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jangofctts · 3 years

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Anything at All (boba fett x fem!reader) (part one) (part two)

Rated: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: smut, even mORE thrONE fucking, oral sex (f receiving), boba’s a biter, unprotected sex (dont be silly, wrap thAT wiLLY), vaginal fingering, explicit language, boba is a grouchy dom kwjhgjh

a/n: anyway I think yall forget im a writer and not just a Certified Clown, but anywAy here we be. HAPPY NEW YEARS ya FILTHY anIMALS im so thankful for all yall and im glad I can provide you with some entertainment kaejhejhr

You haven’t seen Boba Fett in days.

Called away on business you’ll never be included in or know the fine details about. It’s not kept away from you because he doesn’t trust you, or thinks you’re a mindless idiot—no—he’d rather keep his princess occupied with prettier things. No need to concern yourself with the the underbelly of what he now rules.

You’re not upset about it—you’re not really a fan of watching petty squabbles that’ll result in someone’s chest being imploded by a blaster. You’ve seen enough of it in the cantina, and while you were never the one tasked with clearing the bodies out—it was still mildly traumatizing. Eh—no need to dwell.

You’ve got other shit to do anyway.

There’s a seemingly endless zigzag of secret hallways and dusty rooms within the palace, teeming with strange knickknacks and ancient artifacts that are more than likely cursed. Definitely haunted—but it doesn’t stop you from exploring or sorting through the useless junk. Besides—Fennec stayed behind, acting as your glorified babysitter for the past few cycles—ensuring your safety from both whoever dared step foot into the palace and the ghosts. What a lovely woman.

Speaking of which—you hear her sigh and shuffle, shifting her weight onto her other foot as she leans back against a dusty crate. She picks at the dirt beneath her fingernails, lazily glancing up every now and then to check that you haven’t eviscerated yourself on a piece of scrap metal or something. Lucky for her, all you found today was an abandoned crate of old datapacs shoved in the back corner from what you assumed to be some sort of office. Yesterday you found a sword that was promptly confiscated.

“I’d be careful snooping around in those,” Fennec warns as your fingers find the on switch. “You never know what sorta data the Hutts were keeping here.”

You shrug and wave away her concern, reading over the information that flickers across the screen. “I think I’ll be ok…See?” You pointedly wave the datapac in her direction. “This one is about the finances. Spooky.”

Fennec rolls her eyes followed by an amused smirk that ghosts over her lips. You toss it aside and root around some more, pulling out another datapac. The blue hologram flickers to life and as you decipher the little lines of text your face falls. Each line is a name, previous and recently bought or traded people that crossed the threshold of the palace. Fennec was right. This isn’t fun anymore.

“These are…slaves.” Your lips curls in disgust. “How is this still not outlawed? It’s barbaric.”

“You’re not from Tatooine, are you?” Fennec asks as she meanders over and wrestles the datapac out of your hands. She switches it off and tosses it back into the dusty crate. You huff and cross your arms over your chest.

“No,” you agree. “Im from Arkanis. But even there we don’t have slaves.”

Fennec squats beside you, her elbows resting over her bent knees. She playfully taps your shoulder with the back of her hand and quirks a brow. “What’d I tell you—snooping doesn’t do anyone any good.”

You roll your eyes and shrug, a frown still etched on your lips. Fennec sighs, rubs her chin and then reaches out to push a stray hair behind your ear. A flush blooms up your cheeks at the gentle touch.

“You have a sensitive soul, Kitten,” she chuckles, poking at your cheek that you’re certain she can feel the heat emirate from. “You said you were from Arkanis—tell me about it. Why come to Tatooine?”

Your lips quirk in a tiny smile as you bat away her pointer finger, saving your cheek from another poke. “Hey—not everyone likes rain ok?” You huff. “Besides, Tatooine wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

She nods. Unsure what exactly to tell her--a silence ensues. It’s not terribly awkward but it’s enough that makes you jumpy and itching to move on from this room now stained with information you weren’t prepared on finding. You stand suddenly, brush yourself off and mutter under your breath about finding something less…heartbreaking.

Fennec jumps up as well and when you leave the room her hand clamps over your shoulder. She spins you around and levels her gaze onto you. “You’re free to leave whenever you like. You know that right?”

Your brows furrow. “I know—don’t worry, I want to stay.”

Her head bobs with a satisfied nod. “We’d miss you if you left. You’re nice to have around.”

You blush again and mumble out a thank you, shooting off into another unexplored location to escape Fennec’s knowing smirk. Maker—you’re embarrassing.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Boba returns later that afternoon—the shadow of his familiar figure stretches around the curved stairway, the purposeful stomps of his boots against the carved steps following with it. Your heart flutters within your chest, like a distressed creature with wings as you jump from your makeshift seat.

You come face to face with Boba. Or, helmet rather—whatever.

The smell of hot metal and dry air sticks to him as he paces closer, closing the small gap that separates him from you. You’re frozen beneath the heavy weight of his stare behind the void like black of his visor as he plants himself firmly before you, close enough that his cuirass could brush your chest if he puffed out his own chest.

“Hi…” You smile, a fragile vale of uncertainty blanketing the pair of you—still attempting to feel out his mood, sort through the general gruffness of his personality and gage wether or not you could reach out and touch him. The helmet is a tricky thing to read and his body language gives nothing away. You swallow your nerves take a leaping risk.

“Let me see your face.” You murmur. You move your hands up to the edges of his helmet at a snail’s pace, giving him ample time to slip through your fingers—wedge a sharp thorn between whatever it is that you’ve built and name it for what it is.

He doesn’t choose that option.

With a low hum, Boba dips his helmet closer to your outstretched fingertips instead. The metal is cool under your palms as they fold over the sides of the helmet and pull up. The metal whispers against his skin like wind through tall grass as the point of his chin peeks out, followed by his lips, his nose, and finally those golden brown eyes. They glitter with amusement as you release a shaky breath, the helmet the only thing acting as a barrier as you clutch it near your sternum. His mouth quirks when you blush and glance away—focusing on the little silvery nicks the green paint refused to cover. You rub your thumb over the blaster pockmark that dents the metal—you frown. You hope that wasn’t recent.

Boba gently pries the helmet out of your hands and sets it onto the armrest of his throne. He purrs your name and pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, leading your attention back to him. Your eyes flit up his scars—your breath catching in your throat as he smiles.

“Hello, princess,” he says—the grit and timbre of this new nickname jumpstarting your heart to skip and choke on its own tireless beat.

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth and shake your head. “Boba, I’m not—“

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence—

Boba spreads his fingers over your jaw, tilts your head and swoops down to meet your lips in a dizzying kiss. Hard, hungry, victorious, breathless—like he’s spent years fighting and only now takes a moment to slow down—drown in the softness of your lips and skin. His hands claw at your arms, your clothes, your hair—like you’re the spoils of battle and he fears losing you to the shadows of his past and some hidden horror that nips at his heels. He kisses like a man terrified that this will be brief, intangible and something that’ll abandon him.

He trails after your lips when you break away—your lungs heaving for precious air. He doesn’t let you go far, ensuring your positioning by tangling his fist into your hair at the nape of your neck and scraping his lips up your cheek, enticing you into another kiss. You tilt you chin to meet him with equal fervor, whining as his warm tongue curls sweetly into your mouth. His existence fills your veins with liquid silver—evokes the bloom of crackling star fire beneath the cavity of your ribcage. Every thought starts with him and ends with your heart aching to burst into a million tiny shards.

The next time you part, Boba is the first one to pull away. He cups your cheeks between his weathered hands and plants a tender kiss just below your hairline. You swear you can feel the skin buzz from the touch—like every atom in your being was solely created for him to command and conquer. You sigh and lean into his palm.

“I missed you.” You admit with a small smile.

Boba leans closer and presses another kiss to your forehead. “And I you, little one.”

“I got worried, y’know,” you continue, your fingers tapping a trail up the front of his chest plate. You trace the repainted insignia with your fingernail and flash him a coy smirk. “You never called—thought maybe you found a new pretty thing.”

He grunts, shakes his head and sweeps a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. “Hilarious—my hands are full enough with you hounding me every five minutes.”

You puff out your bottom lip and feign offense, mumbling some lame whine like a petulant brat. Boba snorts and crowds closer. He presses his gloved thumb between your furrowed brows, smoothing out the wrinkles and then cups your cheeks between both palms. You freeze as he carefully knocks the crown of his forehead onto yours—it’s sweet.

An excited smile splits when he moves his head to your right, the syllables of each word rolling off his tongue sweeter than spiced honey. “I’ll make it up to you, pretty thing,” he whispers by your ear, his warm breath disturbing the fine hairs there. “How does that sound, hm?”

That’s not even a question you would ever dream of denying—you quickly nod. “I’d like that.”

Boba drops his hands from your face and peels himself away. His eyes trickle down your figure—calculative and analytic—planning out each move to pick apart the entirety of your being. “Take everything off.”

You comply without a second thought—slipping free from the breezy cotton and scratchy poncho you stole from a storage room. The fabric pools at your feet in an unceremonious pile—leaving you bare for him. Despite the sickening dry heat that pollutes the air and causes beads of sweat to gather at your hairline—goosebumps rush up your arms under Boba’s piercing stare.

Boba’s eyes flicker to the throne. A feral grin tugs at his lips. “Sit.”

This time you hesitate. Did he…? No—you must’ve heard wrong—

He quirks a brow and gestures to the throne. “Well? Are you going to listen?”

Your tongue slides over your chapped lips. “O-ok..I just—never mind…”

Scrounging up some courage, you gingerly seat yourself onto Boba Fett’s throne. Chills race along the entirety of your body as the freezing metal seeps into your warm flesh. You squirm and beat away the urge to wrap your arms around yourself—he wouldn’t like that—probably would take it as some sort of insult anyway—

All your current discomforts melt away in a fraction of a breath as Boba Fett lowers himself to one knee, and then the other. A king kneeling before his very own throne for someone like you. Someone who’ll be lost to the pages of history and the endless swirl of galaxies and supernovas—you’re nobody to the world, but to him you’re everything. You inhale a shaky breath as a strange stroke of pride alights through your body as he peels off his gloves and maneuvers himself flush against the edge of the throne and between your thighs.

Boba bows forward and slips his calloused hands around your ribcage to tug you closer. His lips land over your collar bone, slides his tongue over the protrusion then sinks his teeth into you there. You gasp as he slides lower, leading a trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake. Boba moves his palms, up and in to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples. A whimper escapes past your lips as he catches the pebbled bud between his lips, the hard enamel of his teeth scraping over it—meant to tease. Your nails dig into the fabric bunched around his neck as he moves on to suck your other nipple, the cooling saliva sending a chill down your spine as it dries.

You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core. You’re already wet—worked up and impatient. You roll your head back onto your shoulders and bite your lip. If you complain and tell him to hurry up you’re scared he’ll leave you like this—deny you that pleasure you’ve been craving for days.

It feels like ages before he moves on from your breasts, now smattered with bruises and his saliva, and carves out a blinding path down your sternum, your belly, then your navel with his tongue. Boba circles your bellybutton—you force down the ticklish nerves and stay still for him.

You don't mean to jump as his rough hands drop over your knees. You barely get out the first syllable of an apology when his hands slip up your bare thighs, curl around the swell of your ass and yank. You squeak as the edge of the throne bites into your tailbone, the majority of your lower half forced to lean on Boba’s shoulders and his greedy hands. He kisses the inside of your knee—you jolt with an airy gasp.

Boba picks up his head and smirks. “Look at me when I taste you, little one.”

Mouth suddenly drier than dust, you nod dumbly.

He hums, satisfied with your weak response and continues on.

Boba’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver. They sweep up towards the apex of your thighs, settling close enough to reach your aching center. You know he’s there—it’s impossible to ignore him—but you curse anyway when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They steadily work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch.

“Patience, princess,” he rumbles, shifting his weight to better reach your cunt. “Maker—you’re dripping already.”

There's a moment just before Boba commits, his face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, hot breath, anticipation gripping your chest. And then he licks a broad stripe from the base of your pussy all the way up to your swollen clit.

His mouth Is searing, his tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his head. He grunts against you as you drag him closer—greedy for everything he deems you worthy of. Boba’s mouth pinpoints around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter—it’s a struggle not to shut them completely. He asked you to watch after all…

He then trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your entrance, skips over it completely to lick at the wetness dripping lower that threatens to pool onto the throne or the floor. He opens his mouth wide and hums in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life.

“Fuck—Boba,” you cry, canting your hips into his mouth.

It's perfect. So fucking good.

The tips of his thick fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the fluttering ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The two digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness, glinting in the low light. With a smirk, Boba thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that he refuses to stray from. It leaves you just hovering along the sharp edge of oblivion, the catch of his knuckles and calloused skin along your walls pure torture. Stars—he’s going to be the death of you—

Your hips arch into him, trying to urge him to go faster. Instead, he slowly retracts his fingers and removes his mouth. You gasp in frustration as your cunt clenches around thin air. It almost hurts.

“I told you to be patient,” Boba chuckles, massaging a warm palm along the outside of your thigh. “You’re behaving like a brat.”

“I’m—I—I’m sorry—“ You wheeze, trying to rope in some self control that fled a long time ago. Your wits are scrapped thin as you throw your hand against the back of the throne. You don’t care that he’s rendered you to a begging mess, your words slurred and hardly understandable. You're so close to diving off the edge—so near to those plush lips and weathered hands that’ll surely become your salvation. "Please! P-please—I need..."

You're babbling as he drags his fingertips over your thigh, skims over your cunt, and traces a pattern into your opposite thigh. "Boba. Fuck. I pro-promise to be better—I can do it. Please—“

He complies.

Two fingers are thrust up into your dripping cunt, curving so deliciously into something that feels like unrefined plasma bolts. His mouth dips down and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight.

You're flying off you’re high, faster than a fucking speeder with tampered gears. You cum onto his tongue with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Boba keeps licking you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Stars implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jetfuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Boba, and feel the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue.

Your brain swims in hazy bliss and fuzzy pleasure as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it hurts. You're too sensitive. Your nerves are rubbed raw and you're still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. He takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a blade against flesh. Your thighs quiver around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves that wrenches a cry from you. Your orgasm floods through you veins, bursting and rupturing every cell in your being. This one is blistering—charrs all the way to the fucking bone. Your core pulses around Boba’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease into a dull throb. You whimper and push at his forehead because he's still licking at your cunt. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick.

Boba leaves absolutely no time to completely float down from your high—you squeak as his hands shoot up to grab at your hips, wrenching you off the throne and all but throwing you onto the same floor he kneels on. You flash him a dopey grin, letting your legs fall open for his enjoyment—

“Such a filthy princess,” he chuckles, extending a hand to cover your knee, bending it further out to expose more of your flushed cunt. “You taste sweeter than star cherries.”

You preen at his compliment. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

It earns you an amused huff. Boba scrapes the hand resting on your knee to the apex of your legs, thumb and forefinger gently parting your delicate, slick folds. You bite back a keening whine, utterly exposed to him as he slips the hood back from the throbbing knot of nerves at the top of your slit. Too raw. Your pussy clenches involuntarily, causing everything from your toes to your hips stiffen. Boba hums in delight at his handiwork.

“Stars, Boba—please…” You beg, voice breathy and soft like whips of spider silk. Boba makes a sound that oozes with smug pleasure, teasing your sore clit with unadulterated glee. “Please,” you hear yourself whimper over your pounding pulse, shifting in his grasp and praying he’ll put an end to this sickly sweet torture.

“Pretty little thing, begging for my cock…” He rasps, darkly threaded sin and the husky scrape of the gray sea licking up jagged, black rock. You’re certain he could talk you into unraveling at the seams, untouched and putty in his hands for him to mold and shape. Boba’s other hand sweeps up your sternum, his fingertips dancing along the mythosaur pendant coiled around your neck. He then curls his thick fingers around the base of your throat and ever so lightly squeezes. “Poor baby—all worked up after a few days…I’ll fix that for you.”

Before you can fully process, he grabs the swell of your hip and flips you onto your belly. The air from your lungs is knocked out of your chest, the abrasive sandstone bitting into the points of your elbows and patches of your skin and no doubt leaving behind irritated scrapes. You hear the shuffle of fabric and then Boba suddenly seizes your hips and arches them into his crotch, grinding the deliciously hard length of his cock through your wet folds. Throbbing and just as desperate as you are, Boba refrains from flinging you into another bout of teasing. He slicks himself up with your arousal and drags the tip of himself to your clenching center and sinks that first, glorious inch inside of you.

With a low groan, Boba pushes in deeper, watching your tight hold flutter and accommodate his thick length. It’s the same as before during that night in the cantina—dreadfully full and all but bursting at the seems. The gentle rocks of his hips and gravelly praise eventually allow him to finally bottom out, his sharp hipbones resting against the swell of your ass as you shudder and groan. Fuck—

You can feel him in your fucking guts.

