of her mouth when she passed.

"You know I hate storms," she whined, "and Willa kicked me out."

"I fear your roommate a healthy amount," you said as you locked the door, "but I'm gonna respectfully kick her ass."

"I don't blame her," Enid said softly. You could see her shoulders shaking under her jacket. "I did try to crawl under her shirt when I heard thunder."

"You did?" You asked, freezing in your movements to grab her a blanket.

"It's scary, okay?" Enid pouted with another audible whine. You hadn't been around many werewolves - or any werewolves - but you found it adorable.

"Need some comfort?" You asked simply.

She didn't answer, just nodded and ran forward to wrap her arms around your waist. You didn't hesitate to pull her tight, one hand on her back while the other held her head to your chest. Her body was shaking, getting worse when another flash of lightning was followed by thunder. Even though you couldn't exactly hear it, you could feel her whine at the sound. If her tail had been it, you had no doubt it would be tucked between her legs.

"As much as I love you," you said softly with a kiss to the top of her head, "and I would love to cuddle," another kiss, "I still have to study."

"You're gonna leave me?" She asked, her voice muffled by the fact her face was still shoved into your chest.

"I only have an hour or so of candlelight left," you said. But when you looked at the candles, you sighed. An hour was a stretch.

“You’re gonna leave me for an hour?” Enid whined again, pulling back just enough to look up at you with watery eyes.

“I’m not leaving you.” You did your best not to laugh at her. Okay, you wouldn’t laugh at her, you would laugh with her. “I’ll just be at my desk.”

“And where will I be?” She asked.

Just then, as if on cue, a crack of thunder shook everything in the room. You heard a bark - a yip, if you will - come from Enid before she darted closer, immediately crawling under your shirt. Her hair tickled on your stomach and you had to fight the laughter bubbling up in your throat when her fingers grazed your side.

“Enid,” you called out, finally laughing when her breath tickled your neck. “You can’t fit in my shirt.”

She didn’t say anything, just pulled you tighter. Her entire body was shaking and her little whimpers were starting to make you sad. The poor thing. She truly was like a puppy; scared of storms and needing that comfort. Part of you wanted to push her away because you shouldn’t give them attention, it would encourage them to seek it during the next storm.

But Enid wasn’t a puppy, she was your girlfriend. A furry girlfriend, sure, but that didn’t change anything. She was your girlfriend, and she was terrified of the storm, and she needed you to comfort her. So you wrapped your arms around her and held her close.

“I guess I can study like this,” you mumbled, shuffling you both over to the desk to grab your textbook.

“Yes you can,” Enid replied from within your shirt. You felt her lips press against your collarbone in a soft kiss.

“You’re a brat,” you mumbled, but awkwardly bent your neck to kiss the top of her head that was slowly starting to poke out from the collar of your shirt. 

She was going to stretch it out. Maybe she should just keep it.

You managed to grab your things and toss them onto your bed before realising you still had to get up onto the top bunk. Which would be impossible with the little leech that was still under your shirt. You didn’t have her werewolf strength - or any strength, for that matter - so you couldn’t just carry her. But heaven help you if you tried to push her away for the moment.

Wait.

Enid whined again when you grabbed the hem of your now irreversibly stretched out shirt. You pulled it over Enid and yourself, quickly just pulling it off completely. Her shaking increased, but you leaned down to hook your arms under the back of her thighs. Thankfully she took the hint and jumped up, her legs quickly wrapping around your waist while her arms wrapped around your neck.

It was a miracle you managed to climb up to your bunk. You wouldn’t necessarily consider yourself weak, but - and you would never tell Enid this - werewolves were heavy as fuck. Like, she was just dense, stocky, a giant wolf’s worth of weight packed into one tiny human girl’s body. So you were pretty proud of yourself when you sat on your bed, Enid clinging tight like a baby monkey.

God, you loved her.

“Are you really not going to pay attention to me?” Enid asked when you were only five minutes into studying.

“Enid, my love, I have to study,” you huffed. “I am not taking this class again, it was hell the first time.”

“But you have to pay attention to me,” Enid whined, “I’m scared.”

To emphasise her point again, thunder rumbled immediately after.

“Baby please,” you said with a chaste kiss on her lips, “just two more chapters.”

“Your degree is ruining everything,” Enid grumbled, throwing herself back into your lap. As if she had ever left in the first place.

“Well, I am a student,” you said quietly, knowing she wasn’t paying attention.

Her fingers traced patterns on your shoulders, your back, your arms, every inch of skin she could find. Your arms instinctively wrapped tighter around her when you saw the lightning, preparing for the thunder. She would shake and whine and maybe bark a little if it was extra loud, but then would quickly settle back into your lap again.

“Please be done,” Enid mumbled into your neck when you turned the page of your notebook.

You closed your tired eyes and sighed deeply. Maybe she was right. It was late as hell, the storm had finally settled to little more than the occasional rumble, and if you didn’t know the material by now then you never would. Without a verbal answer, you closed your books and tossed them to the bottom of the bed.

Enid practically purred when you pulled the both of you down to the bed and your arms wrapped around her. She turned around so her back was pressed to your front and snuggled in for the long haul.

“Good night, baby,” you whispered, leaving a lingering kiss on her temple.

“Mmm good night,” she mumbled back with another attempt to get closer.

God, you loved her.

#enid sinclair x reader #enid x reader

[peppermint-toads]

𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞

summary: you get drunk at a party and your ex boyfriend eddie rescues and takes care of you

cw: drinking/getting drunk, vomit, female reader, fluff, angst

Colorful lights blur together as you fall onto the couch. The cushions smell like beer and sex. Your head thumps onto the firm armrest, and you let out a pained groan.

“Just gonna take a quick nap right here,” you mumble to nobody but yourself, a sleepy smile settling onto your face.

Warm fingers curl around your bicep, and your cheek is pressed against something hard. You can vaguely make out the soft crunching of snow beneath somebody’s shoes, and you can feel the frigid air biting your skin.

You crack your eyes open as much as you can, and you recognize Eddie’s brown curls falling onto his shoulders.

“Eddie,” you murmur. He doesn’t miss the contented lilt in your voice.

Your insides are being jostled as he plops you into the passenger seat, pulling the seat belt over your chest. He tosses his leather jacket over your shoulders and you grunt at the weight of it.

You can’t really tell, but Eddie seems annoyed as he pulls out of the neighborhood. All of his movements are punctuated with huffs and irritated groans.

You make the mistake of glancing out of the window, scenery swirling together in your stomach and threatening to spew from your lips. You hiccup, and Eddie’s head whips towards you. Sure his van is shitty, but he doesn’t need you puking on his floorboards to make it worse.

“Eddie, I think I’m gonna-” You clutch your stomach and double over in your seat.

“Ooookay, okay. We’re almost there. Can you just, like, hold it?” His hands frantically hover over his steering wheel. You let out a deep groan.

In no time, the two of you are peeling into the trailer park and halting to a stop in front of Eddie’s house. You lurch forward with another strangled groan as he throws the van into park.

Eddie runs to the passenger door and yanks you to your feet. Your legs are wobbly at first, but he helps you through the front door and into the bathroom as quickly as possible.

You fall to your knees and hunch over the toilet, and at some point, Eddie’s instincts kick in.

“Yep, there she is.” Eddie winces as the contents of your stomach hit the water. His fingers brush over your neck lightly as he holds your hair back. He pauses for a moment, wondering if he should even be touching you. He decides that you probably won’t remember any of this anyways, and starts blowing cool air onto your exposed back.

He shushes you softly, and you hang your head limply into the toilet bowl. “That’s it,” he murmurs, now rubbing soft circles on your shoulder blade with the hand that isn’t holding your hair back. His cold rings make you shiver, and he apologizes gently.

He helps you stand on, guiding you to his room with a warm hand on your lower back.

He doesn’t mean to, but he’s talking to you like you’re a toddler.

“Can you put this shirt on while I go get you some water?”

You’re a little fuzzy still, but you nod, getting the general idea. Usually you’d rot at the idea of wearing Eddie’s clothes, but you’re drunk and yours reek.

He fishes around the kitchen for a clean glass, sniffing the inside of a mug before filling it with tap water.

“Okay, I’ve got aspirin and-” He cuts himself off when he walks back into his room to see you passed out in nothing but your panties and one of his old mötley crüe t-shirts. Like old times.

You look so out of place, he thinks; pretty pink panties, perfectly blushed cheeks, and soft, soft skin didn’t belong in his messy room, in his messy house. He frowns a little.

You sleep for a couple hours, and when you wake up it’s still dark out. You panic. You don’t have Black Sabbath posters on your walls. You scrunch your nose. Your room doesn’t smell like this. You look down. This is not your shirt. Shit.

You relax when you realize where you are, heart rate coming down from an all time high. His room looks a little different from how it used to. His bed is in a new spot, there are new posters on his wall, and less of the ground is visible, obscured by discarded clothing.

You take your time padding through the hallway, taking in the familiarity of Eddie’s trailer.

“Eddie?” You call out.

“Good morning, sunshine.” He calls back. You roll your eyes, that’s your Eddie.

“What happened?” You ask, sitting next to him on his old sofa.

“I saw you passed out on some couch and, I just- I couldn’t leave you there. Not with the entire basketball team around, didn’t seem right.”

“My friends were around somewhere.” You rub your arm, trying to play it off.

He shakes his head, “No, they bolted. Said something about going to Chad’s party at his parents’ boathouse.”

“So you took me to your house?” You snap.

You should be grateful. But part of you can’t help but be angry with him for making you relive all your old feelings for him. It all still feels so natural, being on his couch in his clothes.

“Like I had a choice! I couldn’t take you home, your parents would have killed you! I did you a favor!”

He’s chastising you, but you can’t help but smile. “Remember the time we snuck out to the old saw mill on Cherry? They freaked.”

A small smile broke out on his lips, too.

“I miss you, Eds.”

“You’re still drunk.”

Maybe you can blame the alcohol, then, for the tears welling and burning in your eyes. You huddle your knees to your chest, feeling small.

“A little,” you concede.

He hears the sniffle in your voice and scoots closer to you hesitantly.

“I’m sorry.” You offer him a sad smile.

“Hey it’s, uh, not your fault.” He’s lying but you let him. His thigh is rubbing up against yours now, and you can’t help but lean into his chest. He’s a little stunned at first but relaxes, pulling you closer. You stay like that for a bit, crying into your knees and leaning into his warmth.

“I was scared,” you whisper. “When I woke up and didn’t know where I was. But then I realized, and everything felt right again.”

“We’ll talk about it in the morning, okay?” He whispers back.

TAGLIST: @sunsetenigma @loveyru @hbaramas @smolserpent

kisses from me and eds<3

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction

[wing-ed-thing]

Strong (Might Guy x Reader)

Synopsis: Blind or not, Maito Gai wasn’t about to treat you like you were fragile.

Word Count: 0.7k

Tags/Warnings: Blind!Reader, Earth-StyleUser!Reader, Gender Neutral Reader, Sparring, Canon-Typical Violence

Notes: I hope that you enjoy and that I did this archetype justice.

Maito Gai, to his credit, never treated you with fragility. 

You blocked a heavy kick to your right. The force against your forearms made you slide in the dirt, nearly sweeping you from where you stood planted. Soil fell on top of your feet, leaving a portrait of your struggle on the earth below. If anything, the immersion gave you an advantage.

