#stretched cartilage
Text
Total earring redesign! I added a 4th lobe piercing about a month and a half ago to make it happen. I wanted to eliminate captive beads and focus on quality metals and chains. The 6g helix and 8g conch are quartz and glass. The tragus is a custom niobium bend. They are a bit irritated from the install but theyll be ok in a day or 2. I am very happy with the results!
#piercedears#stretched ears#chains#stainless steel#silver#stretched cartilage#helix#tragus#conch#jewelry#charms#quartz#ear plugs#ear weights
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
friendly neighborhood emo spends fifteen minutes shuffling thirteen different piercings around face because one decided to say adios pendejo
#it has completely changed me and im still not done bc the composition is just NOT RIGHT#but i gotta stretch out the cartilage one a lil bit so i can put the one i want in there and my ear is SO red now 😭#piercings#mis cosas#you would not BELIEVE how many holes are in my face (not counting the normal ones)
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
my rejected piercing experience was the worst because i got a nose ring when i was 16 and everyone blamed me for "not taking proper care of it" except i did take care of it cartilage piercings are just the devil!!!!
#like then i got my lip ring and it was so chill in comparison#and then i got an ear cartilage one and it was hell all over again it took like over an year to properly heal#i need revenge for my teenage self she was irresponsible but she took care of her piercing#and did everything right when stretching earlobe too
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
I just dead stretched my septum 2 gauges and it didnt even tickle. With the way people talk about stretching theirs Im convinced people just don't wait long enough inbetween lol.
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
I will write this thought about Veganism and Classism in the USA in another post so as to not derail the other thread:
There are comments in the notes that say meat is only cheaper than plant based foods because of subsidies artificially lowering the price of meat in the United States. This is...part of the story but not all of it.
For my animal agriculture lab we went to a butcher shop and watched the butcher cut up a pig into various cuts of meat. I have had to study quite a bit about the meat industry in that class. This has been the first time I fully realized how strongly the meat on a single animal is divided up by socioeconomic class.
Like yes, meat cumulatively takes more natural resources to create and thus should be more expensive, but once that animal is cut apart, it is divided up between rich and poor based on how good to eat the parts are. I was really shocked at watching this process and seeing just how clean and crisp an indicator of class this is.
Specifically, the types of meat I'm most familiar with are traditionally "waste" parts left over once the desirable parts are gone. For example, beef brisket is the dangly, floppy bit on the front of a cow's neck. Pork spareribs are the part of the ribcage that's barely got anything on it.
And that stuff is a tier above the "meat" that is most of what poor people eat: sausage, hot dogs, bologna, other heavily processed meat products that are essentially made up of all the scraps from the carcass that can't go into the "cuts" of meat. Where my mom comes from in North Carolina, you can buy "livermush" which is a processed meat product made up of a mixture of liver and a bunch of random body parts ground up and congealed together. There's also "head cheese" (made of parts of the pig's head) and pickled pigs' feet and chitlin's (that's made of intestines iirc) and cracklin's (basically crispy fried pig skin) and probably a bunch of stuff i'm forgetting. A lot of traditional Southern cooking uses basically scraps of animal ingredients to stretch across multiple meals, like putting pork fat in beans or saving bacon grease for gravy or the like.
So another dysfunctional thing about our food system, is that instead of people of each socioeconomic class eating a certain number of animals, every individual animal is basically divided up along class lines, with the poorest people eating the scraps no one else will eat (oftentimes heavily processed in a way that makes it incredibly unhealthy).
Even the 70% lean ground beef is made by injecting extra leftover fat back into the ground-up meat because the extra fat is undesirable on the "better" cuts. (Gross!)
I've made, or eaten, many a recipe where the only thing that makes it non-vegan is the chicken broth. Chicken broth, just leftover chicken bones and cartilage rendered and boiled down in water? How much is that "driving demand" for meat, when it's basically a byproduct?
That class really made me twist my brain around about the idea of abstaining from animal products as a way to deprive the industry of profits. Nobody eats "X number of cows, pigs, chickens in a lifetime" because depending on the socioeconomic class, they're eating different parts of the animal, splitting it with someone richer or poorer than they are. If a bunch of people who only ate processed meats anyway abstained, that wouldn't equal "saving" X number of animals, it would just mean the scraps and byproducts from a bunch of people's steaks or pork chops would have something different happen to them.
The other major relevant conclusion I got from that class, was that animal agriculture is so dominant because of monoculture. People think it's animal agriculture vs. plant agriculture (or plants used for human consumption vs. using them to feed livestock), but from capitalism's point of view, feeding animals corn is just another way to use corn to generate profits.
People think we could feed the world by using the grain fed to animals to feed humans, but...the grain fed to animals, is not actually a viable diet for the human population, because it's literally just corn and soybean. Like animal agriculture is used to give some semblance of variety to the consumer's diet in a system that is almost totally dominated by like 3 monocrops.
Do y'all have any idea how much of the American diet is just corn?!?! Corn starch, corn syrup, corn this, corn that, processed into the appearance of variety. And chickens and pigs are just another way to process corn. That's basically why we have them, because they can eat our corn. It's a total disaster.
And it's even worse because almost all the USA's plant foods that aren't the giant industrial monocrops maintained by pesticides and machines, are harvested and cared for by undocumented migrant workers that get abused and mistreated and can't say anything because their boss will tattle on them to ICE.
8K notes
·
View notes
Note
can we get a babytrapping yandere 🥹
Absolutely you can Nonnie~
tw: Baby Trapping • Yandere • Male Yandere • Afab Darling • Afab reader • Pet names • Manipulation • PIV • Oral (F) • Overstimulation/Multiple Orgasms • Sub! Reader (implied) • Dom! Yandere (implied) • Dubcon • Breeding
This wasn’t originally his intention.
He only wanted a happy life with you, filled with joy and love.
It’s not his fault those dense friends of yours want to keep you from him. It’s not his fault your family is corrupt and trying to tear you both apart. It’s the world’s fault for making you so naive to the evils which lurk in the shadows. You don’t know any better, looking adorably flustered as he buries his face between your thighs.
He could die here, as you tangle your fingers in his hair and shake, he really believes he’s found heaven.
“Oh god—I’m cumming—!” As you throw your head back and your warm cunt gushes, he truly knows he’d do absolutely anything to keep this perfect bubble he’s carefully crafted from popping.
You look stunning, sweaty and ruined from multiple orgasms, looking at him with such pretty trusting eyes. Panting in the bed he bought for you, the lacy lingerie he’d given you as a present hanging off your ankle and pushed up on your chest to reveal all your skin for his gaze, he knows he could never love anyone as much as he loves you.
His eyes are crazed, smile distorted as he gazes at you with obsession and wild adoration. You miss it all, dizzy from dehydration and the intensity of your own orgasms. He’s never usually so forward and rough, intense and dazzling as he whispers his love in your ear.
You were supposed to be breaking up with him. Tell him you need space, something he doesn’t seem capable of giving. Instead you’re in his bed again, falling for his charm and skill in handling your body.
You’d do it tomorrow, as he easily flips you and drags your ass up as your cheek rests on the soft comforter.
“Always so precious when you cum for me…” he’s kissing down your thighs, licking up your release as driving you wild as he blows cool air on your pussy. “Don’t worry baby, I’ll fill this pretty pussy too.” He chuckles, acting reassuring as if you doubted he wouldn’t. “I’ll fill you up nice and good.” And you don’t see it.
You don’t see his face, darkening with something sadistic as he slicks his tip up with your juices and presses into you. His thick cock stretched your gummy tight walls, making your back arch further for him as he sinks so deep it nearly strings.
He relishes in your little squeal as he slams the rest of the way in, rolling him hips and driving the soft mushroom top right up against your cervix. His moan mixes with your whine, head falling back as he pulls out slowly before slamming back, a new pace being set of fucking you as deeply and hard as he can. Your lips open to complain, whine what you really want, faster and harder than this sensual pace, but his hand reaches around and his finger touches your clit. You shut up as he gathers your slick and smears it over your hardened nub, beginning to rub small circles around it to accompany his thrusts.
He only huffs a laugh at your behavior, how you relax and roll your hips back to meet him now as he works you towards another orgasm.
His chest meets your back, pressing you deeper into the mattress as his scent surrounds you, lips pressed to your ear as you clamp down tighter. Each little puff of warm air on the sensitive cartilage making him hold you tighter as you moan and wiggle for more friction.
“You like how I fuck you? How well we fit together? It’s like your pussy was made for me.” He groans, only riling you up further with the dirty talk as you feel another orgasm pulling at the knot inside you. His fingers keep the same pace as his hips, his tip rocking up inside you, so deep and pressing it’s like he’s trying to sear himself inside you. “You going to cum sweetheart? Milk my cock and fill your little womb?” The heat and pressure are becoming dizzying, your mind going a bit blank as you do cum, soaking his cock and balls as he speeds his pace up only now, drawing out your orgasm and causing it to intensify. His tip kissing your cervix over and over, fucking you nice and deep before he groans curses. “You’re gonna be such a good mama, fill you up nice and full, breed this fucking cunt make it all mine,” you’re cumming again, too overwhelming to focus on his concerning language as his balls draw up tight. He’s spilling into you as you spasm and tense around him, cock swelling up as his balls release the pent up load he’s withheld for nearly a month into your fertile womb.
You’d been such a good girl, taking the sugar pills diligently. You didn’t even notice you’d been off your birth control for over three months now, just after you moved out of his apartment under the excuse of needing “more personal space”.
He’s fucking you nice and full all night, filling you up over and over, growing increasingly unhinged as he imagines you swelling with the child you created together. Your family wouldn’t push him away once you figured it out. Your friends would take a seat in the back of your mind, the baby taking precedence. And there he’d be, happy and ready to provide and care for you.
“You ready for another load baby♡?” You nod in a daze as you cum for him again, exhausted and overstimulated as he groans and shoots another hot load inside you. Your lower body soaked in fluids from how much you’d both cum.
You’d be pregnant for sure by the time the sun rose.
Dividers/@cafekitsune
#Yan answers#tw: breeding#tw: Dubcon#yandere#yancore#baby trapping#yandere smut#baby trapping smut#male yandere x reader#male yandere x fem reader#general yandere#fem darling#dom! Yandere#sub! darling
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
didn’t realise how stretched my septum was until one of my rings slipped spiky bat wing first into my piercing hole. 30 mins of pure stress and pain getting that fucker back out. as soon as I get paid I am getting a third ring in there so this never happens again lmao
#possibly even two more considering the size of that wing#I have some old ball closures but I do not want to fuck with it atm I feel genuinely ill from it all#I love piercings but septum stretching is smth I build myself up for as it is Not fun bc of all the cartilage#not something you want to accidentally happen with a spiky ring yk#might have to go n have a little cry bc of the Stress#really not something I want to deal with at 4am#words
1 note
·
View note
Text
Pounding
Summary: Reader has a migraine, and Spencer wants to help.
Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader
Category: Hurt/comfort
Content warnings: none
Word count: 1.2k
The transition of seasons is something that has to be endured. It’s the time when you wake up to frost on your windshield in the morning but must remove your coat by the time you leave work. It is a painful time of inconsistency, especially for your sinuses. Not only with the pollen in the air (as well as on your car at all times) but the dryness as well. It causes your headaches to go from sometimes once a month to now twice a week.
And the first one happens this week, today. The migraine descended on you like a storm, brewing from your nasal cavities, its relentless waves of pain crashing against the shores of your temples. With each throb, the world around you seemed to blur and spin.
You shut the door to your apartment and let your bag fall from your shoulder, with no care with where it lands. Light, food, the smell of home is all too much to bear. With a sigh, you shuffle to the sanctuary of your room and bask in the silence while you can still control it. You unleash yourself from your business casual attire and fall into bed, nestling yourself under the covers.
The darkness relieves pressure, only slightly. It will probably be hours before it has settled, so you think it is best to call it a night now at 5:56 in the evening. There was no point in doing anything else as streetlights alone from the windows have proven to be enough to make the back of your eyes ache. You remained still, motionless, unmoved. Minutes could stretch well into hours without your knowledge.