Boba grants you a brief moment to settle and then—it’s catastrophic.

Your jaw drops in a silent scream when he pulls back, all the way to the tip and slams back into your tight heat. Boba’s hand tangles into your hair at the nape of your neck and and pulls, forcing your back into a sharp arch. The action leaves more of you open, somehow pressing in even further. He hits so deeply within you—stars it feels like he’s splitting you open and laying you bare.

His dark chuckle resonates above you—a bit breathy as he tames his own frazzled nerves. “Shit—that feels good. Doesn’t it, princess?”

Your incoherent babble makes him laugh as he gives your hair a playful tug, all the while he never stops thrusting in and out of you. You wiggle your hips, the slight shift makes it ache, and the sharp downward thrusts put delirious pressure on that patch of nerves that renders you dizzy. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s a tightly spooled cable, fraying and an inch away from snapping. Your gasping breaths pitch into airy squeaks as the fist twisted in your hair tightens, tugging your head back just a bit more.

Boba lurches foreword, the nip of beskar a frigid shock to the bare skin of your back when he lays over you, his elbows caging you in close. His head drops onto your shoulder blade, pressing sloppy kisses over the arch of your throat and slope of your shoulder—without warning he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your neck. Maker save you—

The feral drag of Boba’s teeth digging into your sensitive flesh skin makes you squeeze around his cock—Boba answers with a soft growl that vibrates against the skin of your shoulder. Somehow he fucks into you harder, his pace becoming brutal. Your nails scrabble against the floor, searching for some sort of anchor as you wail under him.

It’s too much—fuck, you’re gonna implode. Pinned between the rough sandstone and the hand in in your hair, mixed with the sharp pain of his teeth marring your skin—you loose it. Sensing your peaking orgasm, Boba’s fingers wedge between your legs to toy with your clit. He rubs quick circles with two fingers as he purrs words of filth into your ear—how good his pretty thing is for him, how well you came for him, how tight you are.

“There you go, little one,” Boba says, his words like a tendril of dark smoke. “Cum for your king.”

His efforts are quickly rewarded as you shudder and lock up harder than durasteel beneath him. A blinding surge of vicious heat, knocks you clean off your feet and steals away all the air left in your lungs as your nails dig into the sandstone—trembling and grappling blindly for a foothold in your own head. The cold chest plate is a much needed anchor for the overwhelming intensity that threatens to drown you and bury you six fix under.

He bites down again when he cums, his hips digging into you with short, rough jabs. “Fuck—you take me so well.” You squirm, feeling his cock throb and spill into you, making the mess between your legs smear over your thighs. His thrusts stutter to a stop as he sighs deeply and pulls out, a mixture of his cum and your arousal spilling onto the floor. Boba huffs above you, drags a finger through your swollen folds and pushes it back inside of you. “Good girl.”

You shiver—reduced to a useless puddle with no intent from moving off the floor as Boba’s weight moves away. You could sleep here—that’s something completely plausible you think. Nice, warm dirt—

Boba purrs your name—the sound piquing your interest enough that you overcome the heaviness that’s settled in your body and move your head. He’s returned to his throne, cheeks a bit flushed and his chest rising and falling to recover precious air. You watch as Boba peels off his cuirass with practiced ease, and lays it with care onto the floor. He murmurs your name a second time and pats his lap, coaxing you off the floor.

You happily slither onto his thighs, exhausted and all too eager to be swept up into the warmth of his arms. He grunts as you tuck your head under his chin and cuddle into his chest, relishing the rough scrape of his palms folding over your shoulder and the outside of your thigh. His soft breaths tickle the top of your head paired with the quiet, but steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath your fingertips and ear pressed onto his sternum. Your eyes flutter shut and though a hushed silence falls over the room, there’s nothing to be said.

Boba tucks his nose into your hair and you smile, the slow speak of your heart unraveling into a lush garden of something new and brittle—like flakes of frost in the early morning sun. He’s more bruise than bleed nowadays—a wound closed then reopened and he promises nothing of a future beyond what you have in these moments. And yet—

You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

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#here we Go HERE we GO #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett #the mandalorian #the mandalorian s2 #fennec shand #star wars #sw #star wars fanfiction #my writing

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kurokoros · 3 years

Text

pretty in pink | jean kirstein x reader

Rated: M (smut)

Words: 2.5K

Pairing: jean x fem!reader

Summary: Jean was left tongue-tied the first time he met you, flustered because of your pretty eyes and pretty smile. He was barely able to sputter out a compliment back then, and he was lucky that you found it more endearing than awkward.

It’s been years since then, but you still have ways of leaving him absolutely speechless.

AN: I haven’t written smut in like two months, and this is my first time writing for Jean, so please be gentle with me. The wine kicked in when I got to the finger sucking and it might show. I meant to have this out yesterday, but oh well.

Warnings: this is just some soft smut, so none

Jean was left tongue-tied the first time he met you, flustered because of your pretty eyes and pretty smile. He was barely able to sputter out a compliment back then, and he was lucky that you found it more endearing than awkward.

It’s been years since then, but you still have ways of leaving him absolutely speechless.

He’s sitting on the end of the bed in the dark when you call out to him from the doorway, his name rolling off your tongue, soft and sweet in that way that always makes heart beat a little faster. Honey-colored eyes glance at you briefly as he fumbles with the cuff of his sleeve, humming.

Your lips twitch as he freezes, his gaze snapping back to you just as quickly as it left. Jean’s lips part. His jaw drops. Satisfaction bubbles in your chest as his mouth moves soundlessly for a moment. The words stick in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry, and he swallows, eyes wandering shamelessly over your figure.

You’re a silhouette against the light spilling in from the hallway, your features shadowed and soft, though he can still faintly make out the upturned curve of your lips. That smile of your is ingrained so deeply in his memory that even the darkness couldn’t take it from him. Backlit like this, your curves stand out beneath the sheer fabric of the babydoll you’re wearing. The hem sways against your thighs as you shift your weight, the fabric dancing around you, soft and loose.

It’s pale pink and pretty, and it’s split down the front teasingly, tied shut beneath your breasts in a perfect bow that his fingers itch to unravel, but you’re just out of reach. The long ends dangle against your torso, tickling your bare stomach and thighs, just as soft and sheer as the rest of the lingerie.

The smile on your lips is sweet, almost innocent as step away from the door, leaving it open behind you. Unable to take his eyes off you, Jean’s gaze follows the subtle sway of your hips as you cross the room, drinking you in. He swallows again, hands falling onto his lap as he forgets what he was trying to do.

“What do you think?” you ask once you’re standing between his spread legs, trying not to laugh at his wide-eyed look. Your fingertips brush against the tops of his legs, so light that he can barely feel you through the fabric of his pants.

Somehow, you look even better up close. Maybe it’s the teasing glint in your eyes, or the amusement splayed across your pretty face. Or, he thinks, long fingers flirting with the hem of the babydoll, maybe it’s just the way you bite your lip like you want him to ruin you.

You sigh as his fingers graze your skin, trailing up the length of your legs with slow precision.

The panties match, he realizes belatedly, as his big hands grasp your thighs under the sheer fabric pooling around his wrists. Jean nudges your legs further apart. One of your hands settles on his shoulder for balance, and you let out the sweetest sound when his thumb rubs against the front of your underwear.

He strokes your slit through the fabric, surprised to find it already damp with your arousal.

Jean’s eyes rise to meet yours, his head tilting back to look at you. The shock in his expression melts away, but the awe never does. “Beautiful,” he says, barely audible as he looks at you in absolute wonder.

Your lips twitch.

You catch him off-guard for a second time as you lean in. Your knee presses against the mattress beside his leg. Jean grabs you by the hips as you crawl onto the edge of the bed and straddle him. One of your arms winds loosely around the back of his neck, draping over his shoulder, and he nearly groans as your fingers slip into his hair. With your free hand, you run your knuckles against his sharp jawline. The stubble there tickles you, and you giggle as Jean tugs you against his chest and gropes your ass.

“Minx,” he calls you, the word muffled against your lips as you kiss him. A strong arm wraps around your lower back, pressing you tight to his front. You smile against his mouth, leaning back before he can deepen the kiss. Jean huffs, chasing your lips and yanking you closer before you can leave him entirely.

And you let him steal another kiss, his mouth moving against yours slowly, drinking you in. His palm burns into the small of your back, steady and grounding as he leans into you. Your back bows beneath his weight, your fingers tugging at his hair, and he sighs into your mouth as your fingertips caress his cheek. Parting your lips, your tongue teases his bottom lip before you take it between your teeth, biting down just to hear him groan.

Jean grunts as you shove him onto his back.

He blinks up at you with wide eyes, his mouth falling open, lips swollen from your teasing. You barely give him a second to breathe as you brace your hands on his broad chest and roll your hips against his, grinding against his covered cock.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he chokes out, big hands grabbing your thighs as you rock against him, picking up a slow rhythm. “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?” He’s supposed to be the one taking care of you tonight. At least, that’s what the plan was in his head. Though, he’s finding it hard to complain when your fingers are already popping open the button of his pants.

Instead of answering him, you lean down, resting more of your weight on his hips. Still balanced with one hand on his chest, your palm pressed against his heavy beating heart, you let your lips graze the underside of his chin. Any protests he had die on his tongue as your mouth wanders over his jaw, sweet butterfly kisses left in your wake. It’s a complete contrast to your grinding hips and the naughty fingers teasing him through his underwear.

You’ve hardly touched him yet and he’s already hard, pangs of arousal making his cock twitch as you stroke him slowly.

Lipstick stains are left scattered across his cheek as you work your way along his jaw, kissing and nipping at him as his breathing gets heavier. Little grunts and gasps are breathed into your ear as you palm him, and you drag a low moan from Jean when you latch onto that sweet spot just below his ear. By now, his eyes are squeezed shut. He’s completely lost in you, your soft lips and teasing touch.

“Are you going to be a good boy for me, Jean?” you ask him, speaking against his skin. His eyes snap open. There’s a coy little smile curled on your lips when you lean back on his hips, sitting there like you weren’t just grinding on his cock.

It knocks the breath out of him. “Fuck,” he groans through gritted teeth. The vice grip he has on your thighs loosens, and you giggle as he rakes his fingers through his tussled hair. “You can’t just say shit like that, baby.”

You roll your hips against his again, swirling them just right, and his eyes flutter shut as you rub your palm against the bulge in his pants before pulling away. Jean tightens his grip on your leg, as your fingers tease his abdomen, deftly popping open the buttons on his shirt one at a time. He jolts as you drag your finger down his stomach, your nail lightly scratching his skin.

“Do you want me to stop?”

The way his hands grasp your hips almost desperately is answer enough.

Your wet your lips. “Let me make you feel good.”

The soft, sheer fabric draped around your frame flutters against your skin. The long tails of that pretty bow graze his now bare stomach, and his abdominal muscles clench at the feeling. Your fingers follow the fine line of hair beneath his navel, dipping back beneath his pants. His breath hitches.

You lean over him again, waiting until he opens his eyes to ask, “Where do you want me?” Your hand slips into his underwear, and he groans as your fingers wrap around his dick, your hand small and cool against his shaft. Jean doesn’t answer. He can barely think, let alone speak as you thumb his head, spreading the pre-cum beading there. “Do you want me to suck your cock, Jean?”

The image of your pretty lips wrapped around his cock makes him even harder in your hand, but he shakes his head. His grip on your hips is borderline bruising, his blunt fingernails digging into your sides. “I want you to ride me, pretty girl,” he tells you. Tonight, he wants to feel your slick walls squeezing around him, watch you tremble as you fall apart for him. Jean wets his lips as you pull his cock from his pants, shoving the fabric low on his hips. “Please,” he murmurs.

Your eyes never leave Jean’s as you shift on his lap. As you rise onto your knees, his hands stroke your sides soothingly, trailing from your waist to your hips, and lower, disappearing between your thighs. You nearly sigh his name as knuckles rub against your panties. They catch on your clit, and you mewl for him, making his eyes light up.

Two of his fingers slip beneath your underwear, skimming through your slick lips until he finds that swollen bundle of nerves that makes your thighs shake. You make the prettiest sound for him, your hips rolling into his hand. Jean’s thumb rubs circles into your skin as he nudges your legs further apart and tugs your panties to the side.

And you’re such a good girl for him, lining his dick up with your entrance and sinking down on him slowly, whimpering as his big cock stretches you out, rubbing against your walls perfectly. He bottoms out inside you, and your legs are already shaking by the time your hips meet his.

Palms pressed against his chest for balance, you roll yourself forward, tentatively grinding against him. His hands help your hips along, stroking and squeezing your soft skin as your lips part. You moan for him, quietly, and your pussy flutters around his cock, gripping him so well.

“Perfect,” he ends up saying out loud under his breath, watching through half-lidded eyes as you rise off his dick and drop back down, slowly fucking yourself on his cock. Everything about you is absolutely perfect like this. Your quivering walls. That look of concentration on your pretty face as you roll your hips against his.

At some point, Jean’s palm slips around to your stomach, his fingers spreading wide to touch as much of you as he can. The sheer lingerie tangles with his fingers, the loose fabric dangling around his wrist, keeping you half-hidden from him. Your legs twitch as his hand slides higher, his fingers brushing the underside of your breast.

Before he can slip his hand beneath the lacy top of the babydoll you’re wearing, your fingers wrap around his wrist, stilling him. Jean thrusts up into you as you pull his hand from your chest, just to feel your legs tremble against his sides. You meet his gaze, your own eyes hazy with pleasure. His heart is still racing under your palm, beating faster as his hips move with yours.

His breath catches as you bring his hand to your lips, his hips stuttering slightly. Your expression is soft when you press your lips to the palm of his hand, placing a fleeting kiss there as his fingers curl into your cheek.

Your eyes find his in the darkness of the bedroom, your features soft and hazy in the low light. The tip of your tongue swipes across your lower lip teasingly, and his mouth goes dry as you shift your grip on his wrist, bringing his fingers to your mouth. His cock throbs as your lips part for him. Two of his fingers dip into your warm, wet mouth.

“Fuck,” Jean whispers around a shaky exhale, his hips snapping against yours as you suck on his fingers, your needy tongue lavishing attention to the tips. He can feel it tremble against the pads of his fingers before swirling around the digits. The sensation goes right to his cock. He groans as you pull his wrist closer, his fingers delving deeper into your mouth, long and thick. You hum around them, your teeth pressing against his knuckles.

Jean tugs his wet fingers free from your mouth, still staring up at you, an unreadable expression on his face. Slick with spit, they brush against your jaw. You shiver at the chill it leaves behind.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” His fingers curl around your chin, guiding you down for a slow kiss that makes you melt into him. Your hips stutter against his as the angle changes, causing your clit to grind against his pelvis every time you rock against him. “I want to feel you cum around my cock,” he mumbles against your lips.

“Jean,” you whimper, starting to tremble as he thrusts against you, matching your slow pace. That little ball of pleasure in your belly grows tighter, threatening to snap as the coarse hair at the base of his cock brushes against your clit. It’s not enough to send you over the edge. Not quite. And your clenching walls nearly make him cum right then, a low moan of your name on the tip of his tongue.

Jean is a gentleman though. He lets go of your chin, grabbing your hips with both hands, urging you to move faster for him. When you do, he slips one of his hands between your bodies, his fingers finding your swollen clit. You moan in his ear, one hand fisted in the blankets beside his head. Your hips lurch into his hand as he plays with your clit, rubbing you with fast circles and mumbling praises under his breath that are lost on you as you squirm on his lap.

It’s the way he pinches your clit that makes you spasm around his cock, your pussy clenching around him as you cum hard.

Jean isn’t far behind you, his hips thrusting against yours as your limbs lock up, your face buried against his neck. His pace falters as your slick walls squeeze around him tightly, sucking him in deeper. He pulls your hips flush against his as he cums, filling you up with warm, sticky fluid.

You aren’t sure how long you lie on top of him, catching your breath as his hands stroke your sides. His lips press against the side of your neck, and you giggle as his scruff scrapes against your sensitive skin, tickling you.

“Jean, what are you doing?” you murmur as he sits up with you on his lap, his cock still buried inside you. His palms latch onto your thighs, and your arms wrap around his neck lazily. His lips move to your temple as you tuck your face into his shoulder.

“Let me take care of you now.”

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirschtein smut #aot

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gintokisimp · 3 years

Text

Shower Fun with Gintoki

Very NSFW Gintoki x Reader scene. (It’s a scene from one of my other fics, I just rewrote it into Gintoki x You )

Genre: Smut, Plot what plot

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2,951

You enter the bathroom after some good adult fun with Gintoki and shut the door behind you. You both agreed to take a shower separately.