“Jesus! Take it easy, Gai!” Ebisu shouted somewhere off to the side, waving his arms in panic at the edge of your sparring circle. You practically felt his presence as you fortified your ankles with your earth-style. “You need to be more careful!”

You scowled; Ebisu’s frantic vibrations through the earth were enough to throw you off as you were nailed square in the stomach. You grunted, stumbling back a short distance. Gai bounced on the balls of his feet in front of you, adjusting something on his gear as he waited for you to catch your breath. His movements made his position clear, almost as if Gai was refocusing your attention back on him.

“You got distracted!” he announced triumphantly. Ebisu protested in the background, growing louder. You let out another disgruntled moan, plucking a kunai from the pack on your hip. You lunged towards Gai, not stopping your sparring as you sent the blade flying toward Ebisu. It whirled past his ear before he could even blink, making a dull sound as it lodged in the tree bark behind him. Ebisu yelped in surprise. 

Gai laughed a jolly chuckle as you moved forward into him, faking him out with an uppercut before catching him with a round kick.

“Oh, now that’s a good one!” Gai howled, his movements growing quicker. You spat blood onto the ground following a rapid punch. Ebisu cringed from the sidelines, voice muffled by the hands he slapped over his face. 

“I can’t watch,” he lamented. 

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Genma muttered, mouth sounding partially full as usual. He stood particularly still out of respect for the match. “It ends the same every time.”

The slight pivot of Gai’s posture in the dirt below and the change in the air pressure as his fist sailed toward you told you all you needed to know about his stance. You ducked under his arm by a margin, wrapping your arms around his neck as your leg shot swiftly behind his knees. And in a single moment, you had Gai down on the ground. 

“Yeah! What do you think about that, Maito!” You hollered. He writhed in the dry dirt, only causing you to tighten your hold on him. “You can thank Asuma for this one!” You felt three quick taps on your thigh and instantly let Gai go. He sputtered praise but sputtered nonetheless. 

“You… you gotta teach me…” he coughed. Genma let out a barely audible sigh, pushing off from where he leaned to come your way. He tossed something to you, and you caught the wet cylinder in your palm. You took a few chugs before offering it to Gai.

“Water, Gai. I can’t have you croaking on me just yet.” He took it from you, the air bubbles he made rippling through the liquid in the bottle. He sighed, breathing as heavily as you were. You offered him a hand, which he took. 

“That was absolutely stupendous! The best yet, I’d say.” 

“Yeah? You didn’t even win, Gai.” With your opposite hands still intertwined, you bumped chests before pulling away. You landed a punch on his arm. 

“Well, no, but you showed me that there are still things out there for me to learn!” You took back the water as you started off. Gai followed in tow, waving his arms as he raved about your daily sparring session. Genma stood and watched, hands in his pockets, as the two of you passed by. Ebisu came to stand beside him.

“Where are they going?”

“Beats me.”

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: Lmao the move that Reader does is the same as Annie’s move from AoT. I kept trying to think of expletives for Ebisu, but the funniest one that came to mind was JESUS lmaooo I feel like Ebuisu would scream JESUS and CHRIST all the goddamn time

#might guy x reader #maito gai x reader #might guy #Maito Gai #naruto x reader #naruto #might guy fanfic #maito gai fanfic #naruto fanfic #x you #x reader #reader insert #naruto fanfiction

[hazywrites]

A Stark Christmas

Pairing: Robb Stark x Reader

Summary: It's your first time helping your boyfriend and his family pick out a Christmas tree, and he is very opinionated on the matter.

Warnings: Mentions of death of a family member

Words: 1,297

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47295508

AN: Hi my lovelies! I found this draft sitting on my computer untouched, and I really miss the holidays about now so I thought I'd share! This is my first time writing for Robb, but I hope you all like it. Please let me know what you think and if you'd like more holiday preferences for the GoT boys! As always, thank you for reading!

You were currently squeezed in the middle row of the Starks’ van. Sansa was seated to your right and Arya to your left, with Nymeria between her spread legs. The arrangement left you with barely any room for your own legs, so you kicked them up onto the center console and watched as the hyperactive husky jumped onto her owner’s lap, licking Arya’s face frantically and then smushing her nose against the window until someone rolled it down for her. Sansa was busying herself trying to get the perfect angle to take a group selfie. She looked lovely in all of them, and you tried to help by striking a cute pose or two, but Arya’s side of the picture came out blurry each time due to her constant movement. Sansa settled for cropping her younger sister out of the picture, posting only the two of you to Instagram with a myriad of holiday-related hashtags. You heard Theon begrudgingly breaking up a fight between Rickon and Bran in the back row. Suddenly, you felt a ticklish sensation on the bottom of your foot and shrieked, kicking your legs so much that Nymeria got excited and jumped at you as your boyfriend, Robb, looked back at you with a devilish laugh.

“How are you liking your first Stark Christmas?” He asked from the passenger seat. You rolled your eyes.

“I love it! I liked the part where we finally arrived at our destination.” He laughed at your sarcasm.

“We are a proud family. We don’t go to Home Depot-“ he scrunched his nose as he said the words, “for our Christmas trees. If you’re going to marry me one day you gotta get with the traditions.” He said it so casually, but your stomach erupted with butterflies. You two had been dating for a year and had never talked about marriage before. You were still a bit young to be thinking about it, but just the thought that Robb saw you in his future filled you with warmth. His half-brother, Jon, also seemed to pick up on Robb’s slip-up, teasing him about it for the rest of the drive. Robb just puffed out his chest and proudly doubled down on his statement, but you spotted the faintest hint of pink on his cheeks.

When you finally arrived, Arya and the younger Stark boys had taken to chasing Nymeria through the tree lot, Jon trailing behind to make sure they didn’t get into too much trouble, while Theon tried to impress Sansa by identifying the types of pine. It was an unspoken arrangement that Robb would be choosing the Christmas tree this year. Ever since his father, Ned, had passed, the family looked to him as the man of the house. Catelyn hadn’t even had the energy to come tree shopping this year. It inspired you the way the Stark children were keeping their spirits up and keeping their traditions alive. You just worried about your boyfriend, having to be the ‘strong’ one all the time. You squeezed his hand reassuringly and he smiled, leaning over to give you a quick kiss as you two looked along the rows of trees.

“I don’t know the first thing about tree shopping,” you confessed. You’d mostly said it to distract him, but it seemed to have worked. The spacey look in his eyes was replaced by a playful, judgey one.

“Yeah, they don’t teach you that on Amazon, do they?” He unconsciously raised his left eyebrow as he spoke, a quirk you loved about him.

“It was one time,” you groaned.

“A white, plastic Christmas tree,” he recalled with disgust. “Wasn’t it one of the mini ones, too?”

“My dorm has mandates on that sort of thing,” you whined. “A real tree is a fire hazard.”

“A fake tree is a relationship hazard,” he quipped. “No girlfriend of mine gets—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” you shoved your gloved hand over his mouth, earning your palm a bite that made you yelp and drop your hand in turn. “Show me how to choose a good tree.” The corners of his lips wobbled slightly, but you watched him try to keep his expression straight.

“I don’t know,” he confessed softly. “My dad used to go on and on about it but I never really paid attention. I didn’t think I’d have to do it on my own so soon.” The winter breeze carried his last words away, a whisper floating between rows of silent pines.

“You’re not alone,” you reminded him. “You’ve got your brothers and sisters, and Theon, and your mom… and me.” You focused on the button of his jacket as you said that last part. You didn’t know if it was presumptuous to count yourself in with his family, but you’d meant it. You wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. That you were there for him. Cold gloved fingers gripped your chin and raised your gaze to meet his ocean blue eyes.

“I know that, love,” he said. For a moment, you did nothing but look at each other. His eyes, his expression was so open. It was the most vulnerable moment you two had shared, yet not a word was spoken. You dared not breathe, afraid he would close himself off again. But he didn’t. He just looked at you, speaking with his eyes.

‘I love you,’ you thought as hard as you could. ‘I’m in love with you.’

Then slowly, he leaned in, his hands slipping into your hair. Your eyelids fluttered shut instinctively; your heartbeat quickened as your icy lips met his soft, warm ones. How did he always feel so warm? You felt the blood rushing to your cheeks as Robb kissed you slowly, so slowly. His soft lips brushing your own made you feel dizzy and lit a fire inside you at the same time. Even a year in, he still made you so nervous.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. You couldn’t think of anything else. Just the feeling of him gently sucking on your lower lip and releasing it. His breath fanning your face as he sighed out. Your heart was so full of him you could burst. His hands on your waist, his eyes shut, his forehead leaning against yours for just a second before he slowly opened his eyes.

“I love you, Y/N,” he breathed softly.

“I love you,” you whispered back.

One look at your face and he was kissing you again, his lips fervently locking with your own. You reached up to caress his face but he caught your hand, cradling it against his chest.

“Hey, GET A ROOM!” Theon’s voice called out from behind you. Jon’s deep laugh followed.

“There’s children here you know! Did they even pick out a tree?!” He asked, earning more laughter from Theon. Robb groaned and your eyes fluttered open in time to watch him flip them off.

“Yeah, that one,” he gestured with his head to the tree closest to you. His eyes never left your face as you turned to look at it. It was crooked, and short, with uneven branches that drooped low. You were no tree expert, but even you could tell it was quite ugly.

“That one?” You asked, eyes widening. “Are you sure, because I know Christmas trees are super important to you, and—“

“Shut up, Y/N,” he murmured, pulling you in for another kiss that left you weak at the knees. Catelyn had raised an eyebrow when you all arrived home and presented her with Robb’s tree choice, but you had all been so busy laughing and decorating and watching films and baking that Christmas that somehow, that ugly little tree became the most perfect thing you could imagine.

#robb stark x reader #robb stark x you #robb stark/reader #robb stark/you #robb stark imagine #robb stark drabble #robb stark fic #robb stark fanfic #fluff

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (Chapter 10)

[Can also be read on AO3]

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 6.2 K

Warnings: Minors DNI - gun violence, physical violence, strangulation, blood and injuries

Summary: Rory faces down Zorokov in the VIP area of Helios, and things go from bad to worse.

Get ready for a chapter involving violence, hurt/comfort and the ship's "first" kiss

(This is the chapter this whole fic was written for folks)

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis

October 20, 2017 22:18 - Helios - VIP Area

Rory tossed her clutch aside, the bag skidding across the polished floor as her hand quickly lifted to block Zorokov's attempts to make a physical connection. Striking out at him with her weaponized fist, it collided with his jaw, wiping the grin off his face before his hands clamped down around her neck. Tightening. Squeezing . Her breath caught in a choke hold, squeaking out of her, leaving her with nothing in her lungs to hold onto. Wrestling against him on the couch, her mind raced, the strain on her shoulder from her last fight gnawing at her and restricting her movements. The makeup covering her bruises wiping away to show her fragility.

The Russian’s fist broke her skin as it collided with her cheek and mouth. Fight or flight kicking in and the reptile brain ran away with itself before she could focus on what her training had taught her to do. It didn’t help that she had two drinks in her. Her normally controlled mind was becoming frantic. In a situation like this, it was all about waiting the attacker out, fighting them off until backup could arrive. She wasn’t alone. Her cover was blown, but someone was coming. This was a combat situation. She had to persevere. Even as the minutes passing felt like hours with the adrenaline coursing through her body, seeming to slow down time.