Until the sound of the front door opened, cutting through the quiet. Spencer was home, which means it’s 6:06 now. The creaking floors from his aged apartment tell you he goes to the kitchen first, the sink runs, then his steps only grow closer to you until you can feel his presence at your back. “Migraine?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
It drains all energy and motivation out of you, so you merely nod in response. He’s more than familiar with severe head pain; chronic migraines that were resolved with a vitamin regimen. Fortunately, he has yet to complain about them bothering you in the year you’ve been together. And he never leaves home without them.
Unfortunately, this makes him eager to figure out your head pains. Last spring, he left out an array of vitamins in a pill organizer. They didn’t. It wasn’t an issue at first. It was clear he was trying to help. The downside of your boyfriend being a child prodigy and objective genius is that he will never back down from a challenge, even when you have asked him to. He can’t do it. Later in the month, he came home one day with an array of tea brands, mostly ginger and peppermint. He’s bought humidifiers, massaged the cartilage of your nose, and even consulted Reddit. It’s certainly worn down your patience, especially when you require complete silence.
“I can get you some hot compresses from the pharmacy if you want.” He jumps in completely. The last three words are merely to cushion the obvious; reiterating the point rather than saying something like, “I’ve had headaches before. I know how awful they are, so you should let me help you.” Which he’s also said.
You continue the annoying pattern by shaking your head with an audible moan. Opening your eyes hurts.
“What about nasal spray or decongestant? I can get those at the pharmacy as well.”
“I don’t need anything from the pharmacy. I took ibuprofen. Just need to keep my eyes closed.”
“Well, that can only help so much today. Saline will help encourage drainage and expansion in the vessels. Ibuprofen solves the head pain, not the root problem.”
“Unless the BAU can order planting fruit trees, it’s the best we can do.”
“What I’m trying to say is—”
You groan louder. “This isn’t a time for solutions, Spencer.”
Another unfortunate aspect of your relationship is that you can feel the way Spencer’s face softens from your tone. He then mutters out an apology, a brief sorry, but he doesn’t leave. He touches your shoulder and keeps his hand there until you turn to face him. And because you love him very much, you strain to open your eyes. You can make out a blur of his silhouette in the growing darkness, but still see clearly his glossy eyes and the quirk of his lips. “Can you do something for me first, though? Real quick?”
Before you answer, his hand slides toward your upper back, meaning you have to sit up for this. You were ready to say something along the line that he’s lucky you love him right now and leave it at that because thinking further made the pressure in your temples increase.
You didn’t have to speak at all, though. Because Spencer is also holding a glass of water in front of you. You look up at Spencer’s puppy-eyed silhouette. “Not a solution,” he says softly. “It’s something you always need.”
Well, if that didn’t make you feel like an asshole. You accepted the glass without a word, feeling the coolness against your palm as you brought it to your lips. Each sip, at the very least, a distraction from the throbbing. Spencer watches you closely. You had no choice but to finish the whole glass. And you did, leaving Spencer satisfied enough as he took the glass and walked out.
You didn’t say a word. The sink ran again, and Spencer returned with another full glass. He doesn’t hand it to you, instead puts it on the nightstand before turning precariously on his heels. It takes you a second through half-closed eyes to realize he’s walking back out. You’re afraid to ask, wondering if you’ve made him too upset to talk. You push yourself and do so anyway, keeping your tone in mind. “Where are you going?”
Spencer turns on his heels once more, looking around momentarily like there were others in the room. He then looks at you. “I figured you wanted to be alone.”
You reach out, moving through the pain quite literally, and you catch the polyester of his cardigan just between your fingers and pull him closer until you can wrap your arms around him. You hold your breath, knowing the intense smell of his laundry detergent would be enough to collapse down to your pillow in further pain. His cardigan is soft against your face. “Do you have other stuff to do?”
He chuckles, his abdomen bounces. So, he’s not too mad. “I do not.”
Encouraged by his response, you tug him gently (and not so gracefully) into bed. He’s delightfully warm. Spencer kicks off his shoes in response before pulling you close. Then you bury your face into his chest, hesitant to breathe in the scent of cedar that clings to the cardigan. You try best to ignore it as you cocoon yourselves beneath the blankets, finding refuge in each other’s company amidst the inner turmoil that comes with spring. You listen to the steady rhythm of Spencer’s heartbeat, and find a fleeting sense of peace in the storm.
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid hurt/comfort#spencer reid x you#spencer reid/you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid/reader#spencer reid self insert#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid fandom#spencer reid blurb#criminalminds#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fanfiction
402 notes
·
View notes
Text
Like Betta Fish Do Part 25
WC: 3,537 Masterpost
CW: Canon typical violence
“I can’t believe I’m in a custom suit,” Danny said as he admired himself in the mirror.
“It is really weird the first few times,” Jason agreed as he did up his own cufflinks.
Danny twisted so that the very faint blue on blue pattern sewn into the suit caught the light. It gave the impression of rolling waves. “So how many fish things did you manage to fit in?”
He watched the reflection to catch Jason’s lips tick up into a pleased smile.
“Well there’s the fabric itself, deep ocean blue.”
“And patterned like waves,” Danny finished. “I caught that.”
“Your shirt and tie are sea foam white.”
“Okay, that one might be a stretch,” Danny said, but he touched the fabric gently.
Jason rolled his eyes. “I’m counting it. The pocket square, very nontraditional, is a Japanese indigo linen in a pattern that is a historic representation of waves. The buttons are abalone, the cufflinks red coral, and the tie pin is mother of pearl.”
“Six, if I give you sea foam white.”
“You better, I worked hard on this. And it’s actually seven, one last thing,” Jason said. He picked up a blue velvet jewelry box off his side table and held it out.
Danny took it curiously. It was bigger than a ring box, but smaller than a necklace case. He brushed his thumb over the soft covering before he snapped the lid open. His breath caught.
Inside was a set of earrings. Simple silver studs for for his cartilage piercings, a pearl earring for his left ear, and then the show stopper: a crystal studded and delicate woven silver betta fish on a chain for his right ear. Its black pearl eyes were bright. They almost made it seem alive.
“Jason…”
“I tried to stay subtle with the rest, but this I couldn’t resist,” he said. “You’re my fish, and everyone at the gala should know that.”
Danny carefully closed the box before he flung his arms around Jason’s neck and pulled the other down for a kiss.
“Careful,” Jason murmured when the kiss broke, “if we show up late and mussed Tim will frown at us the whole night.”
“That would be a shame,” Danny whispered back before kissing Jason again.
“I can’t believe I’m being the voice of reason,” Jason said, “but you have to let me get dressed.”
“Fine,” Danny said, even if it made him want to pout. “Maybe… I can take it off after the gala then?”
The pink that Jason blushed was more than worth being bold and Danny took a moment to admire it before he turned to put in the earrings.
Behind him, Jason knotted a white (or sea foam, Danny supposed) tie and shrugged on a matching jacket. The suit looked bright, almost glowing, against the rich blue dress shirt that complimented Danny’s own suit. He couldn’t be sure what it was from this distance, but Danny thought he saw the glint of white on white embroidery on the cuffs and lapels of the suit. It was the silver fish bone tie pin that made him laugh.
“People are going to have questions.”
“Let them,” Jason said with a cheshire smile.
“I’m starting to get what going to a gala with you will be like,” Danny said.
“Oh, this is tame for me,” Jason said. “I’m behaving.”
“I know, it’s part of your charm.”
“If only the press thought that,” Jason said, grabbing his phone as it beeped. “That’s our car.”
“I wish we could just take your bike,” Danny said, watching Jason put his phone back down, “and our phones.”
“Suit lines. I’ve got a connection to the family,” Jason assured Danny.
“Still. But I guess those suit lines do really great things for your ass and it would be a shame to ruin that,” Danny agreed with a put upon sigh.
“You’re incorrigible tonight,”Jason said (not that he seemed to mind if his smirk was any hint).
“Maybe it’s just that new years mood,” Danny said with a little shrug, lacing their fingers together as they left. “This year turned out pretty great, and I bet next year is going to be even better.”
“Yeah? Any reason for that?”
“Well, I happened to move to a city that’s pretty weird but also pretty awesome,” Danny said.
“Good reason,” Jason agreed. “What else?”
“I’m finally in the degree for what I want to do, and I’m kicking ass at it.”
“Of course you are, you’re brilliant,” Jason said, holding the door open to the town car after he subtly checked the plates. “Nothing else?”
“Well,” Danny drew the word out as he slid into the car. “There’s this guy I met, maybe you know him? Tall, dark, and handsome?”
“I don’t know, he doesn’t sound real,” Jason teased and leaned into Danny’s space.
Danny leaned up and pressed Jason into a light kiss. “He is pretty magical.”
-
“The red carpet, less than magical,” Danny said once they were through the sea of reporters and photographers. “I’m going to be seeing camera flashes for weeks.”
“Only a few hours at most,” Jason said.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not, your whole being is just one blinding white blur,” Danny said, motioning at Jason, who laughed and caught Danny’s hand.
Jason pressed a quick kiss to the fingertips. The cameras went off in another round of flashes, apparently not having enough of the lost Wayne and his boyfriend. “Come on, let’s head further in away from this circus.”
“Is your family here yet?” Danny asked as they headed into the gala proper. Jason was skilled at keeping them moving without getting caught up by any one group, even as he greeted some of them.
“Bruce, Damian, and Duke arrived pretty on time so Bruce could greet people. Tim is around here somewhere too, networking I’m sure unless Bernard has distracted him. He’ll have arrived with Cass and Steph, who you haven’t met. Steph isn’t family, but she’s family, you know?”
“I think so?” Danny at least assume that meant she was in the Bat life.
“And Dick should be around here or will soon, likely with Barbie.”
“Barbie?” Danny took one of the drink glasses that Jason had snagged. The tart tang of cranberry bloomed across his tongue followed by the burn of alcohol and lingering taste of sugar. It was good.
“Yeah, but don’t call her that. Her name is Barbara, but she goes by Babs.”
“But you can get away with Barbie?”
“He was a very cute kid,” a voice behind them said. “Somehow he convinced me to let him.”
Danny spun and then had to look down to meet the gaze of the red headed woman in a wheelchair. He couldn’t help but feel a pang for Jazz, but it was softened by the fact that he’d get to see her soon.
“Bull,” Danny said with a smile, offering his hand. “I refuse to believe that Jason was ever not a little shit.”
“Oh, no, he was still a little shit,” Babs said, returning the handshake firmly. “But he was a cute little shit.”
Danny sighed dramatically and looked over at Jason. “Where did you go so wrong?”
“Hey, I believe it was you who were extolling the virtues of my ass in this suit not that long ago,” Jason said with just the hint of a pout.
“I think most of the press will be doing that too, so I’m not sure how much weight that has,” Babs said, painted lips ticked up in clear amusement.
Jason just sighed while Danny laughed.
“I like you, Babs. Is Babs okay for me to call you?”
“Of course, you’re Jason’s man, so you can call me Babs. And I really do prefer it to Barbara. The name is just a little old fashion, you know?”
“And you’re a modern kind of woman?” Danny asked with a smile.
“In so many ways,” Babs said. “But I better go make the rounds, or at least find where Dick is. He got distracted.”
“Isn't he always?” Jason said and bid Babs farewell.
“Are they together? Dick and Babs?” Danny ask as he watched her wheel away.
“Not anymore, but they were,” Jason explained. “They’re still really close. And Babs has been close to the family for a lot of years, so she’s special to all of us, you know? She’s a real inspiration to Cass and Steph.”
Oh, that sort of friend. “Wait, was she?”
“Yeah. So you know.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Danny said. The wheelchair meant something a little differently now. He took a breath and looked around the gala, which was already swarming with beautiful, laughing people. He felt out of place without Babs’ friendly face distracting him.
“Come on, I bet we can find some family to talk too,” Jason said, taking Danny’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “There are a few people who I’ll need to hit up tonight for the Foundation stuff, you know, try to get some donations from them or build up the start of that, but you don’t have to hang with me during any of that. There's plenty of siblings around for you to chat with and use as a distraction. Hell, could always introduce you to Lucius or some of the other inventors we have and you all could talk nerd shop.”