You close your eyes and sluggishly stretch your body. It was good, but the positions were also very uncomfortable and your involuntarily cramped a few times while you both had your fun.

You close your eyes and stretch your numb arms in the air, when all of a sudden, a pair of big hands cup your breasts from behind.

Gintoki pulls you in his arms and you screech.

"Gintoki, what are you -"

"I've changed my mind. You looked so good walking in here. I might got a little horny again, I couldn't help myself." He whispers in your ear and presses his body to your back.

"No..Gintoki, not here" You begin but couldn't deny that you are also getting horny again.

"Why not?" he whispers back and his hand let go of one of your breasts to wander down and rest it over your core, rubbing slightly.

"mhh" You just humm as a reply.

"We can go together. It will be faster"

He sucks on your neck and you melt in his arms with a whimper.

"See? You agree with me"

Without another word, Gintoki climbs in the tub and turns on the tab, but instead of showering like the average person, he sit down and lets the water rain on him.

He looks at you and slightly tilts his head, signalizing that you should sit down in the tub as well.

Unsure, you walk over and he spreads his legs to make yo some room. You climb inside and kneel down between his muscular limbs. Grinning, he rests his arms on the side of the tub, leaving his hard dick in your full view. The water hits him on his perm, drops from his tips and runs down his body, flattering every inch of him.

"So.. shower, or.." He asks her suggestively.

You move over and kiss him and reach down for his dick, but in a split second you're laying under him. The water now hits him on his neck, runs down his throat and drips from his chest onto you. Gintoki takes in the sight below him. The water drops hit your smooth, pearly skin one by one, running down your perfect curves.

Your feel your face getting heated from his blatant staring and your eyes meet with Gintokis. He smirks at you and gives your wet body one last long appreciation, before he bends town to catch the drops with his tongue. You gasp sharply as his tongue follows the stream down your neck, kissing you lightly.

He stops over your nipple and you feel his breath brush your skin for a while before he suddenly flicked his tongue over the hardened tissue. You moan as a response and burry your hands in his wet, curly hair.

His hand comes up and searches for your face and you lean into it, while his other hand moves down and lightly touches your folds. Gintokis thumb softly caresses your cheek and abruptly starts to stroke your clit, earning chocked moans from you.

Your hands move down to his back and you let them roam over his spine, dragging your fingernails across his flanks. You notice how he starts to loose grip on his senses and he moves up for a kiss.

Your tongues meet for a wild dance, arousing both of you even further.

Gintoki can't control himself any longer, places himself at your core and pushes in harder than he probably intended to. You squirm and he breaks the kiss.

"Sorry.." he begins to apologize but you interrupt him.

"No don't talk" You whisper seductively.

Your hand firmly on his neck, You pull him down again to continue the kiss.

You push your tongue between his lips and he growls as a response and begins fucking you.

Slowly penetrating you, he reaches up for the shower head and grabs it.

"Oi, this thing has some interesting settings, but I never had the chance to try it. You should tell me how it feels."

Gintoki turns a ring on the shower head and the water stream comes out harder and more concentrated.

You eye it with great interest, understanding what he is about to do. He leans down again and covers your nipple with his mouth, encircling it with his tongue, while he brings the shower head down to your clit...

"Oh FUCK.. Gintoki!"

You scream.

Your hands search frantically for something to hold on to but you only find his arms and you dig your nails in his hard flesh.

Gintokis growls at the pain and stops sucking. Disappointed, you press again. But instead of sucking, his tongue flicks over your nipple faster and faster, teasing you endlessly, thrusting slowly.

With each following push, your moans increase in volume and Gintoki times his tongue flicks with the deepest point of his thrusts. Moving the shower head in slight circles, you involuntary arch your back and your legs start to quiver.

Gintoki tries to amplify your pleasure even more by changing his thrusting angle with every push, fucking your dripping cunt deep and rough. His moans come out with more intensity, arousing you even more.

It doesn't take long before your drench his cock with your hot fluids, moaning even louder than he does. Gintoki plainly enjoys to watch you cum and he grins at you, crimson eyes sparkling in pure desire.

He withstands his urge to just keep fucking you and release himself as well, so he stops moving and turns the shower head back to normal, placing it on your chest.

Gintoki pulls out and accidentally an unsatisfied sound sound escapes your mouth.

Smiling at that, he doesn't let you calm down though, as he moves you up and you feel something hot probe your core. His flat tongue drags over your pussy and his strokes end at your clit, making you jolt sensitively.

"Ahh.. Gintoki"

Your voice comes out hoarse and it only turns him on more, pushing tongue inside of you, tasting you. The sobbing moans tell him, that you quite enjoy it. Desperately, you try to give him hints with the shower head, but he simply pushes it away and instead, he intensifies his tongue work.

While his hands firmly hold your thighs, he relentlessly continues his furious licking and sucking and your feel another orgasm build inside of you, spreading like a fire through your limps.

You scream as your second orgasm overwhelms you, making you spams uncontrollably. You feel your fluids splashing in mouse and he groaned in surprise, but keeps his head in place, taking it all in. After your spasms die down, he lifts his head, cracked your gaze and licks his lips.

"Thank you for the meal"

He laughs quietly with a smug face.

"Don't say that you pervert" You grimace. "Don't you...?" You start to ask, but he cuts you off.

"No I'm pleased. This is only about you."

His tongue moves out again, licking you another time and you jolt uncomfortably.

"I'm a mere tool for you to enjoy"

He languidly drags his flat tongue over you a few more times before he sits up again, massaging your thighs.

You feel fatigue flooding your body and your eyes flutter.

"Are you okay?" He asks you.

"Yea.. No.. mhh ..can't move.." you reply with your eyes closed.

"Should I help you?"

"..with.. what?"

"We're in a shower after all"

"No..no.. it's fine, it's fine"

Gintoki observes you, as you try your best to sit up. Sadly, you fail miserable, your limbs soft like rubber. He grins at that.

"Seems like you have some problems there" He snickers

"I'm fine, shut up, give me shampoo" You reply angrily.

"I'll help you, hold still"

He ignores your fake anger and carefully grabs your torso, turns you around and pulls you between his legs and to his chest.

You could feel his hard erection pressing against you back, sending excited shivers down your spine.

Satisfied my ass, you think with a chuckle.

Gintoki grabs shampoo from somewhere you didn't notice and begins to massage your scalp, working in the fluid in every of your hair strands, making sure it will feel amazing afterwards.

"Mmmm" You hum, completely loosing yourself in a dream world that only contained the both of you.

His hands move down to your jaw, slowly massaging your neck. His fingers always do wonders to you, spreading a warmth all over you, soothing you.

Gintokis pleasing hands move to your shoulders and he kneads them, caresses your arms and strokes your hands.

Your heart starts to pound faster when his hands move to your hip. He massages in the shampoo that was left on his hands while he moves over your whole torso, carefully avoiding to come near any erotic zones. You whine under his touch and he audibly enjoys that.

Please.. please touch me there! You plea in silence.

"Gintoki.."

"Yea?"

"I'm..still horny"

Gintoki stops his movements and he laughs quietly.

"..touch me" you whisper.

His hands rest motionless on your stomach and you can hear and feel his calm breathing.

"Please.. Gintoki"

"With pleasure" He groans in her ear.

His hands move up to your breasts, kneading them slowly at first, before he moved to your nipples to twist and flinch them.

You gasp and jolt, a warm feeling flowing through you. Gintokis hands cause a fire that crawl under your skin.

His lips move over your neck as he places light kisses and you feel him grinding against you.

He must be close to exploding..

"Gintoki.. you should.." You whisper, but he places a finger on your lips.

Gintoki turns you around again and he kisses you deeply. He puts all his passion into this kiss and you welcomed it, returning it lovingly.

One of his hands leans on the tub while his other moves down to rub to rub your core. As soon as he touches you, your hands shoot up to the tubs edge and grab it as a loud moan escapes your lungs, the volume lowered by their kiss.

His other hand moves down to his dick and he breaks the kiss for air as he starts to groan heavily. Gintoki now holds himself up with the strength of his torso and his forehead that is lightly pressed on yours.

He looks you in your eyes, glazed with pure desire, panting heavily under his struggle to finish the both of you off.

One of your hands leaves the tub to stroke his abs, sending waves of pleasure straight to his groin and you feel him tensing up, his climax approaching quickly.

The heated situation and him just hovering over you, without really touching you while jerking himself of gives you a different kind of thrill.

Another orgasm overcomes her, as your panting turns into loud moaning. The expression in Gintokis eyes changes and his body twitches. His hands move in a frantic rhythm, grabbing himself harder as he finally releases on her stomach, groaning heavily.

Catching your breath, you both stay like that for a while, looking each other in the eyes, smiling happily.

After a while, Gintoki sits up again and grabs the running shower head.

"wash away little Gin-sans" he snickers, still bathing in the afterglow.

You can't move to hit him, so you just curl up your lips to show your disgust.

"Shut up" was the only thing you manage to mumble at him.

"You're lacking some fire there, honey." He smiles warmly before he shudders.

"ugh.. I'm all sweaty again.. how can you get sweaty in a shower anyways?! And I didn't wash my hair yet. Here, hold that for me"

He reaches out to give you the shower head, but your hands could not grip and so it just falls on your stomach, water splashing everywhere.

Gintoki snorts.

"Guess you're not back to your old self yet"

He jokes and pats your leg.

Propped up on his knees, he reaches over you to grab a shampoo bottle placed somewhere behind you. Without much ability to move, you just lifted your eyes to gaze at the huge frame moving above you.

mhh nice.

Your brain still can't produce any coherent thoughts with all that manliness above you.

Gintoki leans back again, popps open the bottle and puts the rest of the slippery liquid in the bottle on his hand. Satisfied at the amount, he just throws the bottle through the room and it hits the floor with a hollow sound.

Lifting his wide arms, he soaps up his hair in a hurry , squinting his eyes to avoid that anything gets into his eyes and burns the living hell out of him. Additionally, he screws his mouth shut, looking very strained.

You kinda have to admit that this face of his was incredibly cute and it contrasts so much with the hard muscles moving to foam up his fluffy hair.

Gintokis hands left his perm and he starts to massage his neck, slowly moving down to his shoulders.

Oh. Your mouth falls open.

"Ah that was not good for my neck.."

He rolls his head on his shoulders while he continues to massage himself.

"As nice as this is, I think it will kill me sooner or later if we do that more often."

Yea..he's right. You think to yourself. It felt great, but the bathtub is just too small for those kind of activities.

You loose yourself in your thoughts about the different kind of places where he could fuck you, when suddenly his hands glide down to his chest and you snap back to what's happening right in front of you.

Instead of just spreading the foam over his skin, he drags his fingernails across his hard chest, leaving mild scratch marks on top of the love bites you left on him earlier that day.

He moves down over his abs, contouring every single one of them before gliding down to his colorless lucky path, or more so his high way to hell considering his size.

You already played out his next move in your mind, but it seems like he just teases you. His hand rest there fore a moment, twirling his hair, before he finally splits his ring and middle finger to lazily glide down to his half deflated dick.

Yours eyes are caught by the dirty act in front of you, so you didn't notice that he pryes at your reaction through his lashes.

Your eyes follow his movements in a trance, so he decides to spice it up a little. He washes himselfs thoroughly, slightly thrusting in his hand, while his other hand still glides up and down the side of his torso. Gintoki lets himself go to stretch his arms up for a yawn. His upper body moves in a wave, flexing his abs.

You're absolutely in no capability to avert you eyes but why would you do that anyways?

He leaves one of his arms in the air and slowly glides his hand over his bicep, dragging his nails along a vein. You follow his fingers, which are gliding down to his abs again.

Gintokis hand leaves his body and he holds it out to you.

What?

You simply stare at it, the sound of the water is the only thing that fills the room.

"Hand me the shower head please"

He whispers and you shriek at the sudden disturbance.

You weakly grab the shower head and reach it out to him. Gintoki mischievously looks at her with one half open eye and he grabs it with a smirk. He turns the shower head in his direction and the water hits his broad chest first.

Your hand involuntary grips harder on the edge of the bathtub. The water finds it's way down his perfect creases and makes him appear like a god in your eyes. Throwing his head in his neck, he grins and lets the water hit his throat, groaning languidly.

Your insights twists. It was just a show of pure, intense masculinity and it is incredibly hot.

He slightly bows forward and searches for your hand on the side of the bathtub. He grasps it slightly and places it on his abs.

Your fingers touched his perfect build and he shivers in anticipation. You started to trace his outlines, follow some veins and press them down slightly.

His head still thrown back, he moans and you feel him twitch under your light touches. He whispers your name sensually when you lay your flat hand on his stomach.

It is really unfair how hot he is.. You think while loosing your grip to reality more and more. Your hand moves down but he grabs your wrist.

"Sadly, your little private show is over now"

He says while lowering his chin down again. He winks and you snap out of your trance, facing away from him with an embarrassing glow on your face.

He climbs out of the tub and grabs a towel and starts to dry himself.

"Don't you want to come out as well?"

He asks while rubbing his hair with the cloth.

"Gintoki..I don't think I can stand up.."

You admit faintly.

Gintoki smiles warmly and picks you up, heaving you out of the tub. Sitting down on the floor and placing you on his lap, he grabs another one and towels you down as well. After he was done, he wraps the towel around you and laughs.

"You have to admit, that was good, was it?"

He smiles.

#gintoki #sakata #sakata gintoki #gintokixreader #gintokixyou #fanfic #xreader #gintama #銀魂 #坂田銀時 #銀時 #gintoki x reader #gintoki x you #headcanon

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itszemo · 3 years

Text

( * & . --- GRAPPLING WITH REALITY .

* helmut zemo x fem!reader . warnings for sexual content & light angst . — ‘ 1710 words ’

WITH YOUR BACK TO the building, you took slow calculated steps and your eyes strained to focus on the inanimate shapes in the dark alley. You could hear rats scurrying in and around a dumpster and the steady drip of water hitting a puddle on the ground. With one hand you gripped your glock, with the other you supported it, and your weapon led you to an entry way that was recessed into the building wall. You relied on your sixth sense, it had saved you many times before, this ability to get the drop on your adversary. Those who knew you, never underestimated this skill, and Zemo knew you well.

He reached out and grabbed you, with one arm firmly entrapping your arms and encircling your waist, and his other hand clamped over your mouth, he pulled you against him and stepped back into the door way That split second you needed to defend yourself was lost when he jerked you up off of your feet.

"Stop it." He muttered into your ear. "It's me." He kept his grip on you and when he felt you struggle, he squeezed you tighter until you gasped for air. "Enough!"

You knew it was him, and you knew you were only here because of him. You finally stopped trying to free yourself and as you relaxed, the tension left his body as well. He set you back down on your feet and the adrenaline that spiked through you both started to subside. He took his hand off of your mouth, but kept his arm across your neck.

"Why are we here?" You were suspicious of his motives, and although you always knew he wouldn't kill you, hurting you was a different story.

"I should ask you that question." He released you from his vice like grip, and turned you around, slamming you against the wall and holding onto the arm that held the gun.

There are feelings we can't rationally explain, and impulses that take hold of us without a thought to the consequences. You could pretend they didn't exist, but reality always comes back to find you. It was confusing and no matter how much you both tried to prevent it from happening, it became inevitable. This shared vulnerability, it made you weak, and this is where the real danger lay.

"Helmut, let go of me." You whispered, your eyes searching his. He glared at you, but released your arm and you slowly tucked the gun into small of your back.

This was, you decided, the substance that makes people crazed. What the two of you had between you was almost tangible and it had become your favorite enemy. Without warning, you grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him down to your lips.

Zemo saw it coming, it was how he remembered it, the kiss ran deep, urgent and smoldered. Your tongues explored and invaded, sweeping against each other while every one of your senses told you to forget what you knew and to savor what you felt.

Only the most fortunate experience this feeling of euphoria, and when you whimpered with pleasure, a hot hard burn that only you could produce, coursed through him. Zemo pressed himself against you, his hands snaked their way around your waist and you tilted your head back, his lips caressed the side of your neck and finally brushed against your ear. His breath was hot and moist and neither could stop yourselves from grinding your hips against each other.

"Not here." His voice was just above a whisper, and he pushed you away, holding you at arms length.

You cursed at him under your breath. "Where then?" You seethed, wondering if this were some kind of trick, but when he found a rectangular plate on the door and lifted the cover and punched in a code, you smirked. The door latch released and he took you by the hand and led you inside.

It was nothing you had imagined, the cavernous room with multiple rows of large wooden crates, stacked on one another. The only light came from beyond the pallets. He pulled you through the maze and in the far corner of the room was a doorway and inside lay a large sectional sofa made of black leather, and you thought to yourself, it's perfect.