Her vision began to blur with the tears that welled at the corners of her eyes as she continued to gasp for air, wheezing in a pointless exercise in futility while his hands were still wrapped around her. Lifting her knee, Rory slammed it up into his groin, knocking the fight out of him as he slumped against her. A loud groan leaking from her as she managed to finally catch her breath. Quick to push him off of her, she rolled off the couch and landed on top of him, making a b-line for the door. Crawling forwards on her hands and knees, she dragged her limbs behind her, weighed down and heavy as she sucked in mouthfuls of air. Like wading through a tar pit, the marble floor turned into thick bands of black holding her back from reaching the door, her arms and legs shaking as the room seemed to tunnel around her. 

John, where are you? Of all the things to be her first thought while in the midst of danger, this was the last one she had expected. Caught in a life-or-death scenario, it wasn’t a thought of her father, or some memory of her mother, it was a desperate plea for the man who promised he would be there in a heartbeat for her. She didn’t care if he’d end up ripping a strip off her. She didn’t care if she’d never see the field again for her actions. She just needed the support. She didn’t want to be alone, not anymore.

Zorokov grunted as he pulled himself up to his feet, and in a short time he was in pursuit of her. Grabbing at the hem of her dress and pulling her along the floor back towards him. “Ты маленькая сучка!” <Russian: You little bitch!> His fingers dove into the short, choppy strands of her hair and yanked back on them, forcing her up to her feet. “I know who you are. I know you’ve been tracking me.” Dragging her over to the wall, his free hand clamped around her neck and shoved her back against it. “You think I wouldn’t know about my investments! I’m going to make you pay for what you’ve done.”

The cold marble stung her back, sending a shock down her spine as a pained hiss escaped her. His grip only got tighter on her hair and her scalp burned. A tremor shaking in her arm, spread through her body like wildfire. Her knees buckling. Fear hitting her faster than her self-preservation could hold it off. The dam was breaking. 

She shook her head, pushing that doubt out of her thoughts. Willingly ignoring it. She was a soldier. A good one. Special forces. An asset. Trained to survive until another day at all costs. To do whatever it took. Contending with blood and dirt and threats, acts of violence few should ever see, people who hated her, who wanted her dead. She would fight and show no quarter. 

The Russian freed his hand from her tresses, wrapping it around her throat as well, pulling her towards him just to toss her back against the wall again. Her head snapping back to crack against the hard marble, the reverberations causing her teeth to rattle in her jaw. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, a ragged roar ripped out of her throat as her hands rose to his face, clawing at the cheeks leaving angry red lines speckled with blood in the wake of her nails against his skin. Heart jackhammering in her chest, Rory's throat began to seize up as his hands squeezed tighter around it in response, his thumbs pressing in against her windpipe. Constricted . 

Choked groans and gasps leaked out of what little room she still had available for air. Straining to breathe, she just kept hitting. Struggling . Desperation setting in. Looking like a prey animal backed into the corner with large eyes turning red and bloodshot as the veins in her forehead throbbed against the skin, the tendons in her neck squeezing back against his hands. Thrashing . She threw her head forward and collided straight into the bridge of his nose, allowing her a chance to catch her breath as his hands released for just a moment only to come straight back. 

Dragging her to the floor with a growl, he showed no mercy even as her legs started to kick under him. Her high heels slipped off her feet as she scraped them across the cold, sterile floor. Bare feet left skidding back and forth as every part was still inclined to keep her alive like some wild, feral beast. Leaning down, his face coming closer, he forced more of his weight onto her throat, watching intently as her features shifted through shades of pink and scarlet. She continued to maul at him, her punches barely landing, making the brass knuckles she wore feel obsolete.  

Still trying to gasp in a futile plea for help, Rory knew John and Andrew were on the other side. Listening . An audience for what Zorokov decided would be the end of her life, but she had other plans. Backup was on the way, she swore she could hear Price in her ear, it was either that or some figment of the imagination to instill hope. Either way, she needed to make sure to keep herself breathing long enough for help to arrive. Grabbing her attacker by the face, digging her nails into his cheeks until the warmth of his blood touched her fingertips, Rory pulled him down towards her mouth. Biting into his lip with all of her might, she forced her teeth to meet and clamp down together, ripping out a chunk of it. With a quick turn of her head, she spat it out onto the floor. The wet, fleshy bit of meat splattering on the floor in a small pool of blood, while more of it spilled from the Russian’s open wound down onto her. Proving to herself, once and for all, that she was no lamb, never meant for the slaughter, and Zorokov was no predator – not like her .

His eyes went wide, like a crazed and rabid animal. “чертова сука” <Russian: Fucking bitch>, he screamed, howling as blood pumped through his fingers while he fondled at his mouth.  

Crawling backwards, her feet and hands slid against the floor in her desperate attempt to make as much space between them as possible. Lungs straining for oxygen, her neck already swollen and bruised from the crushing strength of Zorokov’s hands, she couldn't get enough distance before he pounced on her, his fingers knotting into the material of her dress, clenching it in a fist. 

“Get the fuck off me, you cunt ,” Rory rasped. Swinging her brass-knuckled fist towards his face, she connected with his jaw and shattered it, sending several teeth flying from his slack mouth, enamel tinkling along the marble floor.

Falling backwards, Zorokov’s suit jacket opened to reveal the shoulder harness he wore underneath, and her hands flew to grab the gun. Hands shaking – but not from fear – she was overcome with rage. Primal . Working off pure instinct. Snarling like a wolf, she shot him twice through the gut, but she never flinched, not even as the muzzle flashed and the boom of gunshots rang out. Standing there, staring down at him, catching her breath as her chest burned, each rasp coming from her was another reminder of how close she got to the end, of just how dangerous her chosen career could be. 

Keeping her gun pointed at the oligarch while he rolled and writhed on the ground, she waited for her cavalry. One false move and she’d shoot again with no remorse, knowing well enough the shots she had already made were nowhere near a killing blow. They were simply enough to subdue him, to keep him down. 

Each muffled noise of exertion Price could hear over the comms was enough to drive him insane. That part of him, that violent part that he controlled while in the middle of a battlefield was being riled, shaking at the bars of its cage to get out and make the one who was hurting her suffer. The choked hisses that slipped past her lips, the groans of pain… he could half imagine the light fading from her warm hazel eyes already and it turned his stomach. 

Storming his way through the bouncer and into the club, not caring about any pretense of being there for a good time or just being a civilian, he carried his M1911 .45 pistol at the ready – if anyone was stupid enough to take him on now, they deserved the bullet they were going to get. His blood rushed through his ears, pounding against his eardrums louder than the music through the speakers. So long as he could hear those choked gasps, it meant she was still alive. He could do as he promised. 

Keep fighting, sweetheart. Just keep fighting. It was a ticking clock, her life in the balance and he would stop at nothing to get to her. This was his fault; he should have never agreed to this. He knew better. 

Hearing the gunshots over the comms only put the fear of God into him, his heart beating so fast he thought it would tear right out of his ribcage. Any restraint on his part was now totally lost at the sound of the thunderous bang, not once but twice, and his steely gaze went wide below a furrowed brow. “Rory,” Price growled into his earpiece, practically snarling as he marched up into the VIP area, skipping multiple steps at a time to get there that much faster. 

There was no real security presence blocking him yet, even after he had decked the bouncer outside to get in. The music was so loud it was likely impossible for most to have actually heard the shots anyway, drowning it all out while blending in with the hard bass thumping through the speakers that vibrated up through the legs of the patrons from the floor. It was a clear route. His MI6 assistance en route with the authorities. There was finally something they could pin on the Russian prick, allowing them to take him in for questioning. He hated that it had to happen at her expense.

Shooting the lock off and bashing open the heavy door into the marble laden room, Price quickly found it had all gone silent, up here the music was nothing more than a low hum. Strained, rasping breaths filled the room in stereo. The target lay crumpled on the floor, his dress shirt pooling with red and considering the tang of metal in the air, Price was sure it wasn't wine. While standing over Zorokov's body, with a gun in her hands pointed at the Russian's head, Rory was frozen stiff. A loud wheezing coming from her with each strained inhale. Her eyes affixed on one spot – the point between her target’s eyes.

“Rory?” Her name was spoken in a hoarse whisper, and she said nothing in return. Didn’t move. She just stayed vigilant over the beaten and bloodied body of a man who had done horrendous things and showed no guilt or remorse, a monster with a distinct utter lack of humanity. 

Price circled the situation slowly, weapon drawn, coming around to stand at the head of their target. Confronted by the Sergeant coated in blood, her dress stained and clinging to her, trembling as her eyes remained firmly planted on the man on the ground in front of her.

“You can put the gun down, Sergeant. He’s in custody, we have him.”

Her jaw clenched tighter, her brow furrowing deeply, lip twitching into a sneer. The wolf inside her barely held back by a thin leash, ready to protect itself at all costs. 

“It’s over, Rory. It’s over!”

Each ragged breath of Zorokov’s on the ground punctuated the fact that she had very nearly killed him, the expanse of his injuries not entirely known yet – that mattered little to Price at that moment.

“Hey, hey…” he drew closer to her, moving slowly. Her pupils were like pinpricks, eyes flaring wide, her muscles shaking and twitching. “Look at me, sweetheart. Owen’s on his way, he’ll deal with the target. I’m gonna get you out of here, alright?” Stepping as close to her as he thought she’d allow, Price stopped, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You can put the gun down, Rory, he’s not going anywhere.” 

Looking back over at the bedraggled appearance of the Russian bleeding out on the floor, his scowl deepened at what she had been forced to do to protect herself, at what she was capable of… the wolf she said she was … 

“You made damn sure of that.”

When she refused to drop the weapon, he took no action to try to take the gun from her. That was the security she needed after what she had been through, the protection she craved, a shield she required to keep her from seeing herself as the victim. And while he knew she had been fighting for her life, it was obvious she was the victor. She wasn’t the unassuming, pretty face. She fought tooth and nail for her survival. That was training and skill. 

Shrugging off his coat, Price draped it over her shoulders, keeping the chill off her skin as the blood started to dry. Her unwavering stare on Zorokov not shifting even as the doors opened once more and Andrew entered the room with several members of law enforcement. 

The MI6 agent ran over to her, pushing his way past the captain to run his hands down Rory’s arms. “Christ, she’s in shock.” Bright blue eyes tried to look into hers, but she was empty. His hands cupped her cheeks, thumbs stroking them gently. “What the hell did he try to do to you, Lamb?” Andrew whispered.

The steely gaze of the veteran soldier scanned over the scene, remaining hard and unbreakable, even in the face of something horrendous happening to someone meant to be under his protection. “You have this covered, yeah?” Price’s voice a low growl as he spoke to the MI6 agent in his midst. “I’m taking her back to the safehouse.”

“We’ll get the bastard some medical attention and then deal with him properly.”

Giving Andrew a curt nod, Price slowly directed Rory away, not forcing her to do too much, her head turning to stay trained on the target. His hand bracing her lower back, reminding her she wasn't alone. He had her. 