“Nerd shop,” Danny repeated with a sigh. “You say Lucius who I’m going to assume is the Lucius Fox and call it nerd shop like that man is not out there breaking barriers and changing the world with his inventions? And that’s just the stuff that’s been announced to the public! Who knows what else he’s been doing behind closed doors! It must be mind blowing.”
“Well, thank you, but I have a lot of very smart people working for me, so it’s hardly just my work that’s out there making waves,” a silky voice said from behind them.
Danny spun and couldn’t help the little squeak he gave.
Jason chuckled and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “Lucius, how are you doing? Did you manage to drag any of your family to tonight’s event?”
“Just my lovely wife. The rest found excuses, you know how it is.”
“I do. Sadly I’m in a position of note now,” Jason said, the words practically had air quotes around them, “so I’m afraid that my days of excuses are gone.”
“Oh, I’m sure that you can still find a few when you truly need them. You’ve always been mighty good at that.”
Jason just shrugged with an unrepentant grin. “Well, you know. But anyway, Lucius, this is my boyfriend Danny. Danny, this, as I guess you know from that sound you made, is Lucius Fox.”
“Of course I know. Really, sir, the work you and your teams have done… amazing.”
“Just Lucius, Danny,” the man said, reaching out to shake Danny’s hand. “If you’re dating Jason I expect that we’ll run into each other from time to time and I am too old for formalities like that.”
“Alright, just Lucius then. I can’t wait to tell my friend Tucker I met you.”
“Another one for, what was that you said Jason, ‘nerd shop talk’ like you are?”
“Totally. He’s in computer sciences, but he’s not bad at engineering some hardware when he needs to. Mostly to be able to get his software to run on, but I always make fun of his soldering.”
“So you must solder a lot then?”
“Yes s— er Lucius. Aerospace engineering, but I grew up always tinkering and things. I still do it some, but it’s harder here when I don’t have the space, you know? First dibs on tables and tools go to the other majors, which I get, since they need them more than us.”
“Still, hard not to be able to get your hands dirty when you want to. Are you going to be in Gotham for the summer? Not sure where you call home.”
“Well, at the moment, home is Gotham. I want to visit some friends and my sisters, but I’ll be here, yeah. I might take a summer course and get an advanced math knocked out or something.”
“A good plan. You should reach back out to me around early May then. I bet we can find a corner of one of the labs for you to at least use on the weekends when no one is around doing work much.”
“Really?” Danny said, hands twitching at just the idea of getting into a space where he could do some inventing. He had so many new ideas from his time at Gotham U on to improve some of his parent’s inventions or even make new things.
“Really. There will be the usual red tape and all, background checks and paper work and hours you’re allowed in, but those things can be worked out. Can’t keep a curious mind and skilled hands stagnant, now can we?”
“I know I can’t,” Danny said with a little laugh. “Thank you Lucius, really, I’ll definitely take advantage of that again. And start planning! I mean I have plans, of course I do, but a lot is just rough sketches, you know? I need to do some proper diagrams for a few things.”
He didn’t want to waste a moment once he had access to tools again— especially not the tools that were available to him at a place like Wayne Enterprises. Danny idly wondered if it would be out by summer that he knew about the Bats. Lucius had to be involved in that work and it would be so cool to take a look under the proverbial and the literal hood of those gadgets. Did they store the Batplane here?
Lucius chuckled and smiled. “Yes, I think you’ll fit right into that corner. You two boys behave now.”
“Never,” Jason said with a laugh and shook Lucius’ hand one more time as they parted ways.
The night turned into a slew of little meetings like that— people coming up to talk to Jason. Some of the conversations were enjoyable like with Babs and Lucius (Steph was overwhelming, but cool), some were with the many family members Jason had, and some were with the tpyical the socialite crowd. Those people seemed either to be there to get their claws in Jason or to observe Danny like he was some curiosity. Danny really could do without that type. Luckily, Jason seemed to know this, and Danny was passed off to Dick a few hours in and then freed to the food table after some teasing.
Really, even with the gawkers, the night was pretty fun.
-
“Hey Barbie, have you seen Danny recently?” Jason asked as he crossed her path at the party.
“No, but I’ve been talking tech. Have you tried over by the food?”
“That’s where I just came from,” Jason said with a little frown. These things were really too busy, one of the many reasons that he hated them. “I guess I’ll go try another sibling. Dick hadn’t seen him in a bit either, he got distracted by one of the people from the foundation that works with kids.”
“I keep waiting for him to join you there, you know. You could try Tim if he hasn’t been co-opted by Bernard yet,” she suggested. “How long has he been schmoozing?”
“Too long, Tim is worthless to me I’m sure. Cass would be—”
Jason dropped instinctively to cover Babs before he even registered the sound of shattering glass.
“Jason—”
The all to familiar muzzle of a gun pressed into the base of Jason’s head. “Turn around slowly. Try anything and I’ll shoot through you to get your lovely friend.”
Jason locked eyes with Babs, a thousand messages passed in that look as he slowly raised his hands and turned around.
It was one of the waiters.
Okay, it was a number of the waiters, Jason mentally corrected as he took in the room. Each of them with a gun pointed at some portion of the party. Jason spotted Bruce and Damian where they were being rounded up and Steph over on the edges of the room, but he couldn’t find Tim, Dick, or Cass on the quick glance at the space.
He snapped his focus back to the gunman at a popping sound. The man raised his left hand to his face and smeared the popped paint pellet across his face, coating half of it in a splotchy blue.
Guess they knew what Two Face was up to now. Speaking of the man of the hour, Two Face walked through the shadowed window, black and white suit spotless and fit for the event, and flanked by henchmen. He was clapping. Head tilted so that the bright lights caught his good side.
“Lovely event Bruice! Really, a shinning light in Gotham to ring in the new year. Don’t mind us, please, we’re just here to pick up the usual, jewels, watches, money clips, wire transfers. I’m afraid we need the extra funding…” He twitched, twisting so that the scarred side of his face was tilted forward. “Because the damn Bat made sure we lost it all! I’m hoping he shows tonight. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t make it to the new year!”
Dent cleared his throat; his right hand smoothed back his hair, tipping his head back the other way. “Sorry about that. Just some… linger resentment. You all know how it is. But let’s not get too serious yet! Brucie! And his adorable little spawn! Some of our guests of honor too! Behave if you don’t want to be shot in the head.”
Jason watched helplessly as Bruce, Damian, and several other social elite like the mayor were lashed together with rope. Two Face walked over after they were trussed and slapped a bomb to Bruce’s chest. While the the henchman secured it, Two Face turned to the crowd.
“Where is he? Our darling lost prince of Gotham?”
The gunman stuck the cold metal back to the base of Jason’s neck and pushed him forward.
The bomb started ticking down.
“There you are! When I heard you returned to us, my heart swelled, truly,” Dent said, looking up with his good eye as if praying to heaven. “And now! Now I hear you’ve found love!”
Dent bent over, cackling. The enlarged, yellow eye looked up at Jason from under the white bangs. “So let’s play a game while we count down to midnight.”
Two Face’s goons dramatically rolled out a podium. Two bright red buttons were mounted to it, right below a large television.
Danny was on the screen.
He was tied to a chair in some building’s basement. A bruise was already blooming to life around his right eye, deep blue as his suit. He had clearly caught a fist to the lip too. The fish earring was bright silver, catching light reflected from the pool of water that the chair was sat in.
“As you see, we’re giving your boyfriend some hospitality,” Dent said, smooth side of his face to Jason as he walked around the podium like some perverse Vanna White. “So you have a simple choice: decided what type of love is more important to you. Do you press the left button and save your boyfriend, letting your family and these other lovely people die to the bomb…”
He rounded the screen, scarred open eye starting at Jason accusingly. “…or do you press the button on the right and save the people in this room, but fry your boyfriend to death with electricity?”
Two Face snapped his fingers.
Danny’s head jerked up, unfocused eyes staring just to the right of the screen.
“Hey, dead boy,” Danny rasped. Just talking made the split on his lip crack and bleed again, adding another line of blood to his chin. On the screen the red was bright, bright, bright—
Jason clenched his hands. He was going to kill Two Face. “Hey, fish.”
“You know, the irony of this whole thing is that it does make me realize I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you.”
“Yeah? That's convenient. I've been in love with you for weeks.”
Dent cackled and motioned grandly at the trussed up people. The bright, bright red of the bombs’ timer counted down another tick. “Looks like you're all out of luck! True love always wins.”
He twisted to Jason with the scarred side of his face and growled, “Forty-five seconds left.”
“You know what you have to do, don't you?” Danny asked.
He was smiling at Jason, a soft calm thing. But Jason didn't know if he could trust it. He didn’t know Danny's limits. He didn’t know if this would kill him the rest of the way.
But he did know what Danny would never forgive him for. He knew he didn't really have a choice. “I do. I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.”
Jason lunged and hit the right button. On the screen, the wires sparked bright with electricity, lighting up the pool of water. And Danny screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
The camera cut out.
---
AN: We're finally here! To the scene I wrote last year! Aaaaaah~
I would say I'm sorry, but this time I truly am not. (Please don't stab me.) ._.
It will be fiiiiiiiine... right?
634 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hey how are you feeling?
Im glad your requests are still open. Loved the answer to my last request so I hope you don’t mind me sending in another one?
Some cute hurt/comfort with taller gn reader and postwar Levi. After the ackermanbond is gone I imagine Levi getting really sick for the very first time. Fever and everything also adding the flashbacks to when his mom got sick. And reader ofc nursing him back to health and also comforting him 🧡
im so so so so so so SO sorry😭i took literal months with this sari... i wish i had a good excuse, but i hope you like this :(
i took a lot of inspo from this eruri fic from ao3. stress cannn cause flu-like symptoms, and i wanted this to be the outcome of all those years of suffering for levi finally catching up to him.
probably not medically accurate: it's not very clear what the nature of levi's knee injury. it's seen partially crushed, but it's not clear what medical technology marley has (especially w/ the last volume cover in mind). i'm functioning on my idea that levi can't get around without a wheelchair, but he does have range of motion, partly based on the health of the cartilage/joints/bone, but mostly based how painful it is. it's more complicated than that, but i wanted to add a disclaimer anyway.
(tldr this is the levi torture hour)
➥ pairing: postwar!Levi x taller!gn!reader
➥ about: Not even Levi is invulnerable, both after the war and back then, so it's stupid to be scared when he gets sick.
Until it isn't.
➥ c/w: sick fic, post-war Levi, delirium/nightmares, reverse hurt comfort, implied past csa, happy ending (promise), medical inaccuracies, nightmares, established relationship (married)
➥ wc: 5.3k
In the comfortable, quiet rays of mid-morning, you hum to yourself, and sip your mug of tea. You watch a white cardinal with red tips toddle on the windowsill on the other side of the glass. That’s rare.
It takes off.
You trace the rim of your mug, sighing slowly but heavily through your nose. It’s getting harder not to think about it.
You want to think that—now that you and Levi are retired (what an odd word…)—it’s reached that natural time to start sleeping better. Sleeping in, not out of an absurdly rare indulgence, but to relax.
It’s been nine months, not counting the few Levi was cooped-up in the hospital.
Even for him, relaxation shouldn’t be impossible after some point. In fact, he hasn’t shot awake just before dawn for a while, anticipating a reveille that won’t ring out.
But you fought beside him; your bad habits and your happiness wrestle over the reality of your new life too.
But…
You reach across the small wood table and hover your hand over the cup of tea you poured for him; decent, but not piping hot and steaming like earlier.
This will be a once in a lifetime opportunity: you get to coax Levi out of bed late in the morning.
You stand, bringing your arms behind your head to stretch just a little as you walk to the hall, down to the bedroom. The door is cracked like you left it.
Like a tired waterfall, the vast majority of the thick covers lay spilled haphazardly to the floor, so you’re surprised even before you take a look at Levi, who’s still curled up asleep, facing your way. That leaves his back to the light glowing through the curtains.
He kicked them off?
Like the sheets, his sweater is white; his trousers are dark, loose and cut (with his knee brace on underneath). With his arms tightly crossed like that, and the harsh crease sitting on his brow, he almost looks awake and stressed out.
“G’morning, ‘Vi…”
Importantly, his pallor, normally as pale as snow, glows pink. A few strands of black cling to his forehead.