Zemo unbuttoned his overcoat, slipped it off and draped it over the back of the sofa. His black dress shirt and slacks gave him an ominous appearance, and so did the look in his eyes. He pulled you toward him and unzipped your jacket, and with more force than necessary, he stripped it off of you, causing you to catch your breath. It was a warning of things to come and you welcomed it. He held his hand out and you untucked your glock from your back and laid it in his palm, this became a moment of trust, or maybe, surrender.

He gathered you in his arms and you wound your own arms around his neck and your fingers twined in his hair. Once again, your tongues found each other, and he pressed himself against you. When he felt your knees buckle under the spell of his kiss, he reveled in the knowledge that he had this effect on you. He eased you back on the sofa and when you sat down and leaned back and opened your legs, he kneeled down between them. He lifted your sweater up and over your head and reached behind you with one hand and unhooked your strapless bra. It fell away, and your nipples tightened, not from the cool air, but from anticipation.

Zemo could never disappoint you, and he cupped your breasts in his hands, your breathing became ragged and you arched your back toward him. He took one rose colored tip between his lips and when he flicked his tongue against it, you moaned and squirmed under his attention. When he used his thumb and forefinger to roll the other one between his fingers, it made you cry out.

"Helmut... don't... stop..." You begged, arching toward him under his touch.

When you could take no more, you straightened up to find his eyes were dark pools of passion. You both knew, what he felt was magnified by how you reacted. You reached out to him and pulled at his shirt, the buttons pulling and popping out of their button holes. You tugged it off, and it was your turn to bestow attention on him. Your fingernails scraped along his bare chest and they traced the muscles carved in his lean build. You played with his nipples and felt him twitch, and when you dug your fingers into his flesh, he gripped your waist, holding you in place. You lifted your hips ever so slightly and he slipped his fingers into the waistband of your pants and slid them and your black panties down to your knees. You gave no resistance when one leather boot came off and then the next, followed by the rest of your clothing.

You urged him to come closer, fingering and unbuckling the leather belt around his waist. Next you undid the button on his waistband, and finally you lowered the zipper of his trousers down. You could readily see how how aroused he was and how his body strained to escape from the confines of his clothing. You freed him and ran your fingers along his length, and this time, it was his turn to beg for mercy.

"Liebling... you're making me crazy..." He whispered into your ear, his low voice thick with lust. Once you closed your fist around him, it took little time for the rest of his clothes to be added to the pile you had created, and it took a fraction of that time to find himself stretched out next to you.

You felt his hand trail down your body and when he reached between your thighs, he found you wet with desire. He slipped one finger into you, and than another and continued to stroke you, until he felt that precious agony build inside of you. You writhed with passion and finally reached down and clutched his wrist.

"I want you to be inside of me, I want to feel you inside of me." You murmured.

Zemo positioned himself over you and hooked his arms under your legs and leaned forward causing your hips to rise. This made you ravenous for him and he overwhelmed your senses when he drove into you in one smooth thrust. When you wrapped your legs around him, neither knew, who strained to meet the other first. You found the rhythm that caused your hearts to beat wildly and the relentless torment that only two bodies can create goaded you on. When you were covered with a sheen of sweat, your control finally shattered, you came first, pleading for release and shuddering fast and hard. The onslaught of sensation that had taken you hostage made you buck up against him, and only when he knew you had tipped over the edge, did he allow his own climax to collide with yours. You were tight, velvety and every movement caused him to tremble, and finally, he let go. The gruff sounds of his ecstasy filled the room as he fought to regain his sanity.

This was the madness you both endured, when common sense is drowned out by heat and passion. When the thought of one another makes you ache with desire and causes your actions to become reckless.

Hours later when Zemo opened his eyes, he felt groggy and disoriented, he was sprawled on the leather sofa with his overcoat draped over him, your warm lithe body was missing, and so was your clothing, your boots, and your gun. He saw the tiny syringe on the floor, and knew you had drugged him. It made him angry, yet he understood your reasons. You were addicted to each other and both knew addictions were dangerous. Like every time, the feeling of loss caused him to grapple with reality. He closed his eyes and wondered when the next time would come, when the two of you would come crashing down on each other.

— comment to be added to my taglist .

#* • HELMUT ZEMO x READER ; ———————— ONESHOT.#baron zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader

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omgitsroshi · 3 years

Text

Blood Kink

cw: blood, blood play, period play

Tendou had a blood kink. Unbeknownst to you, he always struggled with himself whenever your time of the month came around. He wanted to see the thin red liquid coated evenly across his shaft, getting into his pubes and watch as you squirm uncomfortably under him. He didn't want you to think he was weirder than he already was so he kept this a secret -- until one fateful night.

"Tendou baby is that you?" You called upon hearing the front door open. You walked into the hallway in one of your over-sized shirts and watched as the redhead greeted you with the sweet smile he gave you and only you.

"Hi my love," He stooped down to scoop you up into a hug. "How are you today?"

"I'm a lot better." You smiled up at him, pulling him down for a kiss. "Thank you for taking care of me yesterday baby."

He turned you swiftly with ease and began to walk closely behind you, forcing you to move forward with him so that he could close the front door.

"What's a boyfriend for?" He smiled back and kissed your forehead, but you could sense something was a little off. He stalked off into your shared bedroom and began to change.

"Is something wrong Tori?" You asked, following him. You watched intently as he pulled his shirt over his head, back muscles flexing and showcasing the faint scars you left on his back from your fingernails.

"Just a tough day at work. It's nothing to worry about, love." He sighed a little and started at his belt buckle. You noticed the bulge in his boxers before he swiftly turned away, almost as if he were hiding it.

"Ten.." You leaned against the door frame, hormones swirling and making your brain foggy. "I know I'm.. incapable of pleasing you right now in the way you might want but.. I can still please you in other ways."

He glanced over his shoulder at you, making you quickly divert your gaze to the dresser beside you. A smug smile swept across his face but it was gone as quick as it came. He made his way over to where you were standing and placed his forearm on the door frame, inches above your head and towering over you. You shifted under his gaze and glanced at your feet.

"..But what if what I want," He began, in a sultry tone, placing a finger under your chin and making you look at him. "What if what I want isn't your mouth or hands.. or even.. the backdoor."

He whispered the last part near your ear, making you shiver. If it wasn't any of these things then what did he want? What else could there be except-

"Oh no." You backed out of Tendou's grasp, out of breath. "No, no, no Tori! Do you know how gross that is?"

You felt your face get hot when he crossed the floor towards you, closing the distance again.

"It's all I ever think about.." He smirks, draping his arms around you. They landed at your lower back where he started tracing circles with those trained, slender athlete's fingers. You closed your eyes and began feeling the effects of his fingers dancing over the spot, turning you on even more.

"But," You paused for a second, stilling his actions momentarily with that simple word. "won't it hurt Tori?"

You looked up at him with those big, round, innocent eyes that made him want to take your virginity the first time. His heart fluttered and he began moving his fingers on your lower back again, watching your eyes flutter and falter before placing your head back on his chest.

"I always take care of my bunny, don't I?" He inquired, bringing one hand up to caress the nape of your neck. You whimpered and nodded and that was all he needed to know. He began to walk back to the bedroom with you in his arms but you paused for a second. He looked down at you again, curiosity and amusement coating his face.

"Okay.. but a few ground rules." You spoke semi-sternly but altered your voice when he looked at you with a raised eyebrow. "A towel must be placed on the bed before laying me down.. No putting your nose, mouth, or any part of your face near it.. And no touching it with your bare hands.."

He nodded, assessing every one of the individual rules in his head. Once he came to term with them, he went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel before laying it smoothly in the center of the bed.

"The throne awaits the princess." He spoke boldly with a grand sweep of his hand. You looked between him and the bed skeptically before sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, pulling your shorts and underwear down to your ankles. You kicked them off and crawled to the center of the bed, knees pulled to your chest

Tendou watched your every movement but it didn't make you feel uncomfortable at all. In fact, it made you feel safer. He also climbed on the bed and positioned himself between your knees.

He attached his lips to yours and you got flashbacks of the night he deflowered you. The nostalgia had you aching for more and you wrapped your arms around his neck pulling him closer. He lowered himself onto you a bit more and the sensation of his boner poking your inner thigh made you gasp.

"Tori.. your clothes.." You said, out of breath as he kissed your neck, his other hand on the other side of your neck, holding you in place.

"Shh.." He mumbled into your neck. He used his other hand to grab your thigh and rub circles on it with his thumb. You moaned softly, causing him to sit up momentarily.

His pants were off in a split second and he knelt in front of you in his boxers, a raging hard-on being contained by only a piece of thin fabric. You sat up on your elbows and followed his gaze.

His eyes were focused on the string of the tampon sitting just outside of your pretty cunt. He glanced at you with a question dancing about his face, which was covered in a hazy blush.

You nodded hesitantly and he wasted no time in taking one of his fingers and wrapping it around the string. He pulled slowly and watched as the puffy item fell out, coated in a layer of red liquid and slick.

He bit his lip as he took a napkin from the nightstand and wrapped it delicately. His eyes met yours and you were already looking away, ashamed to make eye contact with him. He leaned in to kiss your cheek as a form of reassurance.

"My bunny.." He whispered in your ear. "My beautiful bunny.."

The words resonated throughout your body and along with his hands, touching feverishly up and down your torso, you could feel the arousal building in your gut, no matter how hard you tried to fight it.

"Satori.." You moaned softly, making him look at you. "Please.. fuck me.."

You rarely, if ever, used his full first name. That's how he knew you were serious. You spread your legs a bit more and allowed him to fit between them. He pulled his boxers down slowly, making his dick spring up and hit his stomach. You'd rarely see him this hard if you weren't doing something special for him or wearing his clothes unknowingly.

A bead of pre-cum was dancing atop the head of his dick which was angrily red, almost the same shade of his hair. He intertwined fingers with you and rolled his head along your slit. You gasped a little when he slipped inside, pain coursing through your body as it went in with relative ease.

As soon as he bottomed out, he let out a groan and dropped his head on your shoulder. It took him a moment to compose himself. It was wetter and warmer and the smell intrigued him, enticed him to go further..

He sat up, back into his kneeling position and pulled out until only the tip was still inside of you. The complete coating of his dick in your blood and juices made him feel feral.

He bent down and kissed your forehead which was covered in a light sheen.

"You okay baby?" He asked attentively. You looked up at him with a look he didn't expect you to have. It was of pure determination.

"Stop screwing around and fuck me already Tori!" Your voice, meant to be stern came off as more of a plea but it carried the same effect for Tendou.

He placed his hands under your knees and pulled them up so that he could get a better view. He began to pump in and out at a steady pace. Every movement he made was deeply felt in your hole.

It wasn't long before he was pounding into you and having you pleading for mercy.

"Oh-oh god!" You moaned. "Don't stop!"

Tendou was getting closer with every passing moment but the doe-eyed look you were giving him made him want to fill you up to the brim and never stop. He picked up his pace with a growl and pressed you into a mating press with your legs on his shoulders.

He pressed his lips to yours, groaning lowly into your mouth and mixing with your whimpers and gasps. Your whimpers got softer and closer together which was a telltale sign that you were close. The skin on skin contact became more and more frequent until you gripped his bicep and the knot in your stomach finally burst, releasing all of the tension onto your lover's Adonis belt and lower torso.

As soon as you felt Tendou's thrusts become sloppier and his breath become labored, you decided to egg him on a bit.

"Cum inside me.." You moaned, watching as he reveled in that statement, rolling his head back almost as if he were considering it. "Don't think about it baby.. I want you to fill me up with all of you. Make me big and round with your seed Ten-"

You were cut off by his abnormally loud groan as he released all of his load into you in stringy hot ropes.

"So fucking hot.. so fucking hot.." He muttered over and over as he pulled out and watched as a pool of blood and semen flowed out soon after.

He attached his lips to yours once more and rolled to your side. You were both out of breath and so hot that all you could manage was a holding of each other's pinkies.

"So.." You spoke after a while. He looked over at you with weary but excited eyes, full of love and admiration for you. He's super love drunk right now, you smiled to yourself. "How was it?"

"Same time, next month?" is all he said before trapping you in a tight hold and falling asleep in your arms despite all of your struggles.

"Who knew you had so many hidden kinks, you goof.." You laughed quietly to yourself, watching him sleep peacefully as if what happened not even 5 minutes ago didn't happen. "You find new ways to make me love you every day Tori.."

You kissed his nose and released yourself from his death grip, taking the towel and going to the bathroom to take a well-deserved shower.

#tendou satori #tendou smut #shiratorizawa #satori tendo x reader #x reader #mdni #rating: mature #tendou x yn smut

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wonder-womans-ex · 3 years

Text

‘Cause Boy I was Made for You

By wonder-womans-ex for @inloveoknutzy Sweater Weather secret santa exchange 2020

When Remus Lupin was eleven years old, he learned about soulmates.

“Almost everyone gets a soulmark on their nineteenth birthday,” Mr. Holliday, his fifth-grade teacher, had explained. “A design, like a tattoo, on their left wrist. And out there, somewhere, someone will have a matching one.

“Some people don’t get them until later—no one knows why. Some don’t get them at all. It’s rare, but some people have more than one soulmate, or their soulmate changes.

“Can anyone tell me why this might be?”

Trust a teacher to turn this into a lesson, Remus thought, and put up his hand.

“Because people change, and the person who your soul matches could change, too?”

“Very good, Mr. Lupin.”

***

When Sirius Black was eleven years old, his parents kept him home from school. Instead, they sat him down at the dining room table—which was only ever used for special occasions; he couldn’t fathom why this might be considered one—and told him three things.

“One,” Walburga said, bony fingers and long nails that reminded Sirius of talons drumming on the centuries-old wood, “your career comes first. Always. No matter who your soulmate turns out to be or how you feel about it, you are expected to make the choice that benefits yourself and your role in this family.”

“Two,” Orion put in, “you are the only person who can prove who your soulmate is. If the reality is something that puts your future or your reputation at risk, lying is the best option. Remember, listen to your head, not your wrist.”

“Three—” this was Walburga again, “—your soulmark, when you get it, will remain covered at all times. No one else is permitted to see it. Are we clear?”

Sirius nodded.

“Speak up!”

“Yes, Mother. Yes, Father.”

***

When Remus Lupin was thirteen years old, he had his first kiss. It was with a girl from his first aid course to whom he’d never really talked before, and it was wet and clumsy and didn’t taste very nice. In six years when he got his soulmark, he probably wouldn’t even remember her name.

***

When Sirius Black was thirteen years old, he fell asleep in math class twice. He’d spent the entire night practicing—under his father’s instructions, of course—and the words in the textbook began to swim in front of his eyes.

His mother slapped him across the cheek when she found out. Though he told no one for a very long time, that was when he started drinking coffee.

***

When Remus Lupin was fifteen years old, he googled what if your soulmate doesn’t love you.

***

When Sirius Black was fifteen years old, he found out what it was like to be famous. He enjoyed it, at first. There was so much to enjoy: the attention from his parents, the people who recognized him in public and smiled, and the hockey.

The hockey was everything.

He wouldn’t have thought so, but it was freeing, really, to be on the ice, doing what he loved, and know that the whole world was watching. It showed him he was enough—better than enough. He was the best. He’d been working towards being best his whole life, and now he finally got to feel good about it. What wasn’t to like about that?

Amycus Carrow, apparently. The first guy on his team to notice he was different. “Queer,” he whispered, as Sirius packed his gear up.

Sirius wasn’t sure who he was trying to prove something to by sleeping with Janie Clearwater—Amycus or himself.

***

When Remus Lupin was seventeen years old, he and his mom picked his little brother Julian up from daycare. Jules had a crude drawing of a star on his wrist in green washable marker.

“My teacher has one! So I wanted one too!”

Remus smiled, ruffling Julian’s hair.

That night, he locked his bedroom door and looked up Sirius Black. Video after video of slapshots, passes, interviews, until he finally drifted off to sleep thinking that’s the sort of person I want to be loved by.

***

When Sirius Black was seventeen years old, he had his first panic attack. He wasn’t sure what triggered it; he wasn’t sure how he pulled himself out, but he ran a thumb over the red marks where his fingernails had dug into his skin and tried not to cry.

***

When Remus Lupin was nineteen years old, everything went wrong. He woke up on his birthday to his wrist itching, and it took all his willpower not to look at it. He wasn’t quite ready yet.

It was like Schrödinger’s cat, he reasoned—if he didn’t look, he couldn’t confirm what had been nagging at the back of his head for a while now. He couldn’t deny it, either, but it was better than nothing.

Julian ran to hug him when he got downstairs, grinning to show off his gap-toothed smile. “I got you a present! Wanna know what it is?”

“I think,” Remus told him, “I’m about to find out anyway.”

Two weeks later, Fenrir Greyback approached him in the locker room.

***

When Sirius Black was nineteen years old, he found himself signed to an NHL team he wasn’t supposed to be on and with a soulmark he could make neither head nor tail of: a silver wolf and black dog, intertwined like yin and yang, two crossed hockey sticks behind them. He remembered, distantly, being told that soulmarks were meant to make sense.