Approaching the door, her grip began to loosen on the gun in her hand, her fingers slipping free of it until Price was finally able to remove it from her grasp completely. Some part of her must have realized her harrowing ordeal was over. He knew it likely wouldn’t count for much now, that she was far afield after what had happened to her, her mind catching up, but he needed to keep her aware. Informed. 

“Taking you back to the safehouse, my girl.” 

Careful about not touching her too much, gentle with how he placed his hands upon her, Price held back every ounce of anger that chewed him up inside. Furious with how this had all gone down and how badly he wanted Zorokov to face brutal justice for it. 

Keeping his voice hushed to a rasping whisper, he kept talking to her, “You’re with me, Rory. You’re safe.” Her silence in response was deafening. He had to remain calm for her. Strong . She needed someone she could rely on. Support was critical. He could do that much for her at least. 

Sitting in the passenger seat of the vehicle, Rory’s hands shook as she lifted the cigarette to her lips, the lighter weaving back and forth causing the flame to flicker as she tried to light it. The warm amber glow on her face made it clear that what had happened had taken a toll on her. The skin around her eyes was left red and puffy, sore with the lack of tears spilled. Shuddering breaths and a trembling lip were shrouded by the cigarette as she inhaled, letting the smoke fill her painful lungs. Running her other hand up and down her throat as if she were trying to massage the bruises away from under all the dried and caked on blood, reassuring herself that she was alive, that she had made it. 

Staring out the windshield, her vision blurred as the lights of the downtown core haloed out towards her. The window beside her opened just a crack to let the smoke out as she exhaled a gray plume. Sitting in total silence, Rory didn’t say a single word to anyone. There was nothing to say. 

Moments later, Price climbed into the driver’s seat beside her, his piercing gaze lingering on her, but she couldn’t even offer him a sideways glance. She just kept smoking. The constant rhythm of the inhale and exhale of air, the inflation and deflation of her lungs, it was all she had to keep her steady. The pounding of her blood in her veins still hammering in her ears, dulling everything else around her. She’d been shot at, her body wounded by shrapnel, bruised and beaten in hand-to-hand, but this … what she was feeling now was far worse. She came so close, staring right into the eyes of a man who wanted to kill her. It wasn’t some faceless, nameless enemy soldier on the other side of drawn battle lines. It was a man who had no qualms about taking what he wanted and breaking it, and he had aimed to do that with her as well. 

As she continued to smoke, Price’s voice droned in her ear. She didn’t hear the words. She couldn't make out a damn thing. In that moment, it was like her body wasn’t even hers, she was sitting outside of it. Merely observing. A passive witness to something horrific. She had felt this way before, after returning to base the night of Al Ghulam’s capture. All she could do then was try and shut it all out. Sleep it off. Close her eyes and forget about what had happened. Another memory to push down. 

Pull yourself up by the bootstraps, Rory. Stiff upper lip. 

The vehicle moved, streets disappearing behind her. The flashing traffic lights reflected off the drops of rain that had started to streak down the windshield, decorating the vehicle interior like stained glass. Looking down at her lap, her shaking hand clung desperately to the cigarette held between her fingers, and her eyes began to sting. Tears welling in the corners. No matter how hard she fought to hold them back, they still fell, rolling down her cheeks with each heavy sob. Even biting down on her lip could do little to stop them. 

Rory wished she could curl herself up into a ball. Imagining the look on her father’s face if he saw her like this. This was never the life he had wanted for her. It wasn’t the one her mother would have wanted either. Yet, it was all she knew now, she was aware of the risks, and tonight she had come all too close to being just another soldier in a casket dying for a war that never seemed to end.

Price could do nothing as she sat there and cried in the passenger seat beside him, her shoulders shaking with each heave of her chest. His eyes had to be kept on the road. She likely wouldn’t want him hanging all over her anyway in the state she was in. If anything, she needed the release. A pressure valve allowing whatever she had dealt with to finally wash over her, all the adrenaline and the fear leaving her system with each new tear that fell down her cheeks. 

That didn’t stop him from wanting to lean over and wipe away the streaks that stained her reddened skin with his hands, to hold her in his arms and tell her nothing would ever harm her again, that he would never let anything harm her again. But that wasn’t his place, and it wasn’t the time either. She was the type who would tell him to shove it where the sun didn’t shine while she was at it too. A career soldier didn’t let others tell them they needed to be protected. His heart ached having to see her so distraught, so broken by what had occurred up in that room while she was trapped and alone. He should have gotten there sooner. It was stupid to even let her enter that club by herself, let alone be left in the clutches of a bastard like Zorokov, but she was so sure of herself, and he trusted her. 

He took a deep breath and sighed as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles shifting from red to white. He shouldn’t be thinking that way about her, seeing her as just some woman who couldn’t defend herself. She was the living proof that she absolutely could. Covered in blood, her enemy left worse for wear, and she was right there sat beside him – in shock, perhaps – but she did that, she fought for her survival. She was a warrior through and through. Seeing her as the defenseless little lamb is what got people in trouble with her, he should have known better by now, that was just the face she chose to wear. 

Driving down a back alley, he brought Rory into the safehouse building through a side access door and led her straight upstairs into their room. Rushing her into the bathroom, he stood her against the sink where she continued to stare out, her rasping breaths the only sound she made. “You’re a mess,” John rumbled as he took in the sight of her under the fluorescent lights. Her skin slick with the blood of another man and her own. Tears cutting through the grime that covered her face, leaving a trail like veins through sedimentary rock. Held against the sink counter, her fingers wrapped around its edge, white knuckled, Rory trembled as the reverberations of her actions coursed through her body. 

Looming over her, and despite the imposing force he usually presented, the bulldog broke as he took in the sight of the normally stoic soldier crumbling before him – some things were even too much for someone like Rory to bear. “I’m gonna clean you up,” he purred softly, the rasp of his voice melting away as her hazel stare remained absent. Reaching around her to turn on the sink faucet, he moved carefully so as not to spook her, letting the water run, consistent like white noise out of the tap. 

Grabbing a washcloth, he ran it under the water, letting it soak into the fibers. Squeezing out the excess liquid into the sink, he leaned into her and began by rubbing the cloth against her hairline, getting the blood out of her hair. All the while he stayed focused on her eyes, the way they’d softly flutter shut with each touch of the cool water against her. Slowly but surely, she lost the rigidity of a body post-mortem, and her gaze finally lifted to focus on him. 

“There you are.” A gentle smirk tugged at his lips as he continued to wipe her face clean of the viscera splattered against it, his free hand coming to rest on her jaw as he tilted her chin up to catch the streaks of bloody water that rolled down her neck with the cloth exposing the bruises that darkened her skin. His stomach twisted at the sight, but he refused to let that show on his face. “‘Fraid I might’ve lost you back there, Sinclair.”

She rolled her jaw, blinking several times. “Did I kill him?”

“Came damn near, wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. But what about you, eh?” Lingering on her pinprick pupils, he could tell she wasn’t quite clear of the woods yet. “You with me?”

Lifting her hand from the counter’s edge she rubbed at her brow, pulling her hand away to find her skin awash with rust-stained water. “Is that my blood or his?”

“ His .” He took the cloth and wiped the blood away from the palm of her hand, rinsing the cloth out once more. 

With most of the blood removed, her split brow and lip were clearly visible, the skin already swelling and sore around the vicinity of the injuries. Red dribbled down her temple from a cut on her scalp as well. She’d put up one hell of a fight, there was no mistaking that. She was a scrapper, refusing to be prey – yet more proof of the wolf that lay below the skin of the lamb that she presented to the world. 

“Rory?” Price whispered out her name and her eyes snapped up towards him, the laser focus of a sniper burning a hole straight through him. “You did what you had to do back there, you know that, yeah?”

“I know. It was him or me.”

“Exactly.” He dabbed the cloth against her split brow, putting pressure on the wound while wiping away the blood that had begun to clot into the hair. “You did a good job, Sergeant.” She huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh as she winced. He already knew the reaction wasn’t from the pain of the wound, but rather the sting on the ego. “I mean it. You gave him hell.”

Laughing if only not to cry, she stared up at him with bloodshot eyes. “So I’m not going to be sent back to the SRR then?”

“No. Just gave me more of a reason to keep you around.” He looked down at her through his creased brow, his voice raspy and low. “You’re a fighter, Rory. We want to stand any chance of protecting the rest of the world, we’re gonna need that.”

His fingers curled under her chin as he brought the cloth to her lip, dabbing away the blood that bubbled up to the surface of the pink flesh, his focus set on her mouth. Her doe-eyed stare brightening as she watched the way his tongue poked at the corner of his lip as he cleaned her up, putting all of his attention on her. How despite the roughness of the skin of his hands, and the callouses that hardened his grip, he could be as gentle as he was with her. 

“You better not be falling in love with me, Sinclair.” Price’s hardened gaze lifted to look her in the eye. “I’m still your Captain.” His smirk causing the creases around his eyes and the lines on his face to deepen. 

“You’re not as charming as you think, you know?”

He gave her a half grin before rinsing the cloth again and bringing it to her scalp, squeezing the cool water from the rag, letting the drops fall down the contours of her face and drip down the bare skin exposed at the neckline of her dress. His eyes never left hers, observing her pupils slowly start to expand and return to normal. “Better?”

Rory barely moved an inch as she tried to nod, her hands wrapping around the ledge of the sink counter once more as the blood rushed to her head. Swallowing thickly, she shifted against the sink, struggling against a sore throat. “He was our target, I shouldn’t have –” she stopped herself. “We needed to question him.”

“We still will, but that’s none of your concern right now.” His steely gaze focused on her eyes, tenderness in his voice, “You got us the in we needed. That’s what matters.”

Her eyes fell from his, her stare landing on the tremor that continued to shake through her hands and up her arms. “I should take a shower,” she stammered. “Get as much rest as I can.”

“Whatever you need, Sergeant.” He backed away, giving her some space before placing the bloodied cloth into the sink behind her. 

Rubbing at her throat once more, her fingers traced over the imagined indents from phantom hands that still wrapped around her. “Thank you, John.”

“For what?”

“Looking out for me. Cleaning me up.” She cleared her throat, trying to cough out the tender swelling in her trachea. Her eyes lifted to look at him once more, a sincerity in her eyes that her words couldn’t truly express in the moment. “I appreciate it.”

“Wasn’t gonna let anything happen to you.” 

“It’s not your job to protect me.”

“You have my six, I have yours,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Right.”

Her eyes fell to the cheap linoleum floor and his brow furrowed at her reaction. It was clear her ego was still bruised after the fight she went through. Caught off guard, made to feel weak, powerless – she didn’t deserve to feel like that. She was no lamb, despite the callsign, she had that beast in her just like him. Just like every veteran soldier. Nose wrinkling as he tightened his jaw, he had to say something. “Hey, I didn’t save you, Rory. Did that all by yourself. Don’t go thinkin’ that I don’t know you can hold your own, because I do. You’re tough. I mean that. You don’t become a Sergeant ‘cause of a pretty face,” he said earnestly, his voice hoarse. “You have the experience. Not everyone could have done what you did in that situation. Not everyone would have lived.” He moved closer, shifting his weight on his feet. “You don’t need me protecting you, but I’m happy to do it.”

Before he even realized what was happening, her hands lifted to cup his jaw and card her fingers through the whiskers on his cheeks. Rational thought failed to hit either of them as she brought his face down to meet hers in a kiss. It wasn’t hungry or rushed like the last time they had been this close. It wasn’t hormones and alcohol fueling it. It was soft…and safe . 