You stride over with a bit of a frown that wasn’t as deep when you were feeling just plain impatient, and take a sit on the edge of the bed.
“Are you feeling sick, baby…?”
That crease deepens. He twitches awake. "M-Mm?"
Now that you’re close, you notice his breathing is a little labored. You touch your knuckles to his temple. Eyes barely crack open.
"Sweetheart, ‘Vi… You definitely have a fever..."
You comb his bangs off his damp forehead, and they close.
The heat radiating off his skin—you grimace a little.
Actually... have you ever seen Levi so much as under the weather? You can’t even remember.
He shifts slightly, as your strokes rouse him.
"Do you feel sick?" you ask for the second time.
"Huh? I'm fine..."
His eyes finally blink open, fluttering once or twice. But then, a shadow passes over his face that seems to disprove that assertion of his.
He shoves his elbow underneath himself and starts to lift himself up. "Stop—fretting. 'm fine."
He gets most of the way; he’s resting heavily on one arm when he grunts, then leans.
"Stop, sweetheart," you huff, and take him by the shoulder. "What hurts? Your head?"
Looking dazed, like he’s not all there, he lifts his bad hand to his temple and, with his ring and little finger, feels his temple.
“Don’t know…”
"Lay back down, you clearly need some rest—even if this is rare for you, okay?"
“What?” He looks perturbed with you. “Don’t be stupid. There’s too much t’do. N’ I’m fine,” he grumbles, blatantly lying.
"Levi..." you warn.
"I'm just... tired," he mumbles. He rubs his eye with his thumb. "Fuck. Fucking tired."
His strength starts to evaporate as his eyes slip closed.
In an instant—before he collapses—you thrust your arms around him, and lay him back down on his side slowly.
It doesn’t quite hit you until you maneuver his arm out from under him, and listen to his even but labored breathing for a bit of time.
You stare down, eyes wide. Are you scared?—Or anxious?
Well either way—it’s not until you stopped being at risk for a violent death day-in and day-out for years that you even realized you were constantly anxious.
It’s not a nice feeling.
It’s okay. Though. You rationalize. Not even Levi is impervious to everything, and certainly not now. It’s stupid to be surprised.
You feel his forehead with the back of your hand one more time, and kiss your teeth. Definitely a fever, but an exact number wouldn’t hurt.
The thermometer and other simple medicines are shoved in one of the high kitchen cabinets, a second thought when you both moved into this quaint little cabin in the woods (aside from his prescriptions). You didn’t even say it out loud, even.
Now pinched between your fingers, you stand back and stutter on your feet, unsure of what else you need. You want to need something more helpful, but the need to go and check back on him is most powerful.
A short ways down the hall, you pick up on the unbelievable yet unmistakable sound of… crying. Unrestrained, and yet, the kind of crying that steals breath.
You expect to wake up as soon as you reach the bedroom—some disturbing but absurd dream.
But you don’t. He’s curled up where you left him, eyes closed but now gasping sharply through his teeth with tears glistening on his cheeks. One drips off his trembling chin.
You drop onto the edge of the bed immediately, and try to speak, but find yourself helplessly stuck at a complete loss as to where to even start.
“Why…” You card your fingers through his hair, to no reaction. He must be asleep, right?—But how, why?
“Hey, hey, c’mere,” you coo gently, sitting so as to swaddle his back and caress his head.
You make it all not sound like a question. “Everything’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart… Wake up.”
His eyes tightly shut, and tears squeeze through. He croaks. “Can wake up.”
It takes a moment for you to register that he really meant to pronounce it as “can’t”.
“…You sound sorta freaked out, and you want to talk to Falco?—Is Levi alright??”
You silently curse Gabi for being so observant.
“Which place? I have the books, um, right here…!”
“No…” You swallow a little, and coil the bright red cord to the phone around and around your finger. You wish it was as simple as some tinnitus, or nerve pain.
“No?” Gabi asks on a high lilt; a question within a question.
“I know. He never gets sick, which is why I want to talk to Falco. I appreciate you trying to help, but please hurry?”
“Oh yeah, okay!”
You peer over your shoulder from your place stood in the hall and rock on your heels nervously. The only space of time you could find where you could bear to leave him was when he was quiet.
Falco has matured so much, even over the past year, and you trust him with this. He’s training to be a doctor; being a soldier never suited him much anyway. Levi was the first to say so, as usual the perfect judge of character.
You speak slowly and calmly to him, encouraged by his own composure.
“It sounds like a flu, just with that added symptom,” he’s thinking out loud. Thin pages turn. “Severe stress can cause flu-like symptoms sometimes… Especially when it’s prolonged. Does that sound like anything?”
“No. No way.” You shake your head, your brow pinched tightly. In fact you laugh. “Haven’t fought any Titans lately, at least.”
His voice lowers, thinking as he talks. “True, yeah. Especially for you guys, nothing could ever really compare, right?”
“You have no idea. Not with Levi.”
“We can talk about it another time, maybe,” you amend quickly. You know almost for certain that’s not going to happen.
Falco hums. “Anyway, if that’s the case, that would explain why it’s been so severe, with the sudden onset. But think of it like a fever he needs to sweat out,” he explains.
“Y-Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You hear the light smile in his voice. “Don’t be too far away, though. It’s easy to tell, you know.”
You smile to yourself.
Even if the Rumbling somehow started back up above your head, you’d rather die.
You write on a little notepad—some scrawl verbatim—Falco’s directions and words of advice, the phone trapped between your ear and shoulder. Most of it is generic, for influenza of course, but you write.
A blunt but dense thump sounds not so far away. You even flinch, but just as quickly let Falco know you’ll be right back.
In the bedroom, the pale blue duvet and sheets spilled onto the floor looks like a stiff waterfall being wrenched this way and that by Levi’s attempts to sit back up, like a puppet trying to pull its own strings. He grunts in what sounds like frustration, but you can’t know for sure as his bangs obscure his eyes. His hair all over is a downright wreck.
Gaping, you fall down beside him and hurry working off all the offending fabrics he’s twisted in.
“Lee—…”
Your help lets his shaky hand hover over his knee, like he can’t be sure if it’s his. He’s breathing hard; it’s ten times shakier than his hand.
“Come here.”
He doesn’t so much as twitch, but he doesn’t resist either. Then, when something in him registers that you’re there, he leans into you like you’ve just brought the weight of the world off his shoulders.
You tug the soft pantleg up, and sigh at what you see. The scarring, like a row of pink and purple mountains stabbed into his flesh, is more inflamed than usual, leg minutely trembling when you raise it.
He must’ve tried to stand up.
“Does it hurt very bad?”
Not even such an obvious question gets you a retort of any kind. He whines softly when you have to brace that area to lift him back up, but no more.
From the dull darkened blue cotton in the shape of a V in the center of his chest, and coming down from his underarms, he’s burning up; you need to get started just as soon as you’re finished with Falco. For now, you wipe his clammy temples and brush his bangs back. He’s looking at you, but he doesn’t seem to see.
“Levi…” You press on his round cheeks under your palms, grimacing at the heat pelting off his skin.
He moans softly, some relief softening his features. “Huh. Take m’jack-et. Yer cold.”
You shake your head even though he can’t see, as, sharply and without warning, tears appear and stab at your eyes. He’s not even wearing a jacket.
“Be right back,” you manage. “Okay?”
You don’t really expect a response, and you don’t get one.
First thing’s first, he needs water. You feel stupid not thinking of that first. That was at the top of Falco’s directions.
You catch Levi in a moment of relative quiet—not peace, but quiet—and cradle the back of his neck, unhinging his jaw with your other. Easy enough. You tip the glass and feed him water with the utmost care and precision. This is some act terribly intimate, a type of intimacy removed from hand-holding or sex entirely while managing to rank above them both. Over all these years, his life has been in your hands a few times, but feeding him pills—something for the fever and something for the pain—and working his shirt off for something fresh and loose-fitting feels more reverent even still. You put him in shorts and practically fortify his knee with a brace and pillows wrapped up with the belt of a housecoat so even if he rolls over, he won’t.
He chokes on a sob while you’re tucking a cold press behind his neck, forcing you to stop. His eyes squeeze shut.
“Levi?” you ask softly.
Either he’s having a nightmare, or he’s in pain, or, both. He tightens his crossed arms. His first movement in hours.
“What hurts? Falco said it might be your head.”
Another sob bursts from him. “S’head’s all over the wall, looked, it… sorry….”
He continues mumbling, but none of it sounds like words.
"Levi, it's okay, it's okay. Okay, baby? S'okay," you murmur; on and on. The washcloth has gotten smushed between his shoulder and the pillow—you set that somewhere aside. Then you lean over, rubbing with your thumbs the tears off his glistening cheeks, and messy black strands off his forehead.
Sometimes you will catch a word, sometimes you won’t. You will almost wish you didn’t the times you do. Yet you feel sworn to make sense of every mumble, a pervasive, unbreakable, urge. You’re sworn to it.
That’s how the rest of the day goes. He’s never lucid enough to eat; only enough to mumble when he’s freezing, or when he’s burning.
After dusk has bled into the sunset, and night has set in, you sit and watch over Levi religiously. To be fair, you don’t have anything “better to do”, but you hardly ate. If he knew, he’d be in your ear grumbling or otherwise dragging you by it to the kitchen, but does it matter, when he can’t know?
No, you decided, with some fucked-up determination. You want him to bitch at you when he wakes up. Not shivering trapped in an uneasy sleep.
When it gets late, you, arduously but carefully, do what you can for his knee.. He moves too much.
You wipe his face and neck of sweat, and lay a fresh, ice-cold and wet folded washcloth on his forehead. The fever is slowly getting worse.
You dote on him, carding back his bangs, and murmuring and repeating all manners of comfort you can think of. It’s becoming obvious when he’s having a nightmare.
…Finally, as Falco suggested, you’ve kept him hydrated; fever reducers every few hours.
All that's left to do then, is sleep. This realization makes you nauseous with worry.
Nonetheless, you squirm under the covers on your side, close beside him with your face tucked in his shoulder. You take a slow, deep breath.
It’s so discomforting; Levi can’t fall asleep flat on his back, ever, and yet…
Your head shoots off his chest before you’ve registered you even woke up—gasping, and a guttural cry from below. It’s pitch black, too dark to see.
That explodes him into motion. He repels you backwards as you grapple for his shoulders, and like fists closed around your throat, as he resists your every attempt to stop him hurting himself, as he whimpers tiredly, as his bawling stabs the most tender place inside you—you feel sick.
“Levi—! Stop. Levi listen to me!”
You’re louder than him, but nothing—his eyes won't open—and your stomach swoops just then as he almost succeeds in jabbing his knee in your stomach, an extra hard punch combined with the brace. That cry is a sob of nothing but pain.
Enough. Finally you bite the bullet, you drop your full weight down on top of him, if it means he’ll finally stop.
At first, you’re as steady as a boat on rough waters. A huff of relief slips out when his writhing grows sluggish, quickly.
He squirms mildly under you, breathing still stubbornly labored. “Get… off me.”
He tries to raise his arms from his sides, but can’t.
“I’ll, fuckin’ kill you.”
You viciously shake your head. “It’s just a dream.”
Are you telling only him that?
“S’ get off, you can’t, s’nough hurts ‘er.”
“L-Lee…”
You strain to make him out, as he sobs weakly. “Leave me alone already...”
His name escapes you over again like a prayer in the heat of a battle. Your determination crumbles right into dust; you fall beside him and sit up, unsure of what to do besides take his hand. You can’t bring yourself to switch on the lamp.
“It’s going to be okay.” You squeeze.
He whimpers. “…Please.”
You can’t open your foolish mouth and tell him or yourself that it’s just a dream anymore.
Falco was more correct than you gave him credit for.
Falco also warned you that it would get worse before it got better.
With the hours that keep passing—which have stretched out into two days so far—he more and more mutters in his sleep, other times under his breath, but most times he’s incoherent.
But, it’s all come to fall under one topic.
And just like that first night, it doesn’t quite make sense, but it doesn’t have to.
You don’t want to think about it; you just want to take care of him. Your anxiety is constant, and sharp. If only he’d wake up; you talk to him as if he’s awake—but to no response whatsoever, like you don’t even exist.