The black dog was probably meant to represent him—black dog, dog black (he still hadn’t forgiven his parents for that one)—and the hockey sticks almost definitely had something to do with, well, hockey, but the wolf he had no idea about.

***

It is now that these two stories meet. There is a split second, a fraction of time, and it seems as though the whole world is holding its breath. Will their paths cross, only to continue on their separate ways? Will they travel together for a time, before they are destined to part once more?

“Hello,” says Remus, and when Sirius holds his hand out coldly, their fate is decided.

***

“Pots, c’mere a second!”

Sirius is happy, almost. He’s got the team—he’s one of them, now, really and truly, but there’s something still off. He knows what it is, but he doesn’t want to.

“I’m coming, Captain! Keep your head on!”

James comes to a stop in front of him. “Hi. What do you need?”

“Please poke Dumo.” A few of the guys chuckle, and this makes Sirius smile. He likes making other people laugh.

“What, and you needed me for that? You couldn't do it yourself?”

Finn walks into the room, then, jersey half on. “Why do it at all? What did poor old Dumo do to you, anyway?”

“Yeah,” Pascal says from where he’s sitting by his locker. “Respect your elders!”

“Elder, you say? Edging on retirement, are you?”

“Tais-toi!”

Glancing over to Remus, Sirius allows the barest flicker of a smile to pass over his face. He gets one in return.

“Alright, everyone get moving,” Coach tells them, opening the door and surveying where they’re all arranged, faces like guilty puppies. “You’re paid to play hockey, not sit on your asses and gossip. Practice starts in five minutes, or you run laps around the outside of the rink. In skates.”

Most of them groan, and Kasey downs a Powerade. “Well, boys, that’s my cue.”

James is the next to go, then Finn, then Logan. Leo and Talker continue their argument—something about George Harrison; Sirius isn’t really listening—out onto the ice, and Adam follows them with Olli and Nado close behind. Dumo winks at Sirius before he goes, too, and then it’s just the two of them.

“What did he do?” Remus asks, after Sirius has laced and relaced his left skate three times. “Dumo, I mean.”

“Nothing much. Just… well, if you must know, he put shaving cream in the fridge, once. Guess what I had on my waffles that morning.”

“Waffles aren’t on your diet plan.”

“It was last year.”

“And you waited until now to get James to poke him?”

He knows Remus can see right through him. He always can. “Never question the methods of a hockey player, Loops.”

He meant it as a joke, but Remus stiffens for some reason, jaw clenching and eyes darting away. There’s an awkward pause before Sirius says, “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be.”

“Right.” He clears his throat, trying in vain to find something else to say. He would be lying if he said Remus didn’t mean something to him—he knows it. But, after all, knowing something and acknowledging it are two very different things.

Sirius runs the laps.

***

That night, after practice, Remus is about to head for the bus station when Sirius steps in front of him. He’s walking backwards, even with his hockey bag slung over his shoulder, and Remus isn’t ashamed to say he’s a little impressed. (From a purely objective point of view, of course. It has nothing to do with Sirius and everything to do with the skill it would take, hypothetically, to do such a thing.) (He’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself.)

“Want a lift?”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“Well, we’ll just have to fix that.”

Remus rolls his eyes; he pretends to think about it. “All right,” he says, finally. “On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I get to choose the music.”

Sirius lets out one loud ‘ha!’ It’s the most beautiful thing Remus has heard in a long time. (That would go well: “Oh, I’ve changed my mind. No need to put on the radio, I’ll be content if you just keep laughing.”) (There’s a reason people like him are off to the side, out of sight, instead of right in the spotlight with a microphone.)

Remus is glad that Sirius waits until he’s parked outside Remus’s apartment building to bring up their earlier conversation. It says something that they say “So, about this evening—” in unison, but Remus isn’t going to think about that.

“You go first,” Sirius tells him, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Please.”

“I suppose,” Remus says, slowly, “That I haven’t quite been honest with you. Any of you. I wasn’t always a PT.”

“Of course not. You’re my age. You can’t have always worked for the Lions—before that you were a teenager. A student.”

Remus shakes his head. “No. Before that I was a player.”

“You played? Why’d you stop?”

“Bad hit,” he says, shrugging. “I’m over it. But I… I know what it’s like. The pressure. The rules. So, if you need someone to talk to… just remember—I know what the game does to a guy. You’re not the only one who’s been told to be something you aren’t by someone who forgets you’re a person off the ice, too.

“See you tomorrow, Cap. Thanks for the ride.”

***

Sirius is probably the one person in history who has managed to burn eggs without even turning the stove on.

“How on earth did that happen?” James asks when Sirius phones him.

“I dropped them into the toaster—hey! Stop laughing! It could happen to anyone!”

“Yes,” he hears from the other end of the line, “But it didn’t. It happened to you.”

It takes exactly two minutes and thirty-seven seconds after hanging up on James for Sirius to decide to call Remus. Cooking failures might not have been quite what Remus meant when he said Sirius could talk to him, but it’s the problem at hand right now.

(Remus laughs just as hard as James, but at least he has the decency to apologize for it afterwards.)

“Well,” he says, once he’s calmed down, “What are you going to eat now?”

“I’m not sure. Cereal?”

“Practice is in two and a half hours. You need more than that.”

“I’ll be—”

“If you end that sentence with ‘fine,’ I’ll take the laces out of your skates and strangle you with them. Do you want me to walk you through, I dunno, a pancake?”

“Sure. What do I need?”

“Flour, butter, eggs, milk…”

Twenty minutes later Sirius is left with milk on his shirt, flour in his hair, butter practically everywhere else, and a microwave that won’t start.

“I think,” he tells Remus, “I should have cereal.”

“You are going to eat a pancake if it’s the last thing I do—”

“Why don’t you just come over here and make it for me, then? I’m sure you’ll have more success.”

He holds his breath for a moment, hoping this wasn’t a step too far, before Remus responds. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be over in… half an hour?”

“Sounds good.”

Click.

The instant the call is over, Sirius opens the freezer and grabs one of the popsicles he secretly has stashed there. They’re not part of his diet plan, but he needs one. Then he takes a sponge and starts trying to get the butter out of the sole of his shoe.

***

The first thought that crosses Remus’s mind is that Sirius’s tongue is purple from one of the popsicles he thinks no one knows about. If Remus kissed him, he’d probably taste like grapes. (The thought is banished from his mind the moment it enters.)

“So,” he says, surveying the damage. “I am going to teach you how to make a pancake.”

Sirius, it turns out, is infinitely better at following instructions when they’re simple, and the two of them work out a system quickly. Remus makes the pancake, Sirius gets the ingredients. It works.

“That’s salt, not sugar. Try again.”

(Most of the time, at least.)

“Really?” Sirius is squinting at the package. “Why doesn’t it say so?”

“It does. Right there.”

“How am I supposed to read that?”

“You need glasses, Cap.”

“I have glasses. I just never wear them.”

“What?” This is news to Remus. Visions of Sirius with glasses and bed hair are swimming in front of his eyes. “Why?”

A shrug. “I look stupid.”

“I’m pretty sure you’d be drop-dead gorgeous in anything.”

There’s a beat of silence. Remus realizes that, yes, he said that out loud. “I mean, all those fangirls certainly seem to think so.”

“Right. Yeah.” Sirius clears his throat.

“Anyway, pancakes! I think these are almost ready to cook—can you turn on the element?”

“The what now?”

“The element? The coil on the stove?”

“Should’ve just said that in the first place,” Sirius grumbles. “Fucking Americans.”

“Fucking French.”

Suddenly, Remus has a spatula pointed at his nose. He has to cross his eyes to see it properly. “Say that again; I dare you.”

“Fucking French?”

“Awright, that’s it! En garde, bitch!”

And so begins the great whisk-vs-spatula duel of 2020. There is very little batter left once they’re done—in the bowl, at least. Most of it is on their clothes.

They look at each other. “Cereal?”

“...Cereal.”

***

Kasey’s eyes go wide—almost comically so—when they show up to practice together.

“Cap giving rides?” He says, and Sirius isn’t sure what accent he’s trying to fake but he ends up sounding like a scandalized duchess from the movie adaptation of an Austen knockoff. (Maybe that is what he was going for. It’s hard to know, with Kasey.) “I thought the day would never come.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Remus’s elbow digs into Sirius’s rib cage. “You don’t want to say that. He tried to make me shut up this morning—it’s something I’ll never recover from.”

Sirius almost laughs at the expression Remus makes when he realizes exactly how that sounds.

“He dumped pancake batter down my shirt!”

“You didn’t!” The look on James’s face is aghast. “First the eggs, now this—what will people think?”

Finn looks up from his phone. “Eggs?”

“Sirius here dropped the eggs he was going to eat for breakfast into his—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Dumo slings an arm around his shoulders. “The price you must pay for telling James to poke me yesterday. Learn from this, mon fils. Learn.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, old man.”

“Treachery!”

Shrugging him off, Sirius grins. “I am the kitchen monster. Cross me and I will slaughter you in a food war.”

“Try me.” This is Logan speaking; Sirius hadn’t even realized he was there.

“You’ve been warned!”

***

“Look, there are twenty-two hockey players in this arena, and I ain’t one of them,” Moody says, and Remus can’t be sure, but he thinks Sirius looks at him.

***

“You’re favouring your right leg,” Remus comments as soon as Sirius is off the ice. “Want me to take a look?”

“It’s fine, really—”

“I’ll try again. Want me to take a look?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks, Loops.”

“That’s what I thought you said.”

They walk into the PT room in businesslike silence, Sirius hoping all the way that one of them will break it. Neither does, and it isn’t until Remus has taken off both his skates for him, now expertly examining his left ankle, that he realizes what he should say.

“You mentioned you played, last night.”

The finger tracing his Achilles tendon stills. “I did.”

“Were you any good?” He knows, somewhere, that he’s entering forbidden territory. He can’t bring himself to care.

“I’d like to believe so.”

“Be honest.” Sirens are blaring in his head. He keeps going.

“There were rumours…” Remus bites his lip, glances away. “People said I was set for first.”

“What? How come you never said anything? C’mon, you need to play with us sometime, just scrimmage or something—”

“Maybe. That hit…”

“Right. God, I’m sorry, Rem.”

If Remus’s Adam’s apple bobs at the nickname, Sirius doesn’t notice. He certainly doesn’t try his best not to jump to conclusions. (Double negative; that’s a yes, a voice that sounds suspiciously like James’s says in his head. Shut up, he tells it.)

“It’s fine. Really. I just don’t like talking about it. And besides, I like this. Working with the team, even if I can’t be a part of it.”

“You are. A part of the team, I mean. Just as much as I am.”

“Sure.”

There’s another awkward pause before Remus clears his throat. “So, I’m gonna put on some anti-inflammatory gel because it’s a little swollen, but don’t get used to it. I want you to keep doing some stretches, not too much pressure. Capeesh?”

“What the fuck is a capeesh?”

“Just say it.”

“...Capeesh?”

“Awesome.”

Remus leans forward towards him, their foreheads almost touching. Sirius’s breath catches.

It’s over just as suddenly. The tube of extra-strength Voltaren is in Remus’s hand, and Sirius feels stupid for thinking he was going to—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

When he feels tears start to prick at his eyes, he glances up at the fluorescent lights overhead; at least then he’ll have an excuse. There’s a moth resting on one. Its wings flutter once, twice, then go still. Fragile things, moths are—maybe it’s died, maybe it hasn’t. He could read into that, but he won’t.

He jumps when the cool of the gel on Remus’s hands touches his foot. “Hey!” He yelps, looking quickly down.

Sirius hates to succumb to cliches, but he would be lying if he was to say his heart doesn’t still.

Because Remus has pulled the sleeves of his jacket up to his elbows, and his wrist is turned to the sky—to Sirius, who has seen that mark before somewhere.

Somewhere. He’s kidding himself. He’s seen it every day whenever he bothers to look at his own soulmark, and he’s seeing it again now.

“You know what, I’m fine,” he blurts out, shaking his ankle out of Remus’s grasp. “Thanks, though. See you later, Loops.”

***

Remus stays there for a second, watching Sirius leave. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, and he’s not sure he wants to.

When he gets up to leave, tossing the container towards the first aid kit on the bench and allowing himself a small smile when it lands perfectly inside, blood rushes to his head. He closes his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

And then he crashes into Finn.

“Whoa, sorry,” Remus says, stumbling backwards.

“Nah, don’t stress it. There’s just something I want you to check on.”

Remus is hit by a sense of deja vu. He wonders if Finn, too, is going to leave without explanation. He follows him back into the PT room, Finn gesturing for him to lock the door.

Though he may be the shorter of the two, Remus knows it’s his job to be the bigger person. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Finn waits another moment before yanking one sleeve up to reveal three paw prints, each no bigger than a thumbnail, clustered together—one forest green, one golden, and one a deep navy blue.

“Your soulmark.” Remus doesn’t understand. “What? Is something wrong?”

“There’s three of them,” Finn says. “Which means there’s three of us.”

“You have two soulmates?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s fine, Finn. It may not be common, but it’s not unheard of. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not that. It’s… hey, you can’t tell anyone this, okay?”

“I know. Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?”

“Right.” Finn takes a breath, squeezing his eyes closed. “What if I told you I know who they are? Or I think I do?”

“Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Well, I’d ask you if they knew.”

“And I’d say I don’t think so. One of them’s pretty stubborn—wouldn’t see love if it stood up on the ice and sang the national anthem—and the other isn’t nineteen yet, so he doesn’t—I mean wouldn’t—have his mark yet.”

“His?”

Finn’s eyes widen. There is a pause before he nods, slowly. “Yeah. Got a problem?”

“Trust me, I’m the last person on earth who’d have a problem with something like that. Hypothetically.”

This, at least, earns Remus a smile. “Are you…?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” Another pause. “What if I told you, still hypothetically, that they were both on the team?”

“Then I’d say get the fuck out of here and win them over before they start thinking you’ve forgotten about them.”

Finn, smiling ear to ear, starts to leave. “Wait,” he says, hand on the doorknob. “You said you were…”

“Gay.”

“Yeah. Do—do you know who your soulmate is?”

Remus opens his mouth to say ‘no.’ He really does. But what comes out—when he takes into account the look of recognition on Sirius’s face when Remus had his sleeves rolled up; the understanding that had passed between them outside Remus’s building (god, that was just last night); the way they’ve always just clicked—is most certainly not ‘no.’

“Oh, fuck, I think I do,” he says, and he and Finn run out into the hallway together.

Sirius’s car is pulling out of the parking lot when Remus arrives, out of breath, at the front doors of the arena.

“I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry.” Remus jumps. He hadn’t heard James come to stand beside him. “Just packed up his gear at the speed of light and left. Didn’t even shower; he said he’d do it at home.”

So Sirius had been so appalled—disgusted, even—at Remus being his soulmate that he’d left without explanation, with barely even a goodbye. There was a pleasant thought.

He turns so his back is against the door, sliding slowly down to sit on the floor.

“Y’know,” James says, sitting next to him, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you needed a hug.”

There’s a moment of comfortable silence before Remus says, “James?”

“Yeah?”

“I need a hug.”

James gives the best hugs. Everyone says so. But until now, Remus has never been on the receiving end of a true James Potter hug—warm, strong, and friendly as hell. (“I want that on a t-shirt,” James says when Remus tells him so.)

But eventually, James has to go, too, and Remus heads back to the PT room. He passes Logan in the hall, looking like he’s been hit over the head with a two-by-four. Maybe it’s Finn’s doing; he had mentioned that one of them was oblivious. Logan, Remus knows, is the definition of oblivious.

***

“And I think that’s all,” Coach Weasley says, glancing around, “Unless anyone else has something to say? Moody? Cap? Loops?”

“Actually, yes,” says Remus after a moment. “Checkups! Not naming names but Kris lied about his rib acting up so now all of you get to be interrogated.”

Sirius swallows. He’s not anxious to be alone with Remus; not after yesterday. There’s no way there aren’t going to be questions.

Kasey goes first, Remus taking just under five minutes to deem him ‘good to go.’ Kris, surprisingly, is only kept for eight, despite the claim of his ribs acting up again. Finn takes the longest—fifteen minutes—and as soon as he’s out he grabs Logan and Leo by the wrists and marches them off somewhere. Sirius’s turn comes last, right after Pascal’s, who gives him a knowing look as he enters.

“Hi,” Remus says, first aid kit nowhere in sight. “Sit down.”

“Where?” Sirius gets only a shrug in response.

He hesitates a moment, then sits on the floor, picking at the sole of his sneaker.

“How are you feeling?” Remus asks suddenly.

“Fine. Ankle’s not bothering me any more.”

“No, I mean how are you feeling?”