His forehead pressed to hers, but he didn’t dare touch her with his hands, not after what she’d been through. Grabbing the sink ledge instead, he leaned down into her, letting her take the lead, happy to let her steal the very oxygen from his lungs. 

Her lips were soft, more tender than anything he had felt in years. He did his best not to get too carried away, lost in the sensation of a mouth he had thought about when he had been away on duty. That random encounter he had never planned on making as much of an impression on him as it did, especially as they had come back together after so long. Knowing just how kiss-bruised he had left her mouth the last time, full lips left that much plumper, the taste of her clung to his lips for what felt like days. God, she was gorgeous then – and having gotten to know her as the soldier – she was even more stunning now. 

The kiss ended as quickly as it happened, her hands dropping as her lips pulled away from him, her forehead remaining pressed to his as she looked down at her feet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Do you see me complainin’?” The grizzled soldier was made soft, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  

She closed her eyes and pushed her hands through her hair. Sighing as she dragged the limp, wet locks back and refusing to make eye contact with him. 

“It’s okay. Shit happens,” he kept his rasping voice low and quiet, the way someone would speak to calm a frightened animal. “We can just chalk it up to stress.”

“But what if it’s not, John?”

It was his turn to clear his throat, pulling back as he crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed the back of his neck, the lines in his face creasing as he grimaced. 

“I see the way you’ve been looking at me. The way we’ve been flirting. Circling around each other. It’s not just me feeling this, is it?”

“It’s being in close proximity with someone you –” He paused, staring into her eyes. “Rory, I –”

“I’ve explained it to myself a million different ways. Trying to remind myself that we’re professionals, that this is just another mission. That whatever I’m feeling is some residual from that time we had together…and who knows, maybe it still is. With us trapped in close quarters, it doesn't make it any easier. I know that even bringing up this conversation with you is stepping out of bounds. You’re my commanding officer. This is fraternizing with a subordinate…I don’t do this sort of thing.”

He tightened his jaw, wincing slightly before speaking, “We seem to have a history of going outside of our norm with each other.”

He wasn't wrong.

Groaning, she rubbed her hands over her face. “So what do we do? Finish out the rest of this mission like nothing’s happened and then we go our separate ways again?”

Stepping away from her, severing the tie as much as every muscle in his body wanted the exact opposite, his hands instinctively rose to where his tactical vest would normally sit on his shoulders, wishing he had that sort of protection right now. “I don’t think this is the right time to be bringing this up, eh? You’re worn out. Have your shower, get some rest. We’ll start fresh in the morning,” he said, giving her a friendly tap on the shoulder.

Rory nodded, her eyes dimming as they fell once more. “Yes, Captain.”

And just like that, the floodgates between them were shut once more. 

Leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind him, Price sat on the edge of his bed lighting up another cigar. Rubbing at his brow in a concentrated effort to ignore the taste of her on his lips, trying to drown out the pervasive smell of iron that clung to her and filled his nostrils as the sound of water spraying from the shower head began. His heart and head were telling him two very different things. It was a dangerous game to get tied up with someone you worked with, especially as a soldier. Things weren’t supposed to get personal. Taking his mind off the mission, off the task at hand, meant people could get hurt, or worse, killed. 

She was almost killed. 

He heaved out a sigh, blowing out smoke with the intensity of a dragon. There was no denying the fact that he’d already let her get close, closer than most. And God help him, he had been jealous. He wanted her . It was as simple as that. But nothing about what they might have felt for one another was inherently simple. She was right about fraternizing. They were edging up to the line and if they crossed it, if even a whiff of that reached their superiors, they could lose everything. The only saving grace was that this was just one mission. One mission, and then she could go back to the SRR and he’d be back with SAS and no one would be any the wiser. 

Christ, he shouldn’t have been thinking like this. Trying to come up with ways to work around the rules, but it’s what he was used to. Skirting around the red tape to do what was necessary, going above the law to make things right. What was happening here though, it wasn’t the same thing. This wasn’t about what served the greater purpose for others, this was about him. And her . 

God, the things he was already willing to do for her.

#call of duty #fan fiction #john price #captain price #captain john price #john price x oc #hurt/comfort #slow burn #first kiss #oc: rory sinclair #skelly writes #ship: you are the sword to my shield #fic: all along the watchtower #chapter 10

[nataliewritez]

Oya? Oya Oya? Oya Oya Oya?

You know what I haven’t consumed in a while… Bokuto/Akaashi…. May I request them? owo

How To Train Your Owl || Haikyuu!! Tk Fic

A/N: Sister hello!! I have never written for these two lol, but their dynamic is honestly so adorable that I wish I did a fic on them sooner!! I hope you enioy!!

Summary: Bokuto is getting on Akaashi's nerves while his trying to practice, resorting to childish punishments for his childish senior.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The rest of the team had already left, leaving Akaashi and Bokuto in the gym to practice. Bokuto had the keys in his pocket so once they finished, he could lock it up and leave with his teammate.

What people in their team didn't know was their secret relationship. The two had been dating since they were in second camp, which no one had even caught them out on.

As Akaashi went to hit the ball, he took at glance at Bokuto and flushed as he winked at him, causing him to miss the ball, much to Bokuto's amusement. "Bokuto.. you distracted me again." Akaashi bit his tongue once he said that to hide his irritation, and Bokuto laughed, coming to his side of the net and wrapping an arm around him, bringing him close.

"Aww, what's wrong? Did I fluster you?" He teased, making kissy lips before making a yelp as Akaashi lightly shoved the ball at his face, making him pout playfully. "So cruel to your lover boy! I'm hurt!" He feigned sadness, making Akaashi shake his head with an amused smile, kissing his cheek. "There, better?" He asked, Bokuto making a quick mod with a satisfied smile, returning to the other side of the net.

As Akaashi went to set the ball, he glanced at the dual haired, his cheeks flushing and forgetting about the ball as Bokuto made a devious smirk at him. Okay, now he was doing this intentionally.

Akaashi gritted his teeth and let the volleyball roll away, he walked towards Bokuto, who raised his hands and laughed out of pure amusement. "Bokuto! You're doing this on purpose, this isn't practice anymore!" He huffed, Bokuto wiping a stray tear from how hard he was laughing. "Sorry! It's just so adorable seieng you blush over something so simple!"

That reply, however, set Akaashi off, as he backed Bokuto to the back of the cold gym walls, as he continued to laugh. "You wanna laugh? Fine, I'll give you a reason to laugh." And with that, hands descended upon the other, clawing motions towards his underarms, making the other practically howl, arm's clenching downwards defensively. "AH!? Akahahahashi! Please! Ihi'm sohohorry!"

"No, you aren't." Akaashi huffed, iritation spreading over his face, as Bokuto used a hand to quickly shove at him, only to regret it as louder laughter sparked out of him due to the younger speeding up his movement's, growing more strategic. "Akahashi! Okay! Yohour right! I'm nohot sorry! Buhut you are adoraHAHA- OH CHRIHIST!" He threw his head back, his body sliding down the gym wall, exposing himself, as he shivered once the cold walls hit his back, and Akaashi took full advantage of this situation. He darted his hands down and opted to massage his thumbs against his lower ribs towards Bokuto's side's, making him curl inwards, a loud yet adorable snort unsheathing itself from his lungs.

"Wow, you must've grown more ticklish then last time, hm? Ir is it the cold that's doing me a favour?" Akaashi pointed out, tracing his pinky against his side, making goosebumps erupt against Bokuto's skin, as he jerked around, frantically giggling and opting to shove at Akaashi, making a smug smile crawl over his features.

Goosebumps turned to full on belly laughter as Akaashi snuck a hand to reach down, squeezing and kneading deep circles against Bokuto's knee's, making him kick his leg out, his body becoming limp as he hugged himself, joyful tears brinking the corners of his eye's. "GAHAH!? Akaha-KASHI!! DAHAMN YOU!" He cackled, the smug smile turning into a soft one, as he stopped and laid himself ontop of him, resting his head against his shoulder and kissing his cheek, making him blush.

"You're cruel, you know that?" He laughed, wrapping a weak arm around the younger, kissing his forehead in return, making the other smile up at him, squirming and giggling as Bokuto playfully scribbled his side's for a moment, "Okay okahay! I aham!" Akaashi admitted, sighing in proud defeat as Bokuto stopped, the two just cuddling there for the time being until Bokuto recovered.

#natalie writez #sezzie❤ #sezzie the sweetheart❤ #sfw tickle community #sfw tk community #tk community #sfw tk blog #tickle content #tickle fluff #tickle fic #tk fic #haikyuu tk #haikyuu tickle #haikyuu tickling #haikyuu tickles #lee!bokuto #ticklish!bokuto #ler!akaashi #ticklish!akaashi

[noxexistant]

CAN YOU DO LIKE A CUTE SWEET MOMENT BETWEEN RACE AND CRUTCHIE. LIKE MAYBE AFTER THE COPS BEAT EM UP THEY HAVE A REALLY LIKE AWWW INTERACTION ABOUT BEING BROTHERS LIKE HE AND JACK DO IN THE BEGINNING

i don’t know if this is as wholesome as you wanted oops but yes!! here!! some race and crutchie getting a brotherly moment to themselves after crutchie gets out of the refuge <3

—

send me newsies headcanon/writing prompts!!

—

Crutchie grits his teeth hard as he sits down. And, sure, he usually grits his teeth when he has to use his leg like that - bend it, put any amount of weight on it like he has to to get up or sit down - but he just grit his teeth hard enough to make that muscle in his jaw tic, and Race knows he never does that unless it’s bad.

None of the others seem to have noticed. There’s enough chaos going on, far too much for anyone to take stock of Crutchie hobbling unsteadily to a set of nearby steps and dropping down a little too hard to sit on one near the middle. Biting back his pain like it’s choking him, but still not expressing it outwardly in any way beyond that little involuntary movement, even though no one’s looking. Even with bruises all over him and blood staining his shirt, Crutchie sits quiet and breathes careful and won’t let go of his crutch.

He could easily balance it against the banister beside him up the steps - Race knows he usually would, taking any opportunity to have both his hands free and just not have to hold the weight for a little while. But he’s holding it, clutching it like he does when he’s about to use it to stand up, hand wrapped tight just beneath the handle. Like he might lose it. Like he thinks there’s a chance someone might try and take it from him. Again.

Race swallows. He tries for casual as he floats over - walking with an easy swagger in his step, pretending to examine his cigar and every dent it’d sustained tucked in his pocket during all the fighting - but maybe he misses the mark, because Crutchie already looks sort of grim when Race sits down beside him. Or maybe that’s just how Crutchie’s feeling right now.

It ain’t far from how Race is feeling too.

He thinks maybe they should feel better - or he should, at least. Crutchie’s got more reason to be sour. But they won. Front page of the pape, demands met - or…almost, or something, Race hadn’t really been able to follow Jack’s half-frantic rambling about it before he got pulled back in with Kath and Davey, but the strike’s over and everyone’s accounted for and they got bruises, sure, but they’re all alive to tell the tale. And what a tale it is.

Sales are gonna be up like crazy for a while. Hell, maybe they’ll be something like celebrities, now that they been in the pape and beat Pulitzer and even had Governor Roosevelt on their side. The famous striking newsboys.