Moments you’re forced to leave him are the worst—for you and for him. Most times when you come back, the washcloth meant to rest on his forehead has drooped and sagged beside his temple.
At any rate, the difference between fever and tears has gotten hard to tell.
You just can’t stop from shaking, and your throat is tight, but Falco remains adamant that the flu is what he said it is.
A lamp is still glowing on your side in the late night. The air is cool, and it’s quiet, but a rare moment of “peace” makes the sounds of your shared breaths obnoxious.
Your heavy eyes sting; despite that, when they creep closed you feel yourself fading in seconds, with Levi’s head tucked under your chin, upon your chest. Seemingly, any covers are too stifling for him at the moment; pressed against your collarbones, you feel his forehead is hot again.
You cradle gently the nape of his neck, idly rubbing the knot of bone at the base of his jaw. As if you’re doing anything to protect him from anything…
He mumbles, slurring, “Y’have t’come back…”
You’re not dizzy with the shock or the horror, but it’s worse almost, to be confronted with the full magnitude of a rueless, unceasing pain that is just as lonely in its magnitude as it is devastating.
You rub his back as he buries his face in your neck, sobbing like it takes all his energy to do so. “I’ll be faster.”
“I don’ know where t’go, what do I do now?” he babbles over your soft hushes. “Wait, next time I’ll get it right...”
“It’s okay, love, it’s okay.”
“I don’ know why I even…”
Trailing off, he starts to whimper, and can’t go on.
He doesn’t stop, it doesn’t, not for a second while—all you can do—is hold and console him even though he may not know it.
Until he exhausts himself. Drifts. into a light sleep.
For it to happen all over again. Seeping into his sleep like crude oil, the next stress-induced terror to force his breathing shaky, labored.
"...Need," he whimpers, the first word you’ve made out in a while.
Your stomach swoops, the thought that you can do anything to help directly. "What do you need, sweetheart?"
"Don't sell it. Don't sell it, I need it."
You deflate, jaw wobbling. "Sh, sh, it's okay,” you soothe. You reach for the tray on the bedside behind you, and, using the cold cloth, you dab the sweat from his blushing temple and neck.
"S'gonna take away from m...me." He starts to pant, continuing to mumble, crying, a complete melting away. Lamenting, abject.
"Shh... Shh..."
His arm loosely draped around your waist—which you’d put there—tightens its hold, but in drifting bursts, like he keeps slipping.
“Please.”
You inhale sharply. "Please?"
"Don'. Leave me."
"I won't leave," you swiftly promise. "I won't leave, I won’t.”
He cries in his sleep for so many names that aren’t alive anymore.
Don’t go. Don’t go.
Wake up, Momma.
Wait... Just wait.
That wasn’t the worst point. Not even hunched, taken-over by so much stress and pain until he gagged was the worst point. None of what he had already said combined could amount to the last night.
You snap awake on your stomach at some blurry unknown instance, acutely aware you’ve slept like shit.
Did you even, only blink?—No. The most faintest shade of grey weakly gives your bedroom the suggestion of texture and shadow, but—your arms are empty. You reach over blindly, but the side where Levi should lay is empty and cold.
A pit bursts open in your stomach, filled with bright panic.
You lurch up and shove off the covers, breathing hard.
Where could he be??
If he was feeling better, then you would've woken up a while ago, because he would've told you. Not just...
He can’t be far.
You shiver.
On your feet, you cross the room in a few strides, and frown as you pull open the bedroom door. It's never left closed at night this time of year; it gets about ten degrees colder without the insulation. (But the chill pressing to the bottoms of your feet, you barely even noticed.)
"Levi!?"
The switch on the wall is right within reach, which lights up the hall. You look right and almost jump back; you might’ve tripped over him if you hadn’t looked first.
He sits hugging his legs—tightly folded against his chest, Levi, why?—there right outside the white doorframe. Shivering, glossy face red with fever, and most certainly in agony by now with all the abuse done to his knee, you’re not sure if he even notices you. Not from this angle.
You fall down on your knees. “Levi? Look, I’m here. Talk to me, please, okay?”
His bloodshot eyes are cracked open, staring ahead, but seemingly seeing nothing. Between the tears, you can’t tell if this is good or bad.
"Levi..." You take his shoulder in an attempt to nudge his attention towards you. “Look at me. Please.”
He was already tense. His head turns, mostly looking at you sideways—emphasis on his pale eye—but looking at you nonetheless. Good.
"What's wrong?"
His brow knits together.
“C’mere.” You lean forward and card his damp bangs back to feel his forehead. The whole time, he just looks at you passively.
“Better... But this cold won’t help in the end. Medicine is in the bedroom, so...”
You huff very softly to yourself. “…You need more bedrest. I don’t know why you even came out here. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He blinks.
“Let’s go back to bed,” you insist then, under your breath.
Some clarity crosses his dark eyes, his voice then a cracked brittle rasp. “…Not the bed.”
His gaze sort of drifts away from you.
You thought he was through with that habit. Confused, you ask, “Why not?”
“It’s ruined. It was always disgusting, but… this is worse.”
“I’ll change the sheets then. I know, it’s not—”
“You can’t do anything,” he says, tucking his chin to his chest, intent eyes focused somewhere down. “Corpse smell doesn’t come outta anything, it just smells worse the longer you leave it. It gets colder n’ heavier, then the smell, it attracts bugs. There’s a fluid,” he says quietly. Casually. “And then it shrinks. Getting eaten’s all the same. But I think that way’s worse.”
What can you even say to that?
“I won’t do th-at to you…” His brow furrows sharply, gripping his sleeves—you see now—with bright white knuckles. Even sitting up, he’s almost curled up into a ball.
You talk quickly, before the full gravity of all this can reach you.
“You won’t do anything,” you insist. “How about the sofa? Would the sofa be okay?”
“I can’ go to sleep,” he hisses. “I won’t wake up.”
“That’s not true. Why do you even say that??"
"I'm sick."
"Yeah, but it’s not bad-sick!”
You regret the moment you raise your voice. That almost innocent passivity he exuded is crushed by complete and utter detachment.
“…Denial doesn't help. Don’t be stupid. Don't even—shouldn’ touch me. It’ll end worse fer you.”
You tremble minutely, stewing in silence while in panicked, rapid-fire fashion, you rifle through explanations. He sounds so serious. And he's nothing but.
You know that Levi’s mother died from sickness. He’s called out for her, a lot.
In nightmares… A nightmare?
You guess that’s where it all started for him, as he always slips into a warm voice and delicate eyes those rare moments he does tell you about her. Being sick then, being sick with you here… It all clicks into place.
Okay. Fuck…
The real monster of it all is the fever—making him unglued like this.
You rub the bridge of your nose, swallowing thickly. Okay.
A firm calm settles over you; for once, Levi is scared. That means you won’t be.
“Levi…” you console.
You reach out to his shoulder, only to flinch when he flinches before a push knocks into your chest. It sends you falling into your backside with an injured grunt.
Instantly, intrinsically, you know it’s going to bruise; all his strength, one hand.
Your eyes pop open to his own—uncannily—wide with his lips twisting into a grimace.
Putting his eyes ahead again, he sucks in a choked breath and slumps. “Sorry, I thought you were… Sorry.” He gasps. “I’m sorry.”
You get back up on your knees, slowly, and settle down beside him without hesitation. You’re more frantic than ever to close this icy chasm-like space.
“It’s okay.”
He shakes his head as sharp and as fast as his rattling breaths. “I thought you were him. I don’t get it… it just kept hap-happening… Fucking…”
You see him still searching for the words to explain.
“It’s okay. It’s all okay.”
The warmth in your voice is genuine. When it shakes, you just hate that he’s suffering with nothing you can do to lift it all away, like blood by steam.
He grips his hair, having made himself as small as possible again. “I’m—s-sorry.”
“Shh…”
Slowly until now, you’ve been leaning in, and now you firmly rest your hand on his back, rubbing in long, consoling motions. This seems to help.
You stay like this while his breathing shudders through tears. It’ll only hurt you both to bring force into it again; either way, any way, it’s not his fault. You don’t know what he meant… but why would it be the man who came and chose to look after him?
“Sorry…”
Everything you see if one ruddy cheek and his temple glistens with either tears or sweat, and his eyes look painful.
“Look at me. Baby.”
An order seems familiar. He does.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
He understands slowly, but you know the answer. After a time, he blinks, and nods.
“Stay still, please.” You kiss his temple.
“…Sure.”
One arm around his back, the other scooped under his knees, you lift him up into your arms with not too much difficulty. He goes tense, but leans into your chest nonetheless.
“It’s going to be okay,” you murmur as you walk. You want desperately to ask about his leg, but this feels too fragile, like if you bring up physical pain then the whims of the fever will take him back over.
He’s trembling all over, it seems, before you lay him back down in bed, and once you do he clutches a bit of your blouse at the collar with a grip that confirms for you that he’s not letting go. You sit beside him with his waist pushed against the side of your thigh.
“I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,” he croaks out softly, staring at your sleeve which he now grips. “I wasn’t fast ‘nuff. I hesitated n’ it got ‘em killed for nothing after made the same mistake… Sorry i-was my damn pride…”
You let him talk, rather mumble. When there’s a lull, you rest your palms on his hot cheeks. Better than the last time you felt them. His eyes instantly flutter in relief.
It’s surprisingly easy to give him water, then the fever reducer. Meanwhile, he’s clearly fighting the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his eyelids.
“Don’t make me sleep…”
“I’m not. I’ll just stay by your side. Then”—you cup his cheek—“I’ll do it again.”
He hardly grunts, eyes closing.
You won’t sleep, and you can’t sleep (if there’s even a difference). In fact, you’ll bring in one of the kitchen chairs and sit by him with a novel; you’ll read by candlelight, with a handkerchief hanging like a tarp from the lampshade so maybe he can rest easy.
Being that the flu is a release of stress… He’s getting better. He’s getting better.
Hour-by-hour, more or less (but mostly less), you snap awake at the tiniest stirring from your husband beside you. Maybe mumbling a ghostly snatch of a word; mostly sniffling. It takes you half an hour to drift off again.
This unforgiving cycle obnoxiously persists until morning sunlight poking your sleeping mind wakes you. Suddenly, again. You see him.
It’s a mystery, how long, but Levi is gazing at you softly with bloodshot, but, maybe aware eye. You feel better when he glances away, like every time—if, not when—you catch him staring. Your legs are tangled slightly, his slow breaths brush your cheek.
"Baby," you murmur. "You’re awake?”
He looks annoyed. “No, I’m sleeping with my eyes open.”
“How do you feel? Be honest," you quickly add. You drape your arm around his waist.
He frowns at your tone. "...Like my head got hit with a sledgehammer.”
You say nothing.
His voice gets softer and gentler. “I don’t remember… And you look like shit. What happened?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“…So I’m going to be wrong,” he surmises, looking away. “I slept in too late.”
He goes to rub his eye, and sniffs. The distress marring his expression grows.
“It’s been a couple days, but it’s alright,” you say. You’re quick to explain as the realization seems to come over Levi that he hasn’t had a proper bath in that length of time.
Though, it’s hard to explain. It’s even harder to wrap your mind around the fact that he doesn’t remember how he’d cried, and—insinuated, what he did. What horrors he spoke of.
You finish. Behind a thinly-veiled straight face, he stares into your eyes with the quiet accusation that you haven’t told the whole story.
“It… was… bad,” you bear to admit. “That’s why I look like shit.”
The self-loathing that falls over his expression like a deathly shroud is instant. He looks away, glaring at nothing, but before he can think anything, you squirm much closer, tighten your hold, and kiss his chin.
“It’s not your fault. And if I had to, I’d do it all over again. So don’t start.”
He watches you for a beat, as if searching for some exaggeration, but soon looks resigned to the truth in your vow. At this long-awaited point in your lives, with some legwork to say the least, you’re relieved to know you’ve finally got it beaten into his head that you love him, whether he agrees or not.
You watch him swallow, and many emotions cross his eyes as he mulls your words over.
“I don’t like that it’s just a flash for me,” he resolves.
“I know. But we can… talk about it?”