Scoffing, he starts to stand up. “I’m not doing this.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sirius Black, sit your ass back down before I make you.”

Sirius sits his ass back down.

“Good. Now, how are you feeling?”

“I’m… confused,” he says, trying to be honest without being specific. “And nervous. And I cried myself to sleep last night, which I haven’t done since I was like seventeen, so there’s that. But mostly I’m just really fucking mad.”

“At me.” It isn’t a question.

“No, not at you! At me! At the—” he gestures wildly. “—Universe, or whatever. Can I go now?”

Remus doesn’t even acknowledge his request. “So you’re disappointed.”

“...Yeah.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’m pretty sure you fucking know why.”

“Maybe I do. But I’d like you to explain it to me.”

The stupid thing is that Sirius wants to talk about it. He really does. And Remus is the only person he can conceivably talk about it to. But he still chokes on his words when he says, anger burning his throat, “It was never supposed to be like this.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Sirius practically screams. “Stop trying to fucking— psychoalalyze me or something, for fuck’s sake. You fucking asked, and I—” He tears his fingers through his hair, feeling his chest start to constrict. “Just stop talking!”

The echoes of his shouts fade out too quickly, and the only thing worse than the voices is the sound of his breathing getting faster and faster. Remus’s hand twitches, as though he wants to touch him but thinks better of it.

“It was always supposed to be someone different. Someone faceless; nameless. Someone I could run away from. I can’t fucking run away from you, Remus.

“I always thought I could lie. That I could—pretend, or something. Just keep hiding. It was supposed to be someone I could hide from, because I’ve spent my whole life fucking hiding and that’s all I know how to do. It was never supposed to be someone I could fall in love with.”

There’s a choked noise from where Remus is sitting on the bench, but nothing else. Sirius refuses to look at him.

“And I just—I just fucking hate this, because all I’ve been told is that hockey comes before my dreams. And that’s made sense until now because until now hockey was my dream, but now there’s you. Yeah.”

Remus, to his credit, waits until Sirius’s breathing has calmed down and he’s furiously wiped the tears from his eyes to speak. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean forget everything. Forget your family, forget the team, forget me—what do you need?

“Right now? For the rest of my life? Because those are two very different things.”

“Let’s start with now. Can I do anything for you? Can you do anything for yourself?”

“I need a hot chocolate.”

***

They wait until everyone else has gone, and then make their way outside to Sirius’s car. There’s only one other in the parking lot—a grey Toyota Remus thinks belongs to Nado, or maybe Kris. He’s not sure why he thinks it matters, because it doesn’t.

Silence hangs around them the whole four blocks to the nearest Tim Horton’s. Inhale; exhale. Inhale; exhale. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

That doesn’t stop Remus from hoping.

He knows it’s wrong; of course he does. It’s Sirius’s choice, in the end, because Sirius is the one who will be most affected. His career, his life—all on the line if he decides to trust whatever plan the world has in store for them. It’s not like that for Remus. Not anymore.

There’s a parking spot right outside the front door. Sirius pulls into it, but he doesn’t get out right away. He glances around, makes sure there’s no one immediately in sight, and then he looks down to where his hands now rest in in his lap. Slowly, he pulls up his right sleeve to expose, bit by bit, his soulmark.

“I don’t know why I never guessed it could be you—Wolfy McWolf Wolf.”

Remus feels his lips twitch upwards into something resembling a smile. “I could say the same, Dog Black.”

When he puts his hand on the console, Sirius rests his on top of it. It’s not much.

But it’s something.

***

Sirius looks longingly at the Boston cream doughnuts. “Please. I haven’t had one in so long.”

“Think again, Mr. I’m-on-a-diet-plan.”

He’s not surprised. What was he thinking, having his PT as his soulmate? (Well, he wasn’t. He didn’t get to choose. But, he thinks to himself, the point still stands.)

“I’ll have a medium hot chocolate, please, a plain toasted bagel,” Remus looks at him and sighs. “...And a Boston cream doughnut.”

When the food is set down on the pickup counter, Remus snatches it before Sirius has a chance to. “Hey, this is my doughnut.”

Sirius pouts.

“You’re cute. Here.” He tosses him the brown paper bag, and Sirius removes his prize carefully. He‘s going to eat every piece of chocolate glazing if it kills him.

Back out in the car—this is a conversation neither of them is willing to have in the public dining area—Remus chews on his bagel thoughtfully. Sirius tries and fails not to swear when his hot chocolate burns his tongue.

“Shit!”

Remus glances over at him. Their eyes meet for a moment, then both look away. “So,” Sirius says after a while. “I think we need to talk.”

“Yeah.”

Silence, then—

“You go first,” they say at the same time, and laugh. Some of the tension is broken.

Sirius reaches hesitantly to where Remus’s arm rests between the seats. He doesn’t need to voice his question—Remus sees it in his eyes; nods.

Up close, he can see that there are a few differences between their marks. Nothing that could possibly mean they aren’t soulmates—just the discolouring on the dog’s tail; the angle of one of the sticks; the faded white gash that stretches from one side of Remus’s wrist to the other, separating the wolf’s head from its body. Sirius doesn’t quite know what he’s doing when he presses his lips to the scar.

When he looks up, he sees that Remus is trying not to cry. And that’s when he makes his decision.

“I want this,” he says, voice soft but sure. “All of it.”

#sweater weather lumosinlove #coops #soulmate au #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sweater weather secret santa #tw: panic attack

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hookingminor · 4 years

Text

home sweet home - pierre-luc dubois

a/n: this was the only gif I could find in the search where he had a thick beard. and this is in response to the anon who asked for pld eating his girl out when he got home it’s all smut, short and sweet and to the point. I promise I'm writing close quarters part 4 now.

word count: 1.6k

warnings (18+): all smut

“Oh my god, baby, I missed you so much,” Pierre grunted against your lips. He was on you the second he’d stepped through the door and wrapping you up in his arms.

“I missed you, too,” you giggled as he lifted you off the ground and spun you in a circle. Pierre set you back on the floor, never disconnecting his lips from yours.

The Blue Jackets had been eliminated almost a week ago, but Pierre had to hole himself up in a hotel for a few days while he waited for his latest test results to come in to confirm it was safe to go back home. Those few days had been the longest of his life, even longer than the two months he’d spent away from you in the bubble.

At least in the bubble he had his teammates and friends and games to worry about. In the hotel, he had no one and the pics you had sent him had only made the situation worse because he couldn’t touch you.

“Beard’s looking good, babe,” you commented when the kiss broke apart. You cupped your hand against his cheek to rub at the long hair there.

“I kept it just for you,” he said with a smirk. You told him frequently how much you loved his beard considering he never let it grow out that long, and playoffs were the only time it grew more than just a scruff. And you may have also threatened him to not shave before you could see him.

You bit your lip in contemplation as you let your mind wander to thoughts of him between your legs and the beard rubbing against your thighs.

“Okay, maybe we should get you to the bedroom,” Pierre chuckled as he saw that look in your eyes. Bending down a few inches, he hooked his hands underneath your thighs and lifted you up. Your legs went to wrap around his waist and your hands rested on his broad shoulders.

“Did you get thicker in those few months?” You teased, running your hands along the expanse of his chest. He knew you were poking fun at that one interview he had. Leaning his head back in, he pressed his lips against yours to shut you up as he walked you both to the bedroom.

Pierre laid you on the bed, his body following yours as he leaned over you. Pulling back from the kiss, he kissed over your cheek and along your jaw, and then down your neck. You tugged him back by his hair for a split second so you could lift your shirt over your head.

Letting out a low groan at your bare chest, he dove his head back into your neck to suck a hickey into the skin. Your head tilted back to allow him more access as he continued to move further down your body. The brush of his beard against your skin was scratchy and tickled.

Closing his mouth around one nipple, he bit lightly while he tweaked your other nipple between two fingers. You let out a gasp at the feeling, and your body instinctively arched up to press closer to his face.

“Fuck, I miss your tits,” he moaned as he squeezed your breast.

“I sent you, like, a million pictures,” you laughed breathlessly, your hand tangling in the curls at the base of his neck.

“And jacking off to them doesn’t compare,” he replied, kissing down your stomach.

Throughout his time in the bubble, Pierre was constantly calling you late at night in hopes of phone sex. He was always calling when you were about to sleep or were already asleep, so you sent him multiple photos to hold him over and so he would stop bothering you.

Pierre kissed along the waistband of your shorts and dug his fingers underneath the fabric. Helping him out, you lifted your hips off of the bed so he could roll both your shirts and panties down your legs. He tossed them off to the side to join your discarded shirt before quickly tugging his own t-shirt off.

Lowering himself onto his stomach, Pierre spread your thighs apart as he nestled his wide shoulders between them.

“Please, Luc,” you sighed as he blew light puffs of air on your dripping cunt.

“What do you want, baby?” He asked, bringing one finger up to spread your wetness around.

“God, your mouth,” you moaned, “Your fingers. Anything, please.”

“Like this?” Pierre repeated the same light stroking motions through your folds.

“More,” you whined, arching your hips off the bed to grind into his face.

“Be patient,” he chastised with a chuckle and then slung your legs over his shoulders. Pierre wrapped one arm around your middle to keep your body still.

With a tentative lick, he stroked his tongue over your pussy in one fluid motion, to which you responded with a resounding moan.

“Please,” you begged again, “I need it.”

He decided to take mercy on you then, your wanton body obviously needing relief. And if Pierre was being honest, he didn’t have it in him to keep teasing you. It had been a long few months for him as well.

Connecting his lips to your folds, his tongue darted again and licked from your entrance all the way up to your clit. Your hands immediately came down to grip his hair as your mouth fell open in silent pleasure.

You could feel the burn of his beard on your thighs as you clenched around his head and also the scratch of it on your cunt as Pierre lapped at you. The friction added that little extra bit of stimulation, your body climbing closer to climax as he closed his lips around your clit.

“Holy shit,” you moaned out. Pierre pulled back for a split second which caused you to snap your eyes open to look down at him.

He lifted his fingers back to your pussy and spread your folds apart. Looking directly into your eyes, he caught your gaze as you watched him spit into your cunt.

Pierre’s tongue was back on you almost instantly after and he slid one finger into your entrance.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” he encouraged, adding a second finger to the mix. You hadn’t meant to hold back, but you were wound so tightly.

He thrusted his fingers in tandem with the movements of his tongue on your clit, curling them perfectly to hit that spot deep inside you. You threw your head back into the pillow when he hit your g-spot and moaned while your fingers tightened in his curls.

“Don’t stop,” you said lowly, trying to rock your hips as best as you could against his restraining arms.

“Come on,” he mumbled, “I know you’re close. Come for me, baby.”

The combination of his fingers and tongue had you falling over the edge in no time, your toes curling as he worked you through it.

When Pierre pulled away from your pussy and you came down from your high, he leaned his body back over yours to gaze into your eyes. You were sure your eyes were blown out all the way and your cheeks were flushed. Pierre’s playoff beard was coated in your juices, and you could already feel the burn from it between your legs. It was definitely going to be uncomfortable tomorrow, but it was completely worth it for how sexy he looked right now.

“God, you’re so hot,” you moaned and pulled him down by his head to connect your lips.

You could taste yourself on him, but you didn’t care. Pierre grunted into your mouth when you wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to press his dick against your core. As expected, he was already rock hard.

Pierre ground himself into your center, and you could feel your wetness coating his sweatpants.

“I need you inside me right now,” you said breathlessly.

You tried your best to shove his sweatpants down, but Pierre had to eventually pull back to kick them off the rest of the way. Slowly pushing into you, he hitched an arm under your leg to reach a deeper angle.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he moaned into your neck when he bottomed out.

Pierre kept the pace slower than normal, taking the time to stretch you out as he thrusted into you deeply. His hips slammed into yours while he continued to scatter hickies across your neck and your hands clutched at his back.

Your fingernails dug into his skin as he bit at your throat and pounded into you. Maybe it was because he hadn’t gotten you off in months, but you were just on the verge of coming for the second time that night.

Knowing your body as well as he did, Pierre knew you were close. He brought his hand down between your bodies and rubbed his thumb against your clit to push you over.

You came with his name on your lips and your hand in his hair, and Pierre was following right after you. He came inside you, and you desperately missed the feeling of him filling you up.

“Holy shit, I missed this,” he panted as he pulled out of you, rolling onto his side, “I missed you.” Pierre tugged you into his side so you were cuddled into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you in an embrace and tilted his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m sad you’re out of the playoffs, but I can’t say I’m upset you’re home early,” you admitted.

“Honestly? Can’t say I’m too heartbroken about it either,” he chuckled in agreement, “You’re better than any cup.”

#pierre luc dubois #pierre luc dubois imagine #hockey imagines #nhl imagines #nhl smut #my writing #jets13

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a-lil-perspective · 3 years

Text

Nepenthe

Your chest fills with a soft gasp. You uncurl your sleep-infused joints, shifting on your back within the bed. Full, tranquil breaths usher you along. You flicker your gaze over to the chrono. Your lashes bat away a lingering bleariness as you acclimate to your obsidian-colored surroundings. You become acutely aware of a calloused hand nestled in your hairline, a thumb now smoothing away the furrow manifested between your brows.

In the pitch black, you feel his eyes cast heavily over you.

“Can’t sleep?” Your voice is still weak with slumber. You reach out a drowsy hand, intuitively finding his jawline and cradling it. There’s a pause, and then you feel his features rearrange with a smirk underneath your fingertips.

“Distracted by something beautiful is more like it.”

“At this hour?” You hum. “Must be a real work of art.”

“Mhm,” his hand slides down from your hair, tapping your nose on the way before ghosting over your now slightly part lips. “You certainly are.”

Something like a giggle escapes you, and you drape the back of your free hand across your face to hide the silly blush he can’t even see in the shadows inking the midnight room. His warm breaths grow closer, peppering across your skin. You gather yourself, hollowing your cheeks. “Well don’t stay awake on my account. You should rest.”

“Trust me...” his knuckles stroke along your cheekbone with a tenderness that nearly makes your heart give out. “It’s a good reason to be awake.”

“But not the only reason.” You scale his words footnoted by affection, bypassing directly to the underlying meaning while he proceeds to mouth your neck in lieu of an explanation.

“You had a nightmare,” you whisper after a moment, stifling a shiver and gliding your fingers through his hair unbound from its usual crimson accessory.

He shakes his head, forcing a reassuring smile. “They don’t visit me when I’m with you.”

“Lies,” you accuse gently, eyes softening as you unravel his plight. Your hand wanders from his jaw to the nape of his neck, in which you collect your evidence in the form of a cold and clingy sheen of sweat that’s clearly been settled for some time. You listen to his deep, burdened inhale that manifests from your discovery. If you squint hard enough you can make out his broad chest swelling with the intake. You mentally count the seconds his breath is held in stasis, and the heady silence that flanks. Four. And then his exhale billows heavily and he’s pressing his forehead to yours in defeat.

Your heart aches for him. You part the dark curtain of hair spilling over the both of you and imprint a sweet kiss to the corner of his lip. “It’s alright, Hunter; I’m here.”

He makes a pained sound against you.

“Was it the boys?”

His silence speaks for itself, waxing the anguish.

“Wake me next time.” It’s a useless plea, you know. You can never remove a soldier from the battlefield, nor stop the tape of death that rolls infinitely behind his closed lids.

From his glued position, he manages a fervent shake of his head. “Seeing you sleep peacefully... it’s soothing to me.”

You frown, fingers threading through his saturated scalp. You peel away from his face and crunch upward into a sitting position.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur, loving lips tacking against his earlobe as you gently detangle. Hunter’s grip tightens in protest.

“I promise; right back,” you plant a chaste kiss to his cheek and roll out of his hold and off the bed, dashing to the refresher. The faucet shoots on, and you’re back seconds later with a wrung cloth monitored thoughtfully; not too hot or cold. You’ve long learned the extent of Hunter’s restlessness that flourishes in the wake of direct heat, and similarly, an unanticipated chill proves catastrophic to his sensitized nerves and he shoots into overload in no time flat. You, ever the attentive companion, fortunately discovered the most ideal temperatures to coat items before application.

You gingerly drape the rag over the back of his neck, and his shoulders slope at the contact. He nods his thanks and you take up your spot beside him on the edge of the bed.

His head remains cast downward, eyes presumably skimming the dark floor where he no doubt is attempting to shrug off all his troubles onto. You rub between his shoulder blades.

“Do you want to call them?” You ask.

He takes a shaky breath. “I think... that might help. Yes.”

You twist your body around, flopping ridiculously across the bed to reach the nightstand you could’ve just gotten up and walked around to. You fumble briefly for the comm seated there before straightening back up and activating a sequence. The light on the device blinks silently in working to establish a connection. A tremor burgeons from the mattress, a byproduct of Hunter’s bouncing knee. You still his disquiet with a reassuring squeeze. A voice finally crackles to life on the other end.