Race ends up saying all of that out loud to Crutchie, who tries for a laugh and kind of misses the mark too. Crutchie can’t even quite smile right - looks like he took a hit to the jaw or something, his mouth’s moving kinda crooked - but he won’t stop smiling, even when his try at a laugh peters off quick into a strangled sort of sound. It’s like he don’t know what else to do, other than try and smile.

Seeing it, Race lets his own facade slip. He hadn’t even realised how big a farce it was until his shoulders sink and his eyelids droop and an ache settles deep into his bones like water soaking into wool. His eye’s throbbing, creating a pounding in his head, and one of his shins hurts something awful where he must’ve took a kick or something. Or maybe he tripped over a barrel. He can’t remember.

“God,” he groans, reaching down and rubbing it carefully through his trousers. “This how you feel all the time?”

And this time Crutchie does manage a laugh. It’s bitter and a little breathless, but it’s a laugh all the same.

“Bet it ain’t far off.” He looks down at Race’s leg, brow creasing a little. “‘S’it bad? Can you move it?”

Race bends his leg a couple times to prove that he can, even though Crutchie just watched him walk over, and that seems to soothe Crutchie a bit. He settles back against the steps, and Race watches him, his own gaze darting down to Crutchie’s bad leg where it’s lay motionless, hidden beneath the newly filthy and torn up fabric of his overalls. He jerks his head at it.

“What about yours?” he asks, quiet. “They got you bad, right? Jack said.”

Crutchie shrugs weakly.

“Least they couldn’t’a made it worse,” he jokes, not much stronger. “Can’t break what already don’t work.”

Race supposes that’s true in most cases, but it don’t feel right right now. Crutchie’s bad leg don’t work, sure, but they still could’ve broken it. And that’s the one thing it does work for - hurting. Crutchie can’t sell if it’s too bad, and then what was even the point of all this?

Maybe he was quiet too long, because Race is brought out of his thoughts by Crutchie knocking their shoulders together, and he ain’t smiling anymore but he don’t look quite so grim or distant either.

“Stop worryin’,” he says, like it’s an order. “Ain’t your job anymore, so quit it. Jack an’ I are back now. ‘S’all over.”

“It ain’t,” Race can’t help but argue, turning his cigar over and over between his hands, which still haven’t quite stopped shaking. “You’re hurtin’ still. And you got…”

He trails off, already half regretting what he was about to say, but Crutchie fixes him with a look and he knows he can’t drop it.

“You got this look in your eyes,” he clarifies reluctantly, hardly above a whisper. “Like you ain’t really back.”

He really does regret it then, because Crutchie goes quiet and sinks more against the step and suddenly he just looks so damn tired, gaze fixed on the ground at the bottom of the steps but clearly not really seeing it. Race feels his eyes start burning, because maybe he’s pretty tired too, and he really didn’t mean to make Crutchie upset when he’s clearly trying so hard to not be, Race just missed him so damn much and he’s been more a leader these last few days than he’s sure he’s ever been in every damn year he’s spent with the newsies and he’d been so sure, for a while there, that Crutchie wouldn’t be coming back. He hadn’t even been sure that Jack would. He’d thought maybe he’d be left alone to keep making calls by himself like he’s the one in charge, and without Crutchie and Jack he would be, and he don’t want that. Even taking charge and making everyone laugh in Jacobi’s, climbing up on tables to dance and sing and crack jokes like he weren’t half dizzy, Race had wanted his brothers more than anything. Had wanted to be able to climb down from those tables and sit quiet next to Crutchie like this, cracking jokes between themselves.

“You’re right,” Crutchie says, real quiet, and Race is startled out of his head again.

“What?”

“Said you’re right, Race. It ain’t really all over wit’.”

Race nods slowly, feeling sort of nauseous. He’s right. He’s right. Crutchie’s still hurting - but then he also leans against Race’s side and rests his cheek against his shoulder, slumping all his weight against him, relaxing, and Race can just barely see him smile, real soft. “But the worst is over wit’. The fightin’ an’ all that. An’ I’m back home. We made it through all that, an’ we’re all alive, an’ we’re all together.”

Home, Race thinks. Crutchie’s home. His brother’s home, home, home.

“I missed you so much,” he chokes out suddenly, like it just spilled out of him. “‘S’been so quiet, and I been tryin’ - everyone got real low after you got got, and I…I had to try and make ‘em laugh like you do, but I ain’t loud like you are. I don’t even got a whistle.”

Crutchie laughs again, and it’s a real laugh this time. Loud. He goes fishing in one of his pockets and comes out with his whistle - which Race supposes he must’ve stashed for safekeeping like Race did with his cigar, otherwise the Refuge guards surely would’ve taken it - and pulls the tangled leather strap of the necklace loose, hooking it back around his neck, back in its rightful place where it always hangs.

Then he puts the whistle in his mouth and blows, loud enough to make Race flinch back and cover his ears and laugh. He watches as everyone turns around, responding in a wave with their own whistles and whoops when they just see Crutchie grinning back at them, whistle dangling between his teeth. Finch whistles back as loud as he can, fingers at the corners of his mouth, so Crutchie whistles again and they go back and forth like that until someone hollers at them to shut up. Race’s head is throbbing worse than he thought was possible, but he’s still laughing, more grateful for his head throbbing from Crutchie’s noise than he thought was possible. He’d give anything to never have to hear quiet like the last few days again, and while Crutchie’s still giggling Race curls himself against his side, just like Crutchie’d done to him.

He picks his cigar up from his lap and puts it between his teeth, patting at his pockets. Crutchie must notice, because he goes through one of his own.

“You wan’ a match?”

“Yeah,” Race says, watching Crutchie dig out a matchbook and strike one lit, holding the flame to the end of Race’s cigar until it takes and he inhales his first lungful of smoke. “Where’d you get those?” he asks, as he blows the smoke back out in a neat stream.

Crutchie grins. “Swiped ‘em from Snyder,” he says, pocketing them again. “Now gimme that.”

“My cigar?” Race asks, affronted.

“Payment.”

Crutchie plucks it out of Race’s mouth and puts it into his own like he’d held his whistle, inhaling. Not quite as deep as Race had, and he coughs as he exhales the smoke in short little uneven breaths, but he finally relaxes that last little bit. He hands the cigar back.

“Thought you was havin’ it,” Race teases, taking another inhale. Crutchie bumps his shoulder again, almost hard enough to make him drop the thing.

“We can share.”

Race don’t like Crutchie smoking any more than he likes any of their boys smoking, maybe likes it less ‘cause Crutchie only smokes when he’s wanting it and can sound so damn fragile when he coughs. But, right now, Race has never been so happy to share a cigar in his life. He watches the smoke pour from his brother’s lips and thanks God he’s breathing.

Still swipes it back every time Crutchie’s taking too long on his drag, though.

#newsies #crutchie morris #racetrack higgins #my writing #answered #emmedoesntdomath

[cowboythighs]

thinking about touch starved steve, so desperate for connection but deeply unable to ask for it, stealing one of eddie’s well worn flannels. tossing it in the dryer to warm up so he can wear it and pretend that eddie’s standing behind him, wrapping him in a warm hug.

touch starved steve, who kicks himself for flinching back the first time wayne clasped him on the shoulder. who day dreams about wayne doing it again, maybe even a casual arm thrown over his shoulder while he congratulates steve on a job well done.

steve, who shrinks away from praise but fantasizes about hopper calling him ‘son’ and bragging to random people about steve’s accomplishments like they’re actually impressive, like steve’s worthy of admiration and acknowledgment.

thinking about eddie realizing steve’s issues with touch & instead of writing it off as a quirk, he starts watching steve more closely. starts noticing the little moments where steve starts to reach out to touch, like he wants to so badly, but shrinks back instead.

catches the flicker of regret on steve’s face after he’s flinched away or dodged a touch. and it’s eddie who pieces together that steve wants to touch, to be touched, but doesn’t know how to anymore.

eventually eddie can’t take it anymore, gets steve on his own and tells him that he’s noticed, that he knows steve’s touch starved. and eddie was prepared for steve to deny it, for steve to get angry, even. but what he wasn’t prepared for was tears.

hadn’t anticipated the tremble of steve’s lower lip, or the way his face scrunched up and his shoulders turned in as he fought back the urge to cry. didn’t expect steve to run away.

and steve- steve thought he might die from the white hot shame boiling in his chest. pulled over on the side of the road and slamming the palm of his hand against the steering wheel over and over thinking about how pathetic he was. wishing he could at least pretend to be normal.

goes home and cries himself to sleep because he’s never been more embarrassed than the moment eddie looked him in the eyes and called him on his bullshit.

he ignores the pounding on the front door that wakes him later that night. it doesn’t matter who it is- he can’t bear the thought of being seen like this. steve shrieks when his window opens a few minutes later and eddie tumbles inside.

steve starts to feel panicked when his blustering and yelling doesn’t work on eddie, when it doesn’t make him leave. scoots back a few inches when eddie gently settles himself on the bed and apologizes for being so blunt. promises steve he wasn’t poking fun- that he wanted to help.

eddie reaches his hand out sooo slowly, intentionally telegraphing his movements and giving steve a chance to stop him, before he gently takes steve’s hand into his own, and presses the lightest kiss against it.

weeks are spent slowly acclimating steve to touch again. lingering when their fingers connect as they pass a joint back and forth. sitting with their legs pressed together as they watch a movie. quick hugs because steve doesn’t want more- not yet. steve thinks if it goes on too long he’ll never be able to let go.

thinking of steve learning to ask for what he needs, and how it becomes so second nature to him that he doesn’t even think about the fact that they’re not alone when he shows up to eddie’s. ignores the party gathered around the table in the middle of a campaign.

steve just walks right up to eddie, looking grumpy but determined, and says, “can i get a hug, please?”.

doesn’t even notice the shocked stares of the others or the frantic glares eddie is shooting them over steve’s shoulders warning them to keep their mouths shut.

just leans into the warmth of eddie’s hug and lets it linger. tenses briefly when dustin bursts out, “what the hell? steve lets you touch him? he hates being touched!” but relaxes when eddie tells him, “don’t know where you got that idea. steve’s the most affectionate person i know.”

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #cowboythighs #hcs #touch starved steve harrington #crossposted from my twt

[acapelladitty]

Someone sent a request for a Riddler/Reader nsfw fic in which they're having rough sex and things get too intense for the reader & how both parties deal with that in the aftermath 🧩

(female reader/riddler: warnings for rough sex and choking)

It was his eyes which sparked it.

Something in the way which his glassy green gaze seemed to pierce through you, not quite seeing you like he normally did, as his hands remained tight around your neck, cutting off the air supply as he thrust into you from above.

Rough play wasn't unknown in your little games, be it his hands on your neck or your nails carving red ribbons into the willing skin of his unprotected back, but something in his eyes was off and genuine fear alit in your chest as his brutal treatment did not cease.

"Little bitch," he growls, hips snapping against your groin as his fingers flex enough to allow you a slight, panicking gulp of air, "I know exactly what you need."

He's going to kill you.

It is such a little voice which ignites such panic as you start to buck and writhe beneath him, attempting to throw him off while he only smirks and picks up his pace, misinterpreting your actions as those of passion and not survival.