Honestly you’re shocked the words left your mouth. Levi also stares at you like you just spoke a foreign language. It’s pathetic, as he would say, sure, but—people like you and him don’t just talk about things like that which fueled those nightmares of his.
He looks away, considering. Finally, he brings hand up to yours, nestled deep under the covers. Your fingers clasp gently, foreheads brushing. His silvery blue eyes calmly watch yours. That’s his answer.
It’s so different, and not so comfortable right now, but you believe, now, that’s okay.
Levi masterlist | main masterlist
#levi x reader#levi ackerman x reader#levi ackerman fluff#levi ackerman x you#levi x you#levi x y/n#levi ackerman x y/n#levi ackerman oneshot#levi ackerman angst#aot oneshots#aot fanfiction#captain levi x reader#captain levi x you#captain levi fanfiction
161 notes
·
View notes
Text
Stolen Angel - Part 3
Demon!Jake Seresin x reader
Summary: You thought you were having a one-night stand with some random, normal guy. Turns out he’s a winged, demon-like stalker who has been obsessed with you for years.
Warnings/Notes: Jake is a little dark. Kidnapping. Manipulation. Obsessive behavior. I’m sure there are typos. This used to be a different fic for August Walker, so if you see it, it’s fine. I wrote that one too.
Words: 1426
Part 1, Part 2, Part 4
JAKE POV - (One Year Ago)
He can’t stop watching you. Smiling, laughing, serving customers caffeinated beverages on their way to work. The sunlight streams through the front glass window of the cafe, the rays illuminating everything of you that they reach. Your hair, your eyes, your skin. You’re bright, happy, healthy, stunning, and it does unreasonable things to his heart.
He’s been sitting there for two hours now, not even pretending to occupy himself with a magazine or newspaper or anything that will make him less conspicuous. You’re the only thing that has his attention. The only thing that ever has his attention when he comes to this world. He spends this time, each second of it, observing your every move, memorizing every feature of your face, and when you leave for the day, he follows. Just so he can be a little bit closer to you.
You’ve never noticed him, and sometimes he chuckles at your lack of awareness and how well it works in his favor. You have no idea that he trails you from the cafe to your apartment. You have no idea that he stands outside your building as night cloaks the day. You have no idea that he leans against the same lamppost he always does when he comes to see you, his stare latched on to your window—third floor, second from the left—as you strip yourself of your uniform and into your pajamas. He’d watch forever if he could, but he, and those like him, do not have that luxury.
The hand that lands on Jake’s shoulder is expected and he turns his head to his friend.
“Time to go,” Javy says. “In a month you can come back and stalk her some more, but we’re cutting it close. We have to get back.”
Jake sighs, giving your bedroom window another glance. The light clicks off. “I know.”
“She’s not going anywhere. I’ve kept an eye on her in your absence and she’s had the same routine for the last six months,” Javy reminds him as he rolls his shoulders, preparing for the weight of his wings to return.
Cartilage and bone materialize as his gray feathers, one by one, seek him out from the spot he had shed them. Each one returns to their place, layering themselves together until his wings are fully reformed.
Javy gives them a testing flap, scattering the fallen leaves at their feet. When he sees Jake has yet to call for his own wings, he huffs. “Seriously, it’s eleven fifty-six. Do you really want to spend six months in The Tower because you chose to stare at your little girlfriend rather than be punctual…again? You literally just got out.”
Jake stands from his leaned position and a moment later his black feathers find him. He spreads his wings out in a stretch.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Javy says with pride. “So let’s go.” Then he’s shooting up into the night, a speck in the darkened sky.
Jake takes one last look at your window, imagining himself in that apartment, holding you, kissing you, falling asleep beside you. He doesn’t want to leave you behind. Leaving you behind is leaving a part of his heart behind. But he has to do it. For the night, you’re warm and safe tucked in your bed, and that will have to be enough for him until his return next month.
“Good night, Angel,” he mutters. “Sleep well.” Then he follows after his friend.
—
Food everywhere. Grapes smashed in between the stones of the walls; plums dotting the floor, one having rolled under the bed; juice from apple slices staining the rumpled bedsheets; the silver tray, now dented in the middle, thrown across the room. All as if some bratty tornado tore through the place. Except now the brat is missing.
He’d guessed you would struggle to stay put once you regained enough of your energy, which is exactly why he'd planned to sit by your bed while you slept. But—albeit very reluctantly—he had listened to Javy’s advice about giving you some space for the night. A mistake, clearly, because now he has to hunt his little escapee down.
Shaking his head, Jake rubs the back of his neck and gives the room one last scan in case you got the bright idea to hide until he got close enough for you to whack him in the skull with something hard. When the assault doesn’t come, he jogs to the window and peers through it the way you were when he found you standing there the other day, your pearly wings in all their grandness cascading gracefully from your back.
Glancing to the nearby field many stories below, he spots you seated in the grass with your knees tucked to your chest. His pounding heart stutters in relief.
How the fuck did you get out, Angel? he thinks as he hurries from the room, down the multiple twisting staircases, and through the maze of halls. You’re the last person who should have the ability to leave this place. New residents of The Tower have been known to roam the halls for months at a time, trying to find a way out until they surrender to exhaustion and return to their rooms, and yet you walked right out the front door?
When he reaches the main floor, he stops short at the silhouetted figure leaning against the doorframe. He knows that figure well, and realizing that someone he trusts has been keeping an eye on you from a reasonable distance permits Jake to take a calming breath before he steps closer.
“She’s…content, I think,” Javy says, tucking back his large gray wings to provide enough space for Jake to comfortably stand beside him. “Doesn’t seem to want to run off.”
“Only because she doesn’t know where to go,” Jake sighs, running his fingers through his hair. And thank fuck for that. “How long has she been out here?”
“At least since four. That's when I found her,” Javy informs him. He looks at Jake, playfully grinning. “We watched the sunrise together.”
“Has she seen you?”
“No. She hasn’t so much as turned her head in hours,” he answers, then after a pause of consideration, says, “How do you think she managed to make it out on her first try?”
Jake shakes his head. He has that very same question. Anyone would. “I don’t know, but had I known she could, I would have locked the damn door.”
“Maybe The Tower felt bad for her,” Javy suggests. “You know she always made it easy for the unfairly imprisoned.”
Unfairly imprisoned. Yes, Jake supposes that is what you are. But it’s not for forever, and it’s simply to protect you while you adjust to your new life by his side. Surely, you can understand that. And then you can start accepting the happiness and love you’re denying yourself.
“She fucking scared me,” Jake says, and Javy snickers.
“Then I imagine you're even.”
“She's not scared of me, she just has to get used to me.” Jake watches the gust of air flutter your feathers. You still haven’t moved, save for one hand's fingers which continuously weave through the blades of grass. “She's taking her damn time though.”
“Don't be unfair. She's known you for a couple of weeks—a couple of very difficult weeks—which is nothing compared to the head start you had.” Also true, to Jake’s dislike. But he’s shown you how much he cares, and that should be plenty to help you catch up. Then Javy says, “You should take her back. Just for a few hours.”
Jake’s head snaps to the right, eyes just short of bugging from his head. “Are you insane?”
Javy shrugs. “The day is coming up. It might be easier for her to be here with you if she knows she has the option to visit her world.”
“That’s not her world anymore.”
“True,” Javy agrees. “But don't you miss seeing her smile?”
Jake swallows. He’d give anything to see you smile again; smile at him again. Though he was gifted one when he was deep inside of you, praising you, telling you how beautiful you were, offering the same compliment since he brought you here has not elicited the same reaction. If anything, you frown more intensely, with more effort.
“It's too soon,” Jake says. “She's still attached, and I can't trust her.”
“It's more important that she trusts you,” Javy counters. “And this could be your olive branch, my friend.”
tags: @wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @matisse556 @hardballoonlove @lynnevanss @pono-pura-vida @tgmreader @amgluvsbooks @ravenhood2792 @djs8891 @shakespeareanwannabe @penguin876 @tgmavericklover @athenabarnes @emilyoflanternhill @wretchedmo @shanimallina87 @crowsreadsarahjmaas @mamachasesmayhem @sky2nd @jessicab1991 @rosedurin @averyhotchner @horseshoegirl @roosteraloha @b-bradshaw @fandom-life-12 @hookslove1592 @buckysteveloki-me
#jake seresin#jake seresin x reader#jake hangman seresin x reader#jake seresin x you#top gun maverick#jake seresin fic#top gun#jake hangman seresin fic#top gun hangman#jake hangman seresin x y/n#demon!jake seresin#tgm#tgm fic#jake seresin fanfic#jake seresin fanfiction#hangman x reader
137 notes
·
View notes
Text
| Crybaby | part one
Mean Punk/Grunge Anakin x Naive Femme Reader
18+ MDNI
Warnings: demeaning comments, crude behavior, aggression toward reader, death mentioned, hurt/no comfort
Info: Anakin is an ass, like no joke he’s really mean. Pierced and tatted Ani, he plays the drums, annoying rude neighbor, modern AU (90’s), he might be mean now but I promise he will get better (probably)
NOT PROOFREAD
I based this bot on the concept of mean drummer Anakin, idk y’all he’s just so yummy to me and I had to write about him.
It had been about three days since your arrival to Bespin Drive, you’d settled in nicely, no lost boxes and no broken plates. Your home was tiny and perfect and all yours, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac.
All your neighbors seemed kind, at least the ones you’d met when you decided to make a good impression by bringing around fresh baked cookies to the houses around the circle.
There was one neighbor you hadn’t gotten to meet yet, the one you were hoping to catch leaving his house any moment now. As luck would have it, you saw him when you looked up from your book, after being startled at the loud clang of a screen door swinging shut.
It was then that you were finally able to take in his appearance, the grungey charm of his tattoos and piercings, the energy he exuded. You’d never seen someone like him in real life, only in magazines and the album covers of CD’s you’d never buy.
Spiked hair with a blue streak, chunky metal hoops in his cartilage, a giant slab of obsidian tucked into his stretched earlobes. Snake bite lip piercings paired with one in his eyebrow and two studs in each nostril, along with a dangling hoop in his septum.
He wore baggy jeans with a thick chain and scuffed shoes, an oversized band shirt and several leather studded bracelets paired with chunky sliver rings. He was attractive, a little unconventional, but attractive all the same.
He was the kind of guy your parents would ground you for bringing home, even if only as a friend. But you weren’t like your parents, you didn’t know a stranger, after all a stranger was just a friend you hadn’t met yet and this boy was no different.
“Hi!” You jumped up and tossed your book aside, bounding down your porch steps toward him.
Anakin arched an eyebrow skeptically at your outburst, his default response was to assume the worst in people. However, your genuine smile and the way you unabashedly made your way over stirred something deep within him.
He grumbled under his breath, trying to decide if this interaction would be worth the effort of walking over to you. With a puff of annoyance, he pushed himself off the side of his car where he had just ignited a cigarette and walked towards you, his steps heavy. He came to a stop a few feet away, crossing his arms as he peered down at you.
“Hey.” He responded simply, gesturing to your house with his cigarette, “you know the guy who lived there died in the kitchen.”
“He what?” You gasped, looking back at your front door in shock.
“Yeah.” He sucked air through his teeth, “you’ve never heard the noises at night?”
“Noises?” You squeaked.
“Mhm.” He flicked his ashes at the ground with a smirk. “Supposedly you can still hear his raspy breathing if you listen closely.“
You shook your head vigorously, backing up. “Wait, but the realtor never-“
“I’m joking.” He snickered, “it’s a joke you’re supposed to laugh.”
“Oh… um.” You smiled nervously thinking maybe you were making a mistake in trying to speak to him.
He was testing you, trying to gauge your reactions and responses, getting a laugh out of his little game.
“Cigarette?” He offered, tipping the soft pack and lighter toward you.
“I don’t smoke.” You said quietly, feeling a bit out of your comfort zone.
“I could’ve guessed.” He snickered.
“What do you mean by that?” Your eyebrows furrowed.
“I mean, you look like a prude.” His face devoid of all emotion.
The color drained from your cheeks and your palms began to sweat. You were already nervous to begin with, but seeing as how he was so abrasive, you were unsure of what to say or do next.