“Hello?” The greeting is interrupted by a seismic yawn.

“Hey Wrecker,” you greet gently. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Oh, hiya!” Sleep quickly disbands from the large man upon recognition of your voice as he inflates with something more peppy. “What’s up?”

“Oh you know, checking in,” you pause, glancing over at Hunter. “Sarge and I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hey vod!” Wrecker addresses his brother then. “Everything good?”

“Everything’s fine, Wrecker,” Hunter does his best to withhold the weariness lacing his words. “Just wanted to hear your voice. You can go back to sleep now, bud.”

Wrecker hums contemplatively. “Y’sure that’s all? Ain’t sounded like ya slept a wink.”

“I‘ll get there, don’t worry about me.”

“Need a good Wrecker cuddle?”

An unfiltered chuckle sounds through Hunter, and you relish the closest thing to at ease he’s sounded all night. “Maybe later, Wreck. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Ohhhh,” Wrecker drawls cheekily, his wicked grin palpable as he recalls that Sarge is already occupied with a warm body. “Well ‘f ya change your mind lemme know! Nighty night you two.”

“Goodnight, Wrecker.” You can’t help your own splitting grin.

Hunter snorts softly as the comm ends. “Feels like I’ve been caught in something scandalous.”

“Yeah, but he’s loyal,” you snicker, contacting the next member.

“Present.” It comes as no surprise that the engineer’s voice rings through with an unnerving level of chipper. Absolutely preposterous, this man. “Where am I needed?”

“In bed,” Hunter grumbles. “Get to sleep, Tech.”

“And yet you are the one who called me,” Tech glides right over the explicit command, the sound of his trinketing flooding the background. “Anyway, I look forward to showing you my newest creation—”

“Goodnight, Tech,” you sever his impending presentation with a snort. “Thanks for picking up. Puts Hunter’s mind at ease. He’s restless tonight.”

“Ah, yes. We will need to work on his subpar development regarding healthy sleep patterns.”

Hunter’s face twists with a frown that doesn’t hold that much weight. “If that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“Indeed. I just thought you might enjoy the humor in that.”

Hunter flashes a smirk he figures his younger brother is probably matching. “You know yours is my favorite, vod’ika.”

“That is good to hear.” A pause. “Goodnight, Hunter. Should you still find yourself restless in the coming hours, I’m happy to assist with my ‘useless trivia’ that inevitably puts you to sleep.”

“By that point you should find yourself asleep,” the ori’vod points out.

“Very well,” Tech relents. “I shall, for you.”

Hunter just shakes his head, unconvinced he won’t discover a sleepy genius slumped over the nearest workbench here within the next few hours.

Another round of brotherly charges are exchanged and then you’re left with one last call to make.

The last member acknowledges in a far less amiable manner.

“Crosshair.” You innately grow solemn with it. “Got a second?”

“Don’t really have a choice now,” he responds curtly, a lingering husk of sleep in his voice.

“Sorry Cross,” Hunter interjects. “My doing. Just wanted to check in on you boys.”

“At two in the morning.”

Hunter manages a wry smile. “Can’t say hi to my vode whenever?”

There’s silence on Crosshair’s end for a moment.

“What’s going on.” He’s returned bearing more sage.

You feel Hunter straighten beside you. “Nothin’, vod. Don’t worry about it.”

“That doesn’t work on me, Hunter. Try again.”

“I’m fine,” Hunter said rushingly. “Promise. Just gets a little stuffy in my head sometimes. But you boys always make it better, y’know?”

Crosshair quiets. “Get some rest. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Thanks vod. Appreciate it.”

You imagine Crosshair’s eyes searing into you through the comm as his attention shifts. “Keep me updated.”

“I will,” you assure. The connection ends. You eye Hunter, grazing your fingernails along the side of his head, tucking inky strands behind his ear. “Did that help at all?”

Hunter huffs a tired laugh. “Think it just made it worse. Now none of ‘em will sleep because of me.”

“They’ll be just fine,” you begin guiding him back under the covers. “Now to make sure you are.” He resists you for the briefest of moments.

“I am fine, honey.”

“You will be,” you agree, lying back. Hunter soon follows and sprawls out over top of you, wriggling until he’s positioned ideally with his head on your chest yet within proximity of your neck to plaster kisses with ease when the mood strikes.

Hunter makes a little choked sound, and you realize he’s clearing his throat. “Thank you... for doing that for me.”

You flatten his head to your chest with something fiercely protective. “I would do anything for you.”

“Which, by and large, is entirely unnecessary.”

He earns himself a long-suffering sigh at that.

“It is necessary. Because you are my everything.”

“I—”

“Shh,” you rebuke him. “Dammit, Hunter—just let someone take care of you.” You chew your lip. “Let me.”

He inhales deeply through his nose. It is entirely plausible for Sergeant Hunter to be bested in a battle-of-the-wills on the rarest of occasions; this being one of them. You spread your hands across his back and begin a deliberating massage. He groans lightly, his neglected aches and pains woven into the limelight by your touch. You quickly get caught up in your administration. When your breath suddenly hitches, Hunter lifts his head in curiosity.

“I’m just… you...” Words feel thick on your tongue. “You are a remarkable man, you know that?”

The corded muscles of his back tense. Anyone else would bask in such awestruck reverence but not Hunter, who makes haste to override his obvious discomfort with a thoughtful hum.

“I know that’s what you believe,” he answers neutrally.

“Because it’s true.” You reposition the wicking cloth at his neck. “Your brothers and I... we would all be lost without you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

A pinch to his bicep. “Maybe you’re too hard on yourself.” Too damn stubborn, you nearly add.

His demeanor is colored with remiss. “All in a Sergeant’s work.”

One-hundred percent success rates and elite statuses aside: Hunter carries his tediously bashful disposition in total part.

“You don’t have to be Sergeant around me, you know,” you cup his face, tilting him up to meet yours. “You can just be Hunter.”

He can just be himself.

He shrugs with that pained, dutiful smile. The smile that follows him into adversity, the wry humor that is as much his shield as any. “Guess I don’t know how to separate the two.”

Your eyes well all of a sudden as you gaze upon this beautiful and troubled man with so much love in your heart it sends a keeling pang through you. Of course he doesn’t know how. He’s never known how to truly feel distinguished outside the focal point of soldiering. He’s always been so different, but never an individual. Never his own man. Preordained for responsibilities since before his decant, conducive in parental devices and sibling undertakings and leadership skills interchangeably. Always carrying others but who carries him?

You choke on a verklempt breath.

“I can help you.” You sound so small and desperate, sobbing quietly underneath him as your heart breaks alongside his. “Please let me help you…”

In the dark he captures your salty, stray tear with his lips—he always knows—before moving down and swallowing your mouth. Tenderness blooms from his textured lips, soft and sultry and seeping into every capillary. A soft love note pings from you against him when he’s got you like this, cast in a smelter of dire adoration and the overwhelming need to nurture. His touch, his kiss, is a burning ember that brands you even when he pulls away.

“You already do,” he murmurs sweetly against your lips.

#omg this ruined me #I’m so freaking emotional over him #this is entirely self indulgent #star wars #the bad batch #clone force 99 #sergeant hunter x reader #hunter x reader #sergeant hunter #hunter #clone trooper wrecker #wrecker #clone trooper tech #tech #clone trooper crosshair #crosshair #my writing #it’s a lil thing

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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Haunting, Haunted, Haunts

Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: ~960

Warnings: Not the most explicit thing I’ve ever written, but definitely not G-rated. This is dark. Set between seasons 3 & 4, so. Demon blood Sam, with all the angst and self-destructive tendencies that that entails. Depression, suicidal ideation, rough sex.

A/N: For the “Quote E” square on my @supernatural-jackles Tell Me A Story Bingo card! My quote was “I’m here, just like I promised.” Pretty sure that was supposed to be a fluffy quote. Oops.

This is a phase of Sam’s life that I tend to fixate on a lot; I’ve written about it before in Set Yourself On Fire and Might As Well. Check those out if you enjoy this, I guess? Title and thematic inspiration from an Against Me! song.

Sam’s mouth still tastes like blood when she comes back. She slams the door shut and he runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering if she��ll be able to taste the coppery-sharp, rotting-fruit tang of it on his lips.

“You’re here,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that Sam understands.

Her eyes are a little unfocused, looking through him. He looks down at his hands, the dirt under his nails and the rusty stains coating his palms. The bloodstains aren’t real — or at least he doesn’t think they are. They shiver in and out of existence as he blinks away the not-quite-hallucinations that come with the high sometimes. He imagines the bloodstains fading, and his hands along with them, going translucent until he vanishes.

Is there a word for when your entire body feels like a phantom limb?

“I’m still here.”

(Is he?)

He’s not sure. It’s hard to be sure of anything, these days. He skulks around at the edges of reality, haunting all these liminal spaces. He wakes up in abandoned houses where the dust swirls around him like ghostly figures in slanting rays of light. He sleeps in motels that feel like sun-bleached pastel-hued mausoleums.

Days go by in strobes of washed-out neon and flickering fluorescent, glinting glass bottles and scraped-raw knuckles, punches from strangers that never land quite as hard as he wants them to — because even when he picks his fights staggering drunk and slurring, he can’t help but win. Dean taught him how to throw a punch and his dad taught him how to take one; if there’s anything Sam knows how to do, it’s how to keep fighting when logic would demand that he give up and die.

Sometimes he isn’t sure whether he’s real. Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t.

When the high kicks in and he can’t feel any pain, Sam can almost convince himself that he died when Dean did. When the comedown hits and everything aches, Sam wishes he was dead.

Her lip is split, and she’s thumbing it absently as she comes closer. She’s still beautiful, even with the bruised-dark hollows around her eyes, the way they’re glazed-over and feverish, and the unnatural flush on her cheeks.

She puts a hand on his chest, watching carefully as her warm palm makes contact, like she’s waiting for her fingers to go right through him, maybe. Her head lolls to one side, a little too loose. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer.

He reaches out, grazes a curled knuckle over the swollen slash in her lip, and she shivers at the contact.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. His voice comes out low and heated, and he swears he didn’t mean it to sound so dirty.

She kisses him desperately, throwing herself against him, and she tastes like blood.

Sam picks her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, slamming her against the wall and rolling his hips, too much rough friction between them with their jeans, and she groans. He staggers to the couch, sits down hard and pulls her down against him with a hand tangled in her hair, sucking a bruise into the soft curve of her breast. She gives it right back: teeth sinking into his lip, nails raking his back, grinding down so hard it hurts.

She was out of her skull at the time, and he doesn’t think she remembers telling him: Not so nice. Make it hurt. When you’re nice I can almost forget you’re not Dean.

She almost rips his shirt getting it over his head, and then it’s a frantic scramble to get her tank top off, get her zipper open — she almost falls when he shoves her to her feet so he can push her jeans down her thighs. She sways into him, unsteady, fumbling with his belt, and when he slides a hand down between her legs she shudders, tilting forward to rest her forehead against his chest, shoulders shaking with a sob as he drags slick fingers up and down and in.

“Sam,” she says, ragged and desperate.

“I know. I’m right here.”

Dean had snuck a glance at her in the rearview, reassuring himself that she was snoring, and he’d said it like a prayer: “When I can’t be here, Sammy, you gotta look out for her. Okay? Just… don’t leave her alone.”

He’d brushed it off at the time — yeah, right, like I’d just ditch her—but when things were really bad, after — when Sam came closer to the edge than he’d like to admit — he thought of that promise: I’ll be here.

It’s her fault he can’t just fade away.

He shoves her face-down on the couch, feels the throb of his pulse in his cock as she strains back against him — as she struggles. He grabs her hip with one hand, fingers pressing into bruises that echo their shape, biting into where her flesh gives so nicely under the too-tight grip.

He shoves himself down, feeling the slippery-silky-softness of her body — inside — where she’s wet and hot and undeniably alive.

They’re still here. They’re here, and this is what people do when they’re alive, right? They fuck and they struggle and they hurt each other until they bleed.

They’re here, and Dean’s not.

He grits his teeth, grinds into her, feels the buzzing high under his skin and the convulsive shudder of her inhale under his body. He drags his fingernails up the side of her hip. She reaches back, grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair, and the sting is enough to make his eyes water.

I’m here, just like I promised.

It hurts.

#tell me a story bingo #sam winchester fic #sam x reader fic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester angst

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minyoongiest · 3 years

Text

Hold Me Tight || MYG (M)

• pairing: Yoongi x reader

• rating: 18+

• type/genre: smut, fluff, idol!au, established relationship

• word count: 2k

• summary: Since Yoongi’s shoulder surgery, you’ve had to dial back the physical part of your relationship. However, now that he’s out of the sling, even though he’s not completely healed, you have an idea to ease back into things.

• contains: explicit language, explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation, fingering, vaginal sex, emotional sex, creampie

• note: This is an idea I’ve had in my head since September, and I finally got around to it. Since his shoulder is still a pretty big thing happening, I couldn’t just leave it out, but I think it works.

- translations are at the end

|| ao3 ||

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It’s still raining when I get out of the shower. I listen to it ping against the window and beat on the roof as I dry off and run a comb through my hair before pulling on a fluffy robe and going to find Yoongi.

He’s in the bedroom when I walk in, sitting on the edge of the mattress wearing just his sleep pants, facing the window and looking at his phone. Climbing on my knees on the bed, I move up behind him and slide my arms around his bare waist (being careful of his left arm) and press my lips to the edge of his ear.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Did you just get up?”

“Mmm.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Nalssi,” he rumbles.

“It’s raining,” I murmur, pointing out the obvious.

“Ne,” he sighs, closing the weather app on his phone. “And it’s supposed to continue all day…should go back to bed,” he mutters.

I glance over at the rain-battered window.

“Wait. Does that mean you’re not going to the company today? Or the studio? Or PT?”

“I don’t have any official schedules today,” he says softly. “I have rehab for an hour or so tonight though.”

“Well,” I start slowly, “going back to bed sounds nice, but…”

“But?”

“I mean, I don’t want to wear you out or anything before that, but I had a thought.”

“What thought?” He turns to face me, and I scoot back on the bed.

“I was thinking maybe, since we have a little time, and your arm is out of the sling, we might could have…sex.”

I watch his eyes widen with surprise for a split second before he shuts them and looks down, shaking his head.

“I can’t,” he mutters. “Not yet.”

“You mean because of your shoulder,” I whisper.

“I can’t put all my weight on my arm,” he says quietly, “and you can’t be on top because–”

“I know,” I interrupt. “I thought of that.”

Even if I’m doing all the work, that would still hurt his shoulder.

“But there is something else we can try. A different position. If you want.”

His eyebrow rises, and I reach down to grab his phone before doing a quick image search and handing it back to him.

“What is this?” he frowns.

“Lotus,” I explain. “This way you won’t put any weight or pressure on your arm, and we can still have sex.”

I watch his pupils dilate as his gaze dips into the front of my robe before jumping back to his phone.

“Yeah,” he says huskily. “Okay.”

Before he says anything else, he stands and tucks his thumb into the waistband of his pants, sliding them off his hips. I bite my lip as his rapidly swelling cock appears, shifting on the bed as my pussy squeezes acutely. I want it inside me.

God, I miss him.

He shakes the fabric off of his ankle and climbs onto the bed, glancing at his phone before he sets it on his nightstand.

“So, I sit like this?” he murmurs as he mimics the photo, positioning himself cross-legged in front of the pillows.

“Yes,” I nod and move toward him. “And then I sit…like this.”

Carefully, I climb into his lap so that I’m facing him on my knees, the backs of my things resting on the tops of his.

“Now what?” he whispers.

“Now, I’m gonna kiss you.” My voice cracks, and I wince as his eyes jump to mine.

I move before he has a chance to ask if I’m okay, sliding my fingers into his hair, tilting my head so my nose brushes against his before our lips touch. And I am okay. Mostly. I’m more okay than I have been. I just haven’t gotten to be like this, to touch him like this in longer than I’m used to. I mean, when he’s gone on tour it’s one thing, but when he’s physically here, and I still can’t touch him, it doesn’t feel right.

His left hand grips my hip, and I gasp into his mouth. Without missing a beat, he curls his right arm around my back, pulling me closer, and I moan a little when I feel his hot, hard shaft against my stomach through the gap in my robe. I move my free hand down his spine until I’m cupping his ass, which I give a light squeeze. He grunts against my lips, and I feel it travel straight between my legs.

He breaks the kiss and pulls back, glancing down at me.

“You’re still wearing your robe,” he mumbles.

“Oh. You’re right.”

With his right hand he reaches between us and tugs the belt loose. Rolling my shoulders back, I let the fabric slide off. He immediately grabs it and tosses it aside. I watch his eyes move up my body, and I shiver before dropping my forehead to his.