His face is ruddy and laden with sweat due to his violent movements and his round features swim shakily as your eyes water with the effort of your struggle. The roaring of your blood in your ears, a roaring which often made your entire body feel heightened, now bringing only a miserable panic as your fingers dig themselves deep into the flesh of his upper arms.

He's going to kill you. The small voice repeats with a growing urgency. And you can't stop him.

Fighting to ignore the panic, it is a losing battle and your legs jerk against the bed, kicking out messily as you take in another small gulp of air.

It's over quickly, his frantic thrusting signalling that he is near his end, and his release is announced with a loud groan as his hands drop from your neck to lock around your hips; holding you in place as he buries himself as deeply as he can within you.

Gasping and coughing in the precious oxygen which you had been deprived of as your lungs and throat burn from the lack of air, your body trembles and twitches when he pulls free of you after a minute; his jerky fingers snatching free the condom from his length as he leans over you to drop it in the small wastepaper basket which sits by the bed.

His body rolling to the side of you, leg still hooking itself within your own as he pants out his satisfaction, a tired but wicked grin is playing on his lips.

"Remind me to pick up painkillers from the store." He mutters as his fingers sweep through strands of sandy hair, pushing it back from his sweat-covered forehead. "This ache in my back isn't getting any better over time," he pauses to tilt his head towards your own, "and having you jerking my hips like that isn't helping."

His expression is teasing and his words are playful, heavy with his sated lust, as his grin settles into a knowing smirk which is shared with you as he reclines against the small bed.

A smirk which drops into pure alarm as you cannot hold back the sudden sob which rockets through your system as you burst into tears, vision immediately blurring once again as your eyes water and sting against your will.

His hands are quick to snap to your face, warm fingers cradling the sides of your cheeks with a familiar post-coital tenderness as his body twists in place to face you completely.

"Why are you upset?"

His tone is laced with confusion, eyes darting across your face and body as he seeks out any possible cause for your distress. It is almost sweet, how anxious your sudden change of attitude makes him panic, and it serves nothing but to make the bubble of shameful guilt within your chest swell.

"Nothing." You answer in a voice which held the hoarseness of your earlier choking as you wipe the moisture in your eyes away quickly with the back of your hand. "Don't worry about it.

"We just had sex and you're crying." Disbelief radiates from him and you can see the open discomfort in his expression, the narrowing of his brow bordering on frustration as you give him evasive answers. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." A quick response meted out with a weak smile which did not quite meet your eyes.

Your fears are not his problem; he only did what you wanted him to do

"Did I hurt you?" His fingers trail to your neck, no doubt tracing the burgeoning red marks which his hands have left imprinted on the skin with a muted reverence. "I thought you liked it. That we liked it."

"No, i do like it. I just panicked." You soothe, dropping your fingers to nervously play with the edge of the bedsheet. "It happens sometimes."

"Not like this." His head tilts but his expressive eyes refuse to leave your own and you can see the brightness in them, the intelligence which is shadowed by the madness within as he refuses to let up his point. "I had control. I wouldn't hurt you becaue you're everything to me; no one else in this city sees me like you do. That's everything to me."

His fingers are insistent as they slip down to grip at your hand and you can feel the frustration within his grasp as he looks to you for that reassurance, that need to know that he has not made another mistake which could cost him dearly. You both knew of the delight which your support brought him; that knowledge that for once in his life, he had someone who recognised him, who looked at the space he filled and saw past the traumatised orphan who had been long since abandoned by the city who raised him.

The monster that orphan had become.

The monster you soothe with a slight shushing noise as you nod your acknowledgement at him.

"I know, Eddie."

As a rational man, he had no reason to hurt you, but his mind -brilliant as it is- is also poisoned by the madness which lurks within his soul and you know that one day will see that rationality crumble like the edge of a cliff as it plummets to a ruin which cannot be reversed.

That, above all else, is what you truly knew.

Fic will soon be posted over on AO3 as part of my "Inevitable" series of Dano Riddler fics when I can get a minute to do so.

#i deleted the original ask by mistake when i was trying to save it to drafts #riddler #Edward nashton #edward nashton x reader #riddler x reader #dano riddler #paul dano riddler #the batman #the batman 2022 #paul dano #riddler smut

[hellogoodbye14]

Don’t Leave - Feysand and Nyx (One Shot)

Rhys has to leave for a while to help another High Lord and young Nyx is having trouble with his father leaving for so long. Warning ⚠️: Feysand and Nyx wholesomeness

Not much made Feyre anxious these days but the thought of her mate leaving for Summer Court sure did the job. Rhys had to leave and help Tarquin manage the civil war ensuing within Spring Court and Feyre had to stay back and coordinate with Winter to send reinforcements on time if need be.

And although she was nervous to send her mate to a very dangerous and unpredictable environment… as of the moment.. well she was more nervous about Nyx’s reaction to his father leaving for a whole month. Rhys had to leave and he couldn’t risk winnowing to check in on them simply because someone was able to track his movements.

“Momma, when will we bake the cake for Uncle Azriel?”, Nyx asked as he sits near the living room table swinging his legs and making a very brightly coloured birthday card.

She shuffled his dark hair.

“In a few days sweetheart.”

“I want to make a chocolate cake for him, we’ll get daddy to help too!”

Feyre’s heart sank just a smidge then. She was about to start explaining when she caught sight of Rhys stepping into the living room with a bag.

Nyx looked up at the sound of his footsteps, his legs stopped swinging and he dropped his crayon as he caught sight of the bag.

“Where are we going?”, he asked in confusion.

“We aren’t going anywhere but your dad has to.”

Nyx’s eyes, so like Feyre’s grew wide.

Feyre felt Rhys’s grimace down the bond. His pain evident in his face. He’d never been away from Nyx, and always kept close. This wouldn’t be any easier on him.

“But why?”

“I have to work son, some people need our help and I’ll be away for some time.”

Nyx started to shake his head and abandoned his drawing.

“But… but how long? Till tomorrow?”

Rhys moved forward, cupping Nyx’s chin.

“A bit longer than that bud.”

“Three days then?”

This time Rhys winced and moved back.

“No buddy, more like a month.”

Nyx looked frantically at Feyre, “How long is that?”

“Around thirty days, sweetheart.”

Tears started gleaming in his young eyes then. He frantically shook his head, “No. No you can’t go! You have to stay.”

At this point Nyx abandons everything and jumps down the chair.

“Nyx, buddy.. I don’t want to go but I’m sorry, it has to be done.”

Nyx grabs Rhys’s trouser and appeals to him, “No, I want you here daddy!”

Nyx tries shaking the bag from Rhys with his young hands. Rhys loosens his hold out of surprise but catches Nyx before he falls.

Rhys and Nyx drop the bag to the floor after that debacle and Nyx instantly tries to kick the bag away. It proves too heavy for him and its at that moment he starts pushing Rhys away from the bag, as if moving him away will make sure his father will stay.

“You can’t go!”, tears stream down his face endlessly and Rhys looks miserable. Feyre wants so much to intervene but she knows this is something Rhys needs to handle.

He kneels down and cups Nyx’s wet cheeks.

“I’ll be back so soon, you won’t even notice buddy. I know it’s hard but I have duties and this is one of them.”

“But - but - what if you don’t come back“, Nyx stutters.

“I will make my way back to you and your mom. It’s important to help those who need it Nyx, so I have to go but I swear I’ll be back. I could never leave you bud, you’re my bestfriend.”

Tears continue to roll down his cheeks but Nyx throws his little arms around his father and hugs him.

“You’re my bestfriend too!”

Rhys offers him a little pinch on the side.

“Liar, I know your mom ranks higher than me on your list.”

Nyx giggles and tucks his head into Rhys’s shoulder again.

“I’ll miss you.“

Rhys caresses Nyx’s hair and hugs him tighter.

“Bud, I’m going to miss you like anything but I’ll be back soon okay?”

Nyx leans back and nods.

“I love you, bud”, Rhys ruffles his hair.

“I love you, daddy”, Nyx leans forward and gives Rhys a quick peck on the cheek.

Feyre relaxes and gets up from the chair. Nyx instantly leans his arms up and Feyre takes him into her arms. Her son, when wanting comfort always tucked his head beneath her chin and that is exactly what he did now.

Rhys moved forward and enveloped them both in his arms, standing and savouring this last moment with his family for a while.

Side Note: apologies for the grammatical errors, I didn’t work on the draft too much while editing 🥹

#acomaf #acotar #acosf #acowar #rhysand #feysand #feyre #nyx #feysandnyx

[jedibongrip]

absolutely no idea if this is your thing or not but bp!anakin+tentacles? obi-wan can be involved in whatever way you see fit 😌

ANON I NEVER FORGOT ABOUT YOU!!!

title: improper methods of scientific inquiry ship: anakin/Obi-Wanrating: E 2.7k tags: dubcon, tentacles, bp!anakin

summary:Anakin stumbes upon a new and interesting species while bathing. Obi-Wan is a scientist at heart. For day 2 of monsterfucker march: plant monsters and tentacles!

SEE ALL TAGS AND FORMATTING ON AO3

fic below the cut

Anakin wasn’t one to mind a bit of dirt and grime, but for once, even he was excited for a good scrub. He could only imagine how Obi-Wan felt. Though, his many grimaces as they waded through knee-deep mud and large sweat stains appeared on their robes made it clear enough what he thought about their hygiene. The planet they were on was tropical, humid, and so much damper than Anakin was used to. Everything they came into contact with seemed to ooze something - sap, toxins, drinkable water. Their robes were likely stained beyond repair and Anakin’s master would sooner burn them when they returned to Coruscant.

All the layers of sweat and dirt would just make slipping into the cool river seem all the better, in Anakin’s opinion. After many long hours setting up their new camp, categorizing and stabilizing the specimens they collected, Obi-Wan had finally grown tired of Anakin’s tired complaining and sent him off to bathe.

The water was cool, but not cold. It ran just quick enough to form ripples on the surface, obscuring all that lay beyond the bright indigo flow. Anakin even found a perfect little nook in the bank with rocks he could sit on while keeping his shoulders and head out of the water. Whenever Obi-Wan pulled himself away from whatever worms or moss he was pouring over, he was going to be so pleased with the little restful space Anakin found.

Shedding his clothes with more fervour than ever before, Anakin made a half-hearted attempt to rinse them out and scrub some of the more uncomfortable stains out. He left his soaked robes on a sunny rock, though with the humidity he knew they might not dry all the way through. No matter, Anakin thought. Obi-Wan was likely to want to wash Anakin’s clothes again with his own when he joined him, and they could finish drying them by the fire that night.

Anakin reached over the river banks to grab his toiletry bag. He rifled around in it, grabbing a bar of soap. He scrubbed vigorously, wanting to wash off all the muck that had accumulated over his and Obi-Wan’s two-day hike into the wilderness, but he also wanted to get the cleaning over with. Then he would be free to chill out and relax until Obi-Wan joined him. His master was sure to be more efficient with his cleaning and then they’d be off to something more productive than lounging in the world’s most comfortable river. After nearly drowning himself trying to raise his foot high enough to wash it, slipping on his stone seat in the process, Anakin chucked the bar of soap back into his bag. He could wash his hair later after Obi-Wan joined him. Then he wouldn’t get accused of lollygagging this entire time.