“That wasn’t very nice.” You mumbled.
Deciding it was best to let it roll off your back, you knew very well what stereotype you fell into. You’d had your fair share of catcalls and crude remarks toward your clothes and body shape. Even without having met someone like him before, you’d seen enough movies and TV to know that people who look like you are often mean to those who look like him.
Maybe he was worried you were trying to make fun of him?
“Um. So anyway,” you introduced yourself, holding out your hand for him to shake, “what’s your name?”
"You sure seem persistent," he muttered, his tone tinged with a mix of irritation and mild intrigue.
“I’m not interested in making friends with someone like you.” He sneered, knocking your outstretched hand out of the way.
The words may have been harsh, but his eyes betrayed him with flicker of something resembling guilt. Maybe it was your naive nature, but you couldn't help but think he just needed some coaxing. Even so, his words still hurt your feelings and you weren’t very good at hiding it. Your smile faltered a bit while he spoke and by the end of his sentence your lips were in a full frown.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you?” Your tone made him unsure if it was a question or a statement.
“Offend me?” He barked out a laugh, ducking his head into his shoulders.
“I mean- I just…” Wringing your hands you shifted from foot to foot.
This was going badly, so badly. This wasn’t how you’d planned this conversation to go, this was supposed to be friendly, this was supposed to be a fun little meeting. Your eyes felt prickly as though you might cry.
As he saw your smile falter into a frown, a pang of frustration shot through Anakin's chest. He wasn't immune to the pain he caused, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise.
Anakin's tough facade wavered just for a moment as he saw the hurt in your eyes. He cursed under his breath, feeling a bit of remorse. His stubbornness made it difficult for him to apologize for his harsh words.
“What?” He asked aggressively, putting that rough exterior shell back up.
“Look I’m sorry, I just- I’m new here and-“ he cut you off.
“And you thought what? That you’d sucker me into being your little toy?”
“My toy?” You whispered, so confused.
“You know exactly what I mean.” He snapped, “I know you, I know what you’re trying to do.”
He grumbled, his voice softer than before. "I don't need anyone pitying me."
His statement, though defensive, had a touch of vulnerability behind it. The way he continued to hold your gaze showed that despite his resistance, he couldn't completely dismiss the fact that you intrigued him. No one stuck around this long after he’d shown his ass like this.
“I’m sorry if I gave you a reason to think… anything like that.” You sniffled, “I wasn’t trying- I just, I’m sorry.”
“Oh my god.” He groaned, tipping his head back as he chuckled, “Did I hurt your feelings?”
“Y-yes.” You mumbled, turning on your heel to return to your porch after seeing his bottom lip stuck in a mocking pout.
“Crybaby.” He grumbled, kicking a rock in your direction, it bounced off the concrete of your walkway and grazed your ankle.
You hissed in pain, bringing your foot up to examine, seeing a tiny little nick and minuscule droplet of blood. You stomped up your steps and grabbed the Saran Wrapped plate of cookies meant for Anakin and promptly made your way back over to him.
Anakin was conflicted and it was clearly written all over his face, he felt bad, guilty even. He might’ve contemplated apologizing for real if you hadn’t done what you did next.
“I made these for you.” Your voice cracked as you held out the plate for him to take.
Just as he reached out, eyebrows furrowed and mouth poised to respond, you dropped the plate onto the grass and crushed them beneath your foot.
“Oh so not only are you fucking crybaby you’re a spoiled little brat too?” He shouted, scooping up the plate and tossing it in your general direction.
Anakin stood there, watching as you retreated into your house, his heart sinking with a confusing mix of regret and frustration. He muttered to himself, a curse directed at his unnecessary jab at your vulnerability.
Regret in his eyes as he turned away, heading back to his own place. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he had pushed you to much. Images of the interaction flashed in his mind, he didn’t know what caused him to react so harshly. Yeah he was always an ass, he wasn’t known for his hospitality or his stellar people skills, but he wasn’t one to be outright cruel.
He ran his fingers through his gelled hair in frustration, letting out a deep sigh. Anakin lit up another Marlboro cigarette, taking a long drag as he stared at the flame of the lighter. The smoke curled around his fingers, as he watched the smoke dissipate into the air, his feet moved of their own volition.
He found himself on your porch steps, collecting up the mess he’d made. Crumbled cookies scraped off the wooden steps with his bare hands while his cigarette hung precariously from his lips. Unbeknownst to him, you watched his every move from the comfort of your living room window.
What was his deal?
That unfortunate encounter had occurred weeks ago, the days now fading into the heat of summer. Anakin wasn’t as hostile anymore, but he wasn’t making an attempt to be friendly either.
He waved if you did first, he nodded if you said hello, he even dropped off a package of yours that had been wrongly delivered to his address - AND - had spoken to you when he brought it over.
Not to mention the time he shouted your name to catch your attention on your way out for an afternoon walk, it was surprising enough that he initiated an encounter. But even more shocking when you saw that he had people over, and not just any people. His band-mates stood there along side him and shot you a friendly smile and wave with Anakin.
You had found yourself mulling over each interaction for hours and sometimes days after they happened. Analyzing every word or lack thereof in hopes to pick apart his human hermit crab shell.
Teaser for the next part:
As the day went on you got yourself ready. A friend from one of your college classes was due to pick you up anytime now. The guy was nice enough to invite you out to go bowling with a group of his friends, knowing you were new and that you didn’t have a solid friend group yet. You were appreciative of the gesture, despite your bubbly personality you found it difficult to keep a steady friendship, it seemed that people took advantage of your naivety, your kindness.
Tag-List:
@wickedtactics @tsugumiholic @kingdomhate
@burnthecheshirewitch @cherrylooney @star611
@tahliac11 @exquisit3corpse
@jeldog @arzua10 @bby-imasociopath
@depressed-kay @aliciaasky @naty-1001
@mrsmikaelsxn @lilliethefairy @slut-4-ani
@offthethirlwall @slutforhayden @ingrid69ers
Click here to add yourself to the tag list! (Comment an emoji!)
#anakin smut#star wars anakin#anakin skywalker#anakin x reader#sw anakin#anakin skywalker x reader#anakin x you#star wars#darth vader#darth vader smut#darth vader x you#darth vader x reader#star wars fanfiction#starwars fandom#sw au#anakin fanfiction#anakin skywalker x you#anakin skywalker x reader smut#anakin skywalker fanfiction#the skywalker saga#skywalker family#star wars darth vader#star wars anakin skywalker
251 notes
·
View notes
Text
sentimental reasons (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)
summary: sunday afternoon musings in autumn.
uses she her pronouns and female anatomy.
✶ the king of the ring ✶
tags: pregnant!reader, fluff, that’s about it.
sentimental reasons - nat king cole
hawkins, indiana, october 20th 1996
“I wonder if she’ll have my eyes.”
“Hmm. I hope.”
Steve’s lashes tickled the tip of your finger as it delicately scaled the soft tissue of his eyelid. His lip quirked, nose twitching when you came to trace the slope of it: bent sideways by brutal fists barreling into cartilage. But once, it was smooth and straight. No matter how crooked or left-leaning it was these days, you still found it handsome.
“Hope she doesn’t get stuck with that,” Steve snorted, and you frowned as you smoothed your thumb over the swollen bridge. “Hope she has her mama’s.”
Steve lifted his hand from where it rested on your stomach to bop your nose. You smiled, fingers pushing through the long tresses framing his face. You had been reclining on your back for a few hours now, late-term pregnancy responsible for consistent exhaustion and sore ligaments. It felt like the whole of you existed in the front, and sometimes you worried you were walking on a forward slant.
The house smelled like the slowly-browned roast your mother brought you, warming in the crockpot; the sweet aroma of brown sugar carrots and the bitter snap of celery. From your open window: damp earth and the musk of goldenrod leaves. It smelled like home.
Cheek pressed gently to your stomach, chapped hands feeling for flutters and kicks, massaging your aches through a faded, stretched-out tee: Steve. He smelled like a morning Marlboro—faded and nipped away by the wind—and the woodsy vanilla of your laundry detergent. He smelled like Steve. He felt like Steve: warm and firm and lovely. Cocooned between his half-pressed weight and the softness of the comforter, you felt you could’ve lied there for the rest of your life.
You closed your eyes and listened to the leaves rustle in the afternoon. The distant babble of youthful laughter. The whoosh of rubber on asphalt at thirty-five miles an hour. The crunch of bike tires over the pile of leaves Steve raked and then left on the tree lawn so he could tend to you.
He heard your silence from the front yard. He felt your ache.
“It’s funny,” Steve murmured, eyes wide and alert, finger trailing a path down the roundness of your bump. “I never thought I’d be here. Never thought I’d have…another part of me. Like this.”
He flattened his palm to rub across your belly, spreading a blissful massage that had you shifting. Expelling a breezy sigh, you blindly tucked a patch of hair behind Steve’s ear. Soft, just-shampooed: vetiver and musk.
“She’s all ours, baby,” he whispered.
The room swayed in the stillness. Like being cradled in a lullaby, gently rocked to sleep by one dreamy, autumnal afternoon. You felt like you were floating, gently bobbing to the rush and recede of the sea.
"Kinda scary to think about," you returned a moment later, just as quietly. You peeped your eyes open to find Steve's face.
Smoothed into mindless relaxation, he watched his own hand lift over the mound of your bump. Back and forth, over the swell and down the valleys. His wedding band caught a spark of pale afternoon light: thick silver tungsten around his ring finger. Unbreakable. Irreplaceable.
Work got in the way of him wearing it often, but on long weekends like this—when you slipped away from the busy, sunny California life for a slice of small town America back home—Steve slipped the ring on and never took it off.
He liked seeing it on his hand. He liked hearing it clink with yours when you held hands at night. He liked seeing them together—your ring, his ring—and knowing: this was eternal.
"God I hope I don't fuck it up."
You tipped your head on the pillow, craning to find Steve. You gently scraped your nails over his scalp, watching them create gaps in his mop of hair.
"You won't," you cooed. "No more than all the other parents."
Steve's lips curled into a pursed smile, handsome and boyish. Your chest stuttered a moment.
"Thanks, angel. Think 'm just nervous," he sighed, words tight between his teeth with his chin pressed to your belly.
You shifted again, socked feet rubbing his sides. "Me too. My mom said she used to throw up just from nerves right before she had me, but I think I turned out alright."
He breezed into another grin, a scoffed laugh shooting from his mouth. "Yeah."
You twirled a strand of hair near his brow around your finger. It curled into shape, tickling his eye.
"Wonder if my mom was nervous with me," he whispered.
You took pause, scanning the surface of his face. His eyes flicked away from your stomach toward your own, and he instantly scoffed and shifted on his stomach.
"Ah, shit, sorry. That was—sorry—"
"Baby, hey," you awed, reaching down to cup his face. "Don't be sorry. It's okay to wonder."
Steve halted a moment. Staring at you, head risen from his place on your center body, eyes a little rounder and wider and laced with pleading. Softened and sweet, you flashed him a small, reassuring smile and scratched your nails against his scalp again. He slowly sank back down, rubbing his cheek against your clothed belly.
“‘Kay,” he murmured.
“Wanna talk more about it—“
“No, baby. Just…wanna talk about names.”
You giggled. “Names?”
You could see the coil of his mouth from here, how the side of his face lifted with the small quirk of muscle.
“Yeah. Been thinkin’ about what we’re gonna name little Harrington.”
Your heart swelled to double the size, aching in your chest. You could barely contain the burst of adoration blooming with a pulse.
“You have?”
Steve’s finger made a zig-zag trail on your belly again. “Mhm. So…let me see it.”
You blinked, brows etching together. “See what?”
Steve turned his head, hair dragging across your belly and flouncing from his face. “The notebook.”
You clapped your hands together with a giddy grin. You’ve kept a notebook of baby names since your first sonogram. You knew you were getting ahead of yourself, and there were chances the pregnancy wouldn’t stick—but all you could think about was what you’d name your child. When you found out it was a girl, that you’d have a daughter, the notebook immediately became a place of scribbles and exclamation marks and highlighted stars.
Interestingly enough, when you started to show a bump beneath your clothes and required more assistance for daily tasks, Steve swapped roles with you as the worrier. He helped you up and down stairs, poured your cereal, made you smoothies, cut your steak, and did his best to do the cleaning exactly the way you did it.