“You’re not just going to look all day, are you?”

“Mm.”

“Well, I’m going to touch even if you’re not.”

Reaching down between us, I run my fingertips over his rigid cock. His hips jerk underneath mine, but I don’t stop, continuing to stroke and tease him.

He groans my name, his fingers on my hip tightening. I lean my head to the side to kiss his ear and squeal into it instead when his hand dives between my legs, his damn perfect fingers instantly dragging through my wetness.

“I like to touch,” he rumbles softly as his thumb rolls over my clit.

I whimper and try to focus on what I’m doing to his dick. I wrap my whole hand around him, moving up and down before zeroing in on his swollen tip, dragging my fingernail through the glistening precum before rubbing it with my thumb.

“Ssibal!” he hisses into my ear.

I bite my lip and start to take him in my hand again when, suddenly, he buries two of his fingers deep in my pussy. My lungs lock up, and I grab onto his shoulder as he starts to twist his hand inside me.

“Ride them,” he commands quietly.

“O-okay,” I whisper.

Abandoning what I was doing to him, I bury my head in his neck as he begins spreading his fingers. I keep one hand on his shoulder and rest the other on his thigh to keep my balance as I rock my hips against him.

His hand moves faster, pumping in and out, and I hear him grunting softly with each movement. His body is so close to mine, every time I move, my hard nipples drag against his bare chest, sending bursts of heat across my skin. I bite my lips to keep from moaning and fail when he slips in a third finger, my head dropping back as his name rips out of my throat like a swear word.

Immediately, he rolls my clit with his thumb, and I start panting. He knows me too well—where to touch me and when and how…it’s perfect torture.

“I’m close,” I hiss, looking down at him. “Yoongi…”

His eyes meet mine, and I stop breathing at the same time I sink down onto his fingers while his thumb strokes my clit. I come instantly, jerking my head to the side as acute pleasure floods my pussy and spine and thighs, spreading across my skin. I feel my walls spasming around his long slender fingers, even as he slides them out.

“Yoongi,” I choke out as I start to come down.

“Ready for me?”

I blink and look down at his cock between us. It’s even harder and more swollen than when I last touched it.

“Yeah.” I nod, swallowing. “I want it now.”

I lift up on my knees, being careful not to jostle his shoulder, as he lines himself up with my entrance and guides my hips as I slowly sink down. I bite my lip as his angry red tip slides in, whimpering slightly as each feverish inch disappears inside me, until I’ve taken all of him.

“Yoongi?” I lick my lips and look down at him, sliding my fingers into his hair.

“Ne?”

“I missed you,” I whisper.

His right arm slides around my back, holding me close to him as he bucks his hips, making me gasp.

“Nadobogo sip-eoss-eo,” he grunts.

I nod and begin rolling against him as he jerks his hips again. I moan at the sensation of my clit dragging against him, and his fingers tangle in my hair.

I curl one arm around his back and slide my other hand along his jaw, resting my forehead against his as we move together.

“I love you,” I murmur.

“Nado,” he groans. “Saranghae.”

“I’m close again.”

“Now?” He pulls his head back and blinks at me.

“Uh-huh.” I sink down again and feel wet rush between my legs. “It’s been too long…and…”

And my clit keeps rubbing on him every time I move.

“Fuck.”

“Are you close?”

I watch his face as I lift up and drop down again and see a vein throbbing in his neck from how tight he’s clenching his jaw.

“Ne,” he mutters.

His hips jerk faster, and I hold him tighter to me.

“Yoongi…I…”

His hand leaves my hair and grabs my hip, holding them tight to his as he thrusts into me faster and harder than before.

My clit. His dick. I can’t—

“Nal bwa,” he says roughly, and I meet his eyes.

Oh God. They’re so beautiful. And seductive. And they’re watching me while I’m about to—

A sob tears out of my throat and his eyes widen.

“Uljima.”

“It’s not like I’m trying,” I choke out as I rock against him. “I just love you and I’ve missed you, and–”

God, this is the worst time to be emotional about this.

His hand in my hair tilts my head forward until our foreheads are touching.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m right here.”

“Okay.”

I swallow the stupid lump in my throat at the same time he lets out a low grunt, his hips powering into me.

Fuck, I’m so close.

He does it again, and I whimper, my fingers digging into his shoulder as I move faster in his lap.

“Yoongi, I’m…I–”

He swears loudly at the same time I moan his name, drowning each other out as we come. My body goes still, held tight to his as waves of pleasure crash into me. I feel it in my pussy and spine and legs and belly and nipples…it’s everywhere. His cock is spurting and pulsing at the same time my pussy is clenching and convulsing around it. I’m feeling so much I can’t tell the sensations apart until we start to come down.

I lean forward and kiss his cheek before dropping my head to his shoulder.

“Gwaenchanh-a?” he asks hoarsely, his right hand moving up to stroke my spine.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Better than okay.”

“You can cry now.” He says it so softly I’m not sure he really said it until I look up and see him watching me, waiting for my response.

I shake my head and run my fingers through his hair, particularly the one piece that’s sticking up from how he slept on it.

“I’m really okay,” I assure him. “I just got…caught up in the moment or something. I’m sorry if I freaked you out.”

“Hajima,” he mumbles. “Sometimes you have to cry.”

“But not in the middle of sex.” I look down. “That’s not…sexy.”

“Love isn’t always sexy.”

How dare he be sweet and philosophical about crying during sex?

“Now I might cry,” I whisper.

“Wae?” He blinks.

“Because that was nice, and I’m feeling a lot of things right now.”

Mostly post-orgasmic but that’s not the point.

“Okay, okay.”

He tucks my face into his shoulder again, and I sigh. I really, really love him.

“Are you tired?”

I lift my head and meet his beautiful brown eyes again.

“Yeah.” I nod.

My body is sated, and my legs are numb from sitting on my knees so long.

“Back to bed now?”

“That sounds good.”

He leans in and kisses me, and I hold his face as I kiss him back.

“I like lotus,” he says softly against my lips.

“That’s good.”

I climb off of him carefully and curl onto my side next to him before he exits the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

When he comes back a few minutes later, he’s wearing clean pajama pants and holding a pair of my panties.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him, pulling them on.

“You don’t like to sleep without them,” he points out as he climbs into the bed beside me. “And it’s nap time.”

“Mm. Yay,” I whisper as I move closer to him, resting my head against his arm.

Then he pulls the sheet up over us, and I fall asleep to the sound of rain on the window.

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Translations:

Nalssi – weather

Ne – yes

Ssibal! – Fuck!

Nadobogo sip-eoss-eo – I missed you too

Nado saranghae – I love you too

Nal bwa – Look at me

Uljima – Don’t cry

Gwaenchanh-a? – Okay?

Hajima – Don’t

Wae? – Why?

#networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanhq #btswriterscollective #btsguild #houseofddaeng #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts fanfiction #my fic #hold me tight #bts fic #suga fic #bangtan fanfiction #yoongi fanfiction

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ladyinbooks · 3 years

Text

So on ao3 juiceboxoverlord mentioned ‘ And the way Hess is so enamoured with Dan's emotions and ideology like I bet that if they had never met Hess would still fall in love with Dan on the battlefield probably.’

We all know I have an absolute, terrible weakness for this kind of thing, so I really, really couldn’t resist.

So have a mini AU.

Title: Such Violent Delights Pairing: Hess/Daniel Summary: The Antichrist and the Righteous Man meet on a battlefield. Warning: Some minor descriptions of violence/death; dub-con kissing (I mean, it’s Hess...); Hess POV

These violent delights have violent ends.

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.

Which, as they kiss, consume.

- 'Romeo and Juliet', William Shakespeare

Hess should have seen the ambush coming.

They have been doing so well recently, in their push against Heaven. More territory has fallen to them, more people persuaded by their promises, their ideas.

He should have known it would be too good to last.

The sharp crack as he twists his hand and snaps three necks, reminds him of nothing so much as the splintering of wet wood. Around him the sounds of the dead and the dying are a cacophony, topped by Abaddon's voice bellowing orders.

The bone-white of her hair is visible at the edge of his eyeline. In her suit she is still immaculate, barking at Raum and Asmodeus as she directs his troops like the General she is.

It makes him smile – makes him bare his teeth at the next angel that tries to rush him, as he extends a hand.

That terrible, tearing sensation down his arm; a light so bright that even he almost shields his eyes. He gets a hand on the angel's wrist and pulls.

There is the searing crackle of holy flesh; the unholy sound of an angelic voice raised in a scream. The noise is enough to make the humans around him flinch back, pressing hands to their ears, in a desperate attempt to block out the death of a small piece of the fabric of the universe.

Hess ignores the shriek, and the white hot pain cracking through his finger bones. He smiles, bloodied teeth and wicked intent, and drops the carcass to the floor.

He’s distracted, unfocused, and so it is instinct that saves him, nothing more.

The sharp prickle of intent at the nape of his neck, and he sidesteps just in time to avoid a blade to the back.

He pivots; lashes out and catches the next down-swing with a scrap of shadow.

For a moment, all he can focus on is the sharp steel of the blade centimetres from his throat. The line of it is bright, burning; the runes inscribed on it are holy enough they almost make his eyes water.

A blessed blade.

He only knows one person who would carry such a thing.

He sidesteps again in time to avoid the second blade aiming to bury itself in his gut. One, two, three heartbeats, and he draws in a deep breath.

Enough, he thinks, and the word is broadcast out.

Everything shudders to a halt.

Painfully, grinding and unnatural, the world stills around him.

He doesn't often do this – doesn't often have the inclination or the energy – but sometimes there is a need for it. An itch, just to walk in a frozen reality where there are no demands on him. No threats.

“Let me go,” someone says, harsh, and Hess smiles.

He knows who the Righteous Man is, of course. He's seen Daniel Waters in reports and later – when Heaven sank their perfect claws into him – on screen and in newspapers. Images of him plastered everywhere: saviour, hero, madman.

“A little lost lamb,” he says, and hears the sharp intake of breath.

When he turns to look, Daniel Waters is still too. He's not frozen though – not like every other wretched creature in this blood-soaked field. He's bound, arms strung out by Hess's power.

And in spite of that, he's still fighting.

Tall, strong; a sharp jawline and an undeniable presence. Eyes filled with the burning silver fire of heaven, smoking with purity and determination as he wades against Hess's darkness. A battered leather jacket and scuffed up jeans. Mankind's saviour.

Daniel manages a step, then another, muscles straining as he claws his way forward. His teeth are bared as he snarls, and for one moment Hess honestly wonders if he's about to break free.

“Let me go,” he repeats, and his voice is firm and clear.

It makes Hess want to ruin him.

Blood-soaked and perfect, this creature – this man – is the image of bitter triumph; a holy sacrament, born to suffer at the hands of those who would use him. Made to fight anyway, because he's good. Because he cares.

“Why should I?” he asks, and watches the way Daniel doesn't falter.

“So I can kill you.”

And it's –

Delightful. Wonderful. It makes Hess's heartbeat skip in a way it hasn't for a long, long time.

“Well aren't you a sweet thing,” he says, just to watch the way those eyes flare brighter.

It makes him smile; makes him lick the blood from his teeth as he thinks of war and ruination, and all he could wreak on this perfect, violent creature.

Another painful step, the footfall as heavy as the centre of the earth. Daniel is closer now, arms still bound, but near enough that Hess can see the scattered imperfections of him.

A small nick at the corner of his jaw, long since scarred. The tendons of his neck as he strains, desperate, against the ropes Hess has bound him with. Blond hair, so dark it's almost brown, cropped short enough that Hess probably couldn't get a good grip of it. A perfect, snarling mouth, and a dusting of days-old stubble.

For a moment Hess wonders what colour his eyes were, before he became this pawn. This holy weapon. Were they brown, or green, or blue? Would they look at him in the same way?

Movement, and Daniel's foot lashes out. The heel of it manages to catch Hess's shin. It hits hard enough to hurt, and for a moment he falters.

Nothing has come close enough to injure him since the Before, and his concentration shatters.

The roar Daniel lets loose is triumphant as he breaks free. He lunges forward, slamming into Hess. His swords clatter to the grass, but his momentum doesn't stop.

They fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs, calloused fingers wrapping hard around Hess's throat, squeezing.

The weight of him is perfect; the heat and strength of his body a paradise Hess hasn't felt in a long, long time.

It makes him laugh, breathless, and for a moment the grip of those hands on his neck fails.

He moves - fast and terrible enough that Daniel's lip is splitting under his knuckles before he can recover from the shock. The force of it snaps Daniel's head back, and the impact shudders up Hess's arm.

He twists and they roll, scrabbling against one another until Daniel is flat on his back, Hess gripping his wrists, pressing them above his head into the mud. His fingernails are digging in, and he watches the way something flares and dies in Daniel's eyes; in the way he tries to bring a leg up, to fight against the weight of Hess across his thighs.

“Stay still, sweet thing,” Hess says, and can't help the way he leans down, leans closer. “You don't want to make me angry.”

Daniel growls beneath him, dangerous and not at all subdued. “I don't give a fuck about making you angry.”

“You should.”

The softness of Daniel's lips is a shock; the sharp inhalation of his breath a symphony. The warmth of his mouth is a victory. The taste of his blood lingers on the back of Hess's tongue, as he smiles against the Righteous Man's mouth.

He wants this, and he wants this, and he wants this.

The perfect way to get back at Heaven. To tear them down, one sanctimonious, inane figurehead at a time.

Except –

A pulse, against the pad of his thumb, thundering in time with his own heartbeat. The sharp, vicious sensation of teeth sinking into his lower lip, and Hess sighs at the feel of it.

Daniel is solid heat beneath him, tangible and human. The way he moves, the strength of him – pressed but not contained – makes an ugliness stir in Hess's chest. The first, icy crack of something threatening to splinter wide.

When he pulls back, Daniel is watching him.

“What –” he begins, and his voice is breathless. “What was –”

And this is what Hess wants. This. Those hazel eyes wide – not silver, not silver, not silver – and Heaven's champion strung out beneath him.

It's not a victory, he realises. Not even close. It's a weakness. A terrible, vicious longing to carve his way deep into this man's chest; to work out all the ways he could be a sinner. To pull him down, because he can. Because he wants to.

Because he can't think of anything else.

Daniel is tense beneath him, watching, waiting. For a moment his gaze slides sideways, snagging on something in the grass less than a foot away, and Hess smiles because he knows exactly what's going on in that angry, clever mind.

“You won't reach them,” he says, low and sweet. “By the time you tried to pick up the first blade, I'd have you weighted down in so many chains that the earth would swallow you whole.”

Daniel sets his jaw. “And if it took me a lifetime to claw my way back up and kill you, I would.”

He means it utterly, and the sincerity of him is thrilling.

This is the only person who can come close to understanding what it is like to stand with a hand on both sides of the scale and weigh destiny. The only one who understands the need for sacrifice; to acknowledge that the old world needs tearing down for a new one to rise.

Blood-soaked and dangerous, and the moment Hess lets him go, he's going to try and tear them both apart.

“Daniel,” he says. Then, “Sweet thing. Angelic fury. Heaven's weapon. Duty and righteousness and honour.”

“Shut up.” The flex of Daniel's fingers, the push back against Hess's grip, and it's nearly enough to unseat him. “Don't you dare –”

He's a killer through and through. Hess can see it, writ deep in the core of his soul. He kills because he has to; because it's right. He protects, and saves, and bleeds for a million souls that will never thank him for it.

And he's perfect.

“I could do so much with you,” Hess says, wondering. “The things we could accomplish.” It's a dream, sweet and tempting. He looks down, sees the slide to silver and smiles.

“But I won't,” he adds. “Because that would ruin you.”

“When I get up,” Daniel says slowly, “I'm going to slit your throat.”

“You're going to try,” Hess says, and hears the terrible adoration in his own voice; the soft fondness he shouldn't have. “But at the moment you're at my mercy.”

He tilts down again; watches the way Daniel tips up a little, without even realising. Sees the way those lips part on a slow, measured inhalation and the dark cut of Daniel's lashes, as for a moment he lets himself be moulded to Hess's will.

What he could do. What he wants to do to this man. It would take decades. Millennia.

“Beg,” he says against the soft, vulnerable skin of Daniel's temple.

Teeth at his ear, and he can feel the slow, careful snarl of those lips. The barely contained rage and want beating through sanctified veins. It makes him shiver.

“Go on,” he adds quietly; a savage demand.

A sharp twist, and he lets one of Daniel's wrists go; feels fingers sink into his hair and pull, twining them closer. The pain of it is a thing of beauty, and he smiles at the way he is going to be pulled apart, one atom at a time, for want of this man.

And Daniel draws back; turns his head a little until they are increments from a kiss, breathing the same air.

“You first,” he says.

#Path to Paradise #Hespherus Jones #Daniel Waters #Ficlet Fridays

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