Anakin sighed and slumped further into the lapping water, letting it tickle his Adam's apple. The currents actually tickled him on his legs too, around his ankles, then calves, behind his knees and his thighs and-

Anakin’s eyes shot open from where they’d fluttered shut, as tickles turned to insistent pressure. Anakin jerked forward, or he tried to shoot up, flailing as slimy strength kept his legs pinned to the rocks. His hands thrust into the water, and he frantically grabbed at what had grabbed him. It felt like roots or a stem. Smooth and slick but it pulsated with each movement. When Anakin jerked his hand away and out of the water, feeling it making a snap for his wrists, his fingers were covered in slippery mucus.

He tried to kick his legs and the thing just held tighter, wrenching his legs further apart. He tried to turn to claw at the river banks, and the tendrils wrapped around his hips, keeping him firmly in place. Anakin huffed and blustered. He had washed his undergarments with his robes; if he craned his neck he could see them, drying in the sun. He felt exposed and embarrassed. He wasn't scared though. He sensed no ill will from… whatever this was. He thought maybe it was a plant. And though he couldn’t see his master, he was only a few dozen feet away. If he yelled, Obi-Wan would come for him. (And surely scold him, after hauling his naked ass out of the river.)

Anakin jolted as the tendrils danced around his skin, seemingly feeling adventurous now that he stopped flailing as strongly. The smooth surface wiggled as it undulated across and around his legs. Some of the tentacles felt thin as a pencil, while others felt thick and sturdy. The way they tightened and then released, it almost felt like a massage. The sensation made his muscles quiver and then relax, and he found himself relaxing, tipping his head back against the bank. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t so bad. He sighed and let out a little laugh. As the tentacles moved up his legs, they touched ticklish spots on his thighs, the crease where they met his hips and-

Anakin gasped when a tendril slid across his cunt, dragging across his clit. The smooth texture seemed to pulse as it touched his warmth and his legs were pulled further as it wriggled across him. He tried to wiggle out of its hold, but it only wrapped around him tighter, pulling him down a few inches. Anakin strained to keep his chin above water as the tendrils explored more of him. They tickled his stomach and belly button, reached up to brush his nipples and ran across the smooth scars under his pectoral. They almost seemed to scurry back down when they almost brushed the water’s surface. Anakin would have found it funny, maybe even a little cute, if he didn’t feel more and more tendrils working their way up his legs, holding him even more firmly in place.

He swallowed as a thicker tentacle prodded his cunt with more interest, curling and unwinding, spreading his lips and rubbing against his opening. Anakin stopped struggling, biting his lip as he felt a moan bubble inside his chest. The tentacle was gentle but firm, it felt about three fingers wide. Having felt that Anakin had stopped moving, the hold on his relaxed, and they wriggled almost excitedly. Maybe… maybe seeing what would happen wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

He glanced over his shoulder, trying to peer over the river bank to see if Obi-Wan was still preoccupied. He couldn’t see or hear him coming closer so he canted his hips, trying to direct this semi-sentient creature toward where he was growing slick and needy. Whether the tentacle actually knew where to go or whether it just stumbled upon it by chance, Anakin couldn’t tell and didn’t care. He let out a low groan as the blunt, round tip prodded his hole, twisting and squirming until it popped inside. It was broader than Anakin was used to starting with and it made his hole ache as it pushed further. But living in water made its surface slick and slimy, leaving little friction to burn as it moved. Once Anakin took a few deep breaths, relaxed further, and grew accustomed to it, it felt nice. It moved organically, random in its twists and jerks and thrusts. It was more exciting than any of the toys he kept hidden away in the Temple. Anakin gasped and laughed as the tentacle fumbled around, as it drew out and pushed back in, and other tendrils tightened on his hips - not quite like hands but equally as good. He couldn’t anticipate the next move; each zing of pleasure was a surprise.

Graceful but sure footsteps made him widen his eyes and try to sit up.

“You found us a lovely spot, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. Anakin couldn’t twist to see him fully, but his master’s tone was appreciative. “How’s the water?”

“It’s-” Anakin swallowed and cleared his throat, as the vine twisted itself thicker and thrusted. “It’s good.”

Obi-Wan hummed. Anakin heard clothes rustling as he disrobed, then the soft splash as he stepped into the water and sat a short distance from Anakin. The Jedi, though they wore many layers, were not shy about their bodies; Anakin was certain that Obi-Wan was just as nude as he was, though his body was hidden amongst the rippling tide. What would he say if these tendrils were attracted to his master as well?

“You look flushed, Padawan,” Obi-Wan said, frowning slightly. “Did you want more privacy?”

Anakin shook his head. If he asked Obi-Wan to leave then he would have to explain why. Maybe not now, but later around the campfire. Plus, Anakin felt some of the thinner tendrils prodding at his hole as well, trying to work their way in, stretching him even further. As mortifying as it would be to ask for help, he might need it, should anymore try. “No, no, I’m fine. You can stay.”

Obi-Wan nodded softly but relaxed against the natural rock bench. He reached around to his toiletry bag and extracted a small bar of soap and began his ablutions. The light suds and bubbles further obstructed Obi-Wan's view of what was happening under the water as they floated past Anakin.

Anakin shifted and shuddered as he squeezed and his body was further explored. It felt like the tentacles were making their way… deeper. Like they unlocked something inside him, had worked him open, were plundering a place he’d never reached before. A place he hadn't let anyone else reach either. He couldn't hear it over the sound of the river, of his master scrubbing his skin beside him, but Anakin could feel the squelching, the obscene sounds that his cunt made as it was stretched and used. Anakin let out a whine as the largest tendril inside him curled so deliciously, brushing up against all the perfect spots inside him.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asked. Anakin pried his eyes open to look at his master’s questioning expression - his furrowed eyebrows and slightly pursed lips. “Are you sure you’re quite alright?”

Anakin tried to nod but let out a gasp as the tentacles surged upward, bumping against his walls almost painfully, knocking the breath out of him. His already red cheeks deepened as his eyelids fluttered.

“… Anakin?”

“Don’t be mad,” Anakin moaned. He spied Obi-Wan from under his eyelashes, watching as his expression went from concern to suspicion. “There’s… there’s something in the water.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“It’s not dangerous!” Anakin whined, even as he was subject to more erratic movement. “I think- oh! I think it’s a plant?”

“And what’s going on with this plant?” Obi-Wan asked. Anakin bit his lip. “Padawan! Tell me, now!”

“It’s inside me,” Anakin whispered. His whole body shuddered as the thin tips of the tendrils flicked and curled gently inside him, feeling almost like an apology for the batter-ram behaviour of the largest.

“Inside? What do you… oh,” Obi-Wan sputtered, cheeks growing red as his eyes flickered to the water’s surface then up Anakin’s pinkened chest and face. “Oh…”

Anakin swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Is it… is it hurting you?”

Anakin almost laughed. He would be sore tomorrow, and some of the movements weren’t exactly good. But these exotic sensations were so good even as they made him whine and made tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

“No,” Anakin sighed. “No, Master, it’s… fine.”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Do you want me to remove them?” Anakin shook his head. “Alright, do you want me to… leave you be?”

Anakin shook his head before he even thought about it. “Stay, please.”

Obi-Wan’s expression shifted from concerned and confused to something new and yearning. Something curious and hungry. Anakin had seen part of this look before, in recent months when they’d sparred, when they bathed together in springs and rivers, not unlike the one they were currently in, when Obi-Wan tucked Anakin’s braid behind his ear, almost pained, almost reverent. And the other part of his expression… was similar to how he looked when he found a new bug species, when he watched as some wild beast roamed the wilderness, when he watched some strange bacteria under a microscope, living, breeding, and dying all within the same hour. Despite claiming to have little knowledge of the living force, Anakin’s master so loved all the living things around him and wanted to watch, care for, and understand them.

His Master wanted to understand the things that were inside Anakin, the things that were making him gasp and whine openly now that he didn’t have to hide it.

“Let me feel,” Obi-Wan whispered and Anakin whined out a yes. He slid closer to Anakin and gently ran his hand - so wide and rough and gentle - down Anakin’s stomach, fingers twitching as they brushed over tendrils, as they carded through Anakin’s pubic hair until they reached where Anakin was spread wide around the tentacle fucking into him. Tracing Anakin’s flushed lips, he swore. “Fuck, Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s thick finger pressed against Anakin’s hole, making him whine in discomfort as his body tried to let more in. But his master was kind and retreated, bringing his fingers to Anakin’s clit and rubbing soothing circles. Pleasure made Anakin’s hips twitch, even as they were locked in place.

“How remarkable,” Obi-Wan murmured, as a thin tendril reached up to wrap around his wrist, squeezing for a moment before unwinding. He pressed harder against Anakin’s clit, moaning as Anakin twitched and buried his head into Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Do that again,” Anakin begged, praying that Obi-Wan would listen and that the tentacles would follow suit. So far they seemed content to thrust in tandem with Anakin’s clenching, to twist as Anakin bore down, to push deeper every time Anakin just barely got used to their depth and girth. Mercifully, Obi-Wan obliged, mouthing against Anakin’s temple as he swirled his fingers. Anakin reached down to hold Obi-Wan’s wrist, keeping comfort and pressure as he moaned and convulsed, finally getting the sweet release of an orgasm, stuck between the smooth surface of the plant and the rough skin of his master.

For a brief moment, the plants seemed to still before they too shuddered, almost in ecstasy. Anakin let out a whine as they began to move against his sensitive walls.

“What is it?” Obi-Wan asked. Anakin glanced up and saw his wide pupils and flushed cheeks. He was sure that if he reached down into the water, he’d find his master hard and wanting. But his tone was full of that scientific curiosity that Anakin loved and loathed in equal parts. “What are they doing?”

“They’re-” Anakin swallowed, and furrowed his eyebrows. What were they doing? He tried to focus through the pulses of pleasure and the sweet ache of overstretching. They were… knotting themselves? Twisting? “I think they’re… bulging?”

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply. He reached down, petting Anakin’s puffy cunt and brushing against the tendrils. He hummed.

“I think you’re right, Padawan.” He looked down into the pellucid waves. “You know, I could… remove them, if you wished.” Removing most likely meant cutting through them, hauling Anakin out of the stream like a baby tooka that fell into a bathtub, before whatever the tentacles were attached to tried to fight back. Anakin sighed. It would be nice to stretch out on the bedrolls that Obi-Wan no doubt set up, to take a quick nap in the afternoon heat. Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Or…”

“Or?” Anakin repeated, trying to be teasing, but sounding stupidly hopeful.

“We could… see what it does next. Purely out of scientific inquiry, of course.”

“Of course,” Anakin repeated, sounding breathless even to his own ears. He felt his pussy stretch as a bulge seemed to pass through a tentacle, moving up, up, up, until it had to squeeze through Anakin’s overfucked opening. He moaned when it popped in. Obi-Wan, still petting his cunt, must have felt it too. “Well… we are here on a scientific mission.” He swallowed as he felt more churning inside him. “We can’t abandon our mission.”

Obi-Wan mouthed against his temple again. Maybe by the time his curiosity was sated, he’d be ready to kiss him on the lips. “You’re absolutely right, padawan mine. We’ll just have to remember to write our findings later.”

Anakin almost giggled. He’d even let his master take pictures later if he wanted. So long as no one else ever saw them.

#bongrip answers #bongrip writes #obikin