Steve was terrified you’d lose the baby, and that it would be all his fault.
For some reason, naming the baby felt like “jinxing it” to him.
“Really, you wanna see it?” you squealed, capturing your lip between your teeth.
Steve chuckled, a deep, grumbling sound that shuddered through you. “Yeah, baby.”
“Okay good, because I can’t get up.”
Steve chortled, shifting on his stomach to press a kiss to your belly, wide hands spanned on either side. He wiggled off the bed and headed toward the door, rounding the corner toward the library room.
The Hawkins house, made the Harrington residence circa 1994, had a gorgeous, oak-shelved room full of first editions and signed copies. Steve spared no expense when it came to your little corner of the house, where he often found you curled up in the window seat scribbling in a journal, or scanning a book. You had a desk against the wallpapered wall, where a type writer from 1935 found at a flea market in Virginia sat with every intention of good use. Steve hated the sound of your clacking, but you said the sound was “transcendent.”
Steve padded into the room, blanketed in a pale grey darkness as the sky muddled with rain clouds. The window came to a peak in a rounded arch, wet with old rain drops from last night’s shower. Collections of leaves from the oak tree looming in the yard congregated on the glass in groups of yellow.
He found the notebook on the desk beneath your piles of paper, all full of ink. Steve fought the urge to filter through it as he returned to the bedroom.
You struggled to sit yourself up, wobbling on your palms like doing the crab walk. Steve flung the notebook toward the bed and rushed to your side, hands at the ready.
“Baby,” he huffed, hoisting you toward the pillows at the headboard, which he fluffed adamantly as you settled back. “Wait for me.”
Your eyes rolled, though you were already out of breath. “I had it.”
He shot you a pointed look through narrowed brows, and fumbled for the notebook at the edge of the mattress. He settled beside you, and as the air followed his motions, you caught whiffs of damp soil from his time outside this morning.
“Okay, open it,” you insisted, voice wavering with delight.
Steve flipped the spine open, revealing the first lined page of paper with your familiar writing.
“Jesus Christ, honey,” Steve drawled, pulling the notebook back an inch to take it all in. His eyesight had been slipping for the past year and a half.
He needed glasses, but refused to wear them.
Cheeks swelling with warmth, you tipped your head over to get a peek of your work. “I had a lot of ideas.”
"And they're...alphabetized," Steve commented, tone thick with amusement.
"Obviously."
Steve scanned the list of names, eyes shuttering half-closed and popping back open like a camera lens. The ones he didn’t like got a screwed up face in response. Steve had a headache by the time he got to the fourth page, and the names weren't stopping.
Only few caught his eye: Alice, Caroline, Catherine, Eloise, Emma, Lily, Josephine, Jane, Winnie.
As he continued to scan, he found himself pairing the names with his own surname. Alice Harrington, Catherine Harrington, Lily Harrington. None had the ring he thought they would.
"Do you have a favorite?" he asked, flipping pages again.
Resting your head on his shoulder, you gently skirted the pads of your finger over the warm skin of his forearm. You trailed them to the bone of his knuckle, feeling the purple veins protruding beneath the flesh, plumped from overexertion.
"Mhm," you hummed. "But I don't want to sway you."
Steve turned his head, lips brushing your temple. "It's Jane."
You lifted your head so quickly that it knocked Steve's chin, and he tongued away the pain with a wordless grimace as your face bloomed with warm thrill. You gazed at your husband in delightful wonderment.
"How did you know?"
"It had five stars next to it."
You giggled, warmth increasing. "Oh."
"And," he added, head cocking to pop a kiss on your cheek. "I remember you mentioned that name before. Back when we were still dating, talkin' about kids. You said you always loved the name Jane, and if you ever had a girl, that would be your top choice."
Looping your arm around Steve's, you squeezed him close and nuzzled his neck. "Oh, Steve, you are so hot right now."
Steve's laughter was sharp and surprised, and he snapped the notebook closed to toss it aside. Hands free and desiring your touch, he gently pulled at your legs until you reclined flat on the bed again.
"I know."
Mounting over you with an agreeable and cautious space between his body and your bump, he pressed a gentle pepper of smooches to your face. You ran your hands across his chest, playing with the silver chain around his neck, thin and linked.
"So...Jane it is?"
Steve pulled back, eyes flicking between yours. His features were soft, a sharp contrast to the scars and bruises they regularly carried. He brushed the back of two fingers across your brow, guiding your hair away.
"Jane it is, my love."
♡ ♡
#rolly!#boxer!steve harrington#steve harrington#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fanfiction#joe keery#steve harrington x fem!reader#steve harrington x you#boxer!steve#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington x fem#steve harrington x y/n fluff#steve harrington au#steve stranger things#king steve#stranger things fic#stranger things#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things fanfic
379 notes
·
View notes
Text
Havik x GN! Reader || NSFW
Just a little self indulgent story I wanted to write cuz there's still not a lot of Havik content out there. This ain't proofread, so sorry for any mistakes <3
CW: filthy language, rough sex, nothing really out of the ordinary, degrading praise, biting, mentions of gore and cannibalism (in a romantic way)
The throbbing within is nearly unbearable, having reached your fifth climax of the night. You're out of breath as Havik ruts into you, licking and biting at your neck with a hunger like no other, as if he wishes to devour you completely. You can't help but let out a slew if curses and moans, the cleric pulling them from your throat oh so happily, merciless in his movements. Havik himself can hardly hold back his own noises. In fact, he doesn't. He's loud, huffing, moaning, panting, repeating your name like a mantra, a prayer, even. He groans into your ear, his voice hot and heavy with lust.
"Hng..fuck. You feel so good. So precious..." He practically whines as his cock stretches you so deliciously, rubbing your insides in all the right ways. "Look at you, squeezing me so tight. You're just begging for me to cum inside, slutty little thing."
A particularly needy moan falls from your lips, your nails digging into Havik's biceps. He loves the feeling; the sharp, stinging pain that comes from the way you cling onto him so desperately. It only turns him on more, pulling a deep groan from him that reverberates in his chest.
You can feel Havik's breath become heavier as he drags his tongue from your neck to your chest, nuzzling his marred face into it, desperately listening for your heart. To hear your heartbeat would most likely drive the man to the edge, hearing the muscle pulse, sending blood into your veins and throughout your body. Oh, how he loves your blood; how he loves your heart. He wants to touch it, lick it, devour it. Alas, he can only listen as it flutters beneath your breastbone, dancing so beautifully, all for him.
Havik salivates over your chest, his tongue and teeth caressing the skin if your sternum as his thrusts become a bit slower. It's not very often that Havik slows his pace during sex, but tender moments like these are savored. You gaze down at your lover, drinking in the way his deep, brown eyes stare lazily back up at you, pupils blown from desire. He whines as his hot tongue laps over your bruised flesh, soothing the bites he had painted your chest with just minutes ago.
"Oh, how I want to crack you open and steal your heart from its cage," he groans, rutting lazily into your heat, almost pathetic, "I need to taste it. Hold it in my hands and feel it pulse just as you pulse around my cock..."
You card your fingers through his hair, your nails scratching gently at his scalp, eliciting a small moan from him. "I wish I could give you that, my love, but we would have to part if I did." You smile lovingly at the cleric, knowing that he understands, and that he would never let it come to that point.
Havik lets out a low growl, making his way back up your body, leveling his face with yours. He gingerly presses his forehead to your own in a simple display of trust and affection, your sweat mixing with his. Slowly, he lowers his mouth down to your ear, running his tongue over the cartilage before speaking harshly. "I am well aware of this, my dear. I will simply feel you from the inside in the best way I can~"
And with that statement, thay simple sentence that took your breath away, Havik set a brutal pace, even harsher than the ine before. He grabs onto the flesh of your thighs and practically folds you in half, allowing him to reach even deeper within your core, tearing a scream from your throat. Havik chuckles in between moans and growls, pleased by the noises you're making as well as the sight of you conturned beneath him.
"Yes! Sing for me, love. Let me hear your beautiful voice, so sweet and tortured, just for me." He huffed and groaned, his pace almost as bruising as his grip on your thighs. Havik holds nothing back, fucking you relentlessly, reveling in the way your bodies move in perfect unison and in the way that you writhe and whimper under him. It isn't long before you can feel another orgasm building, bubbling up in your gut, threatening to burst.
The cleric buried within you feels it, too, his heart racing at the thought of you cumming on his cock once more. He will gladly help you reach that high again, rutting his hips agaisnt yours in a steady rhythm, hitting that spot within you over and over. You're drooling at this point, a babbling mess, barely able to form a coherent sentence. All you can do is whimper and plead, words broken by the overstimulation.
Your lover huffs out a laugh as he gazes down at you, proud of this fucked out mess that he has made of you. "What is it, darling? Are you going yo cum again? Look at your pretty face, of course you are." He firmly grasps your cheeks in one of his scarred hands and forces you to look up at him. Havik gazes into your eyes, his own begging you to not look away. "You've got one more in you, I know you do. Now, be a good little pet and cum with me."
It washes over you before you can even process Havik's words, your orgasm wracking though your body. Your back arches and your fingers dig into Havik's muscular arms once more, silently screaming, then gasping for air. Havik's own breathing becomes rather ragged, then evolves into loud growls and moans as he reaches his climax. He bites down hard onto your shoulder when he spills within you, ripping a broken whimper from you. Havik groans against your tattered flesh, the taste of your blood only heightening the sensation of his release.
Finally, Havik stills and removes his teeth from your shoulder, running his tongue over the wond to soothe it. He wraps his strong arms around your sweaty body and rolls over onto his back, pulling you on top of him, his cock never leaving your warmth. He nuzzles into your neck and laps gently at it; his way of kissing. The two of you stay like that for a while, reveling in each others warmth and savoring the afterglow.
After a moment of silence, Havik speaks, his voice low and raspy, yet so very loving, running his calloused fingers over your body. "You mean everything to me...never forget that."
Aaaahhh first fic post! I really hope the Havik lovers enjoy this!
#havik x reader#havik#havik mk1#havik smut#mk1#mortal kombat#mortal kombat 1#smut#mk smut#im losing my mind#need him so bad
281 notes
·
View notes
Text
LADYBUG MAN
“Hello.”
Jana twists her head over her chin and double-takes. There’s a tall man stood at the rear-passenger door of the sun-bleached corvette — presumably, the owner — and her six-year old is staring him down, fingertips mucked up in pollen and the hood of the car coated in naked evidence; trails of sticky fingerprints dragged in lines down the scarlet bonnet.
“I like your car,” she hears her say, and twists to see a twinge of a smile coat the man’s mouth.
“Thank you.”
The door creaks and clicks.
“—Sorry.”
The man glances in her direction as she approaches — lingers in the trail of emerald when she grasps onto Dixie’s hand, half-apologetic and half-amused, dusting the palm of her hand over the pads of the child’s fingers.
“Sorry, she — likes to …touch everything and talk to everyone.”
Jana spares another glance upward.
He doesn’t look like the image her mind had conjured as the owner of the vehicle. Maybe it’s because her brain wasn’t built to draw up a man of his stature from scratch, borrowing figments of stolen faces stowed away. That’s what a mind does, isn’t it? It borrows. Sculpts from what’s already stored and etched into folds of memory. She’d remember a man like him, memoir mirrored and tucked back behind her skull.
It’d go something like this:
Handsome, tall, wide; firm with muscle layered by cotton and denim. Good looking with his clean curls, haloed by the rays of the sun, jade like the evergreen foliage in the distance seated in his sockets. Good looking, despite the silvery knick under his eye, marred tissue sculpted across the cresting apple of his cheekbone. Good looking, despite a thin scar indenting over the slope of his nose. Pocks catch the sunlight and glint back. Most prominently, Jana notes his ear — the left one; swollen, injured cartilage that had been left untreated years ago and settled into a deformity that his tendrils tuck behind.
His mouth exposes nice teeth, straight and ivory, nearly unfitting with his brutishly visible ailments. His massive arm is cradling a crate of tomatoes, nonchalant like the one-handed feat of strength is a casual skill.
“S’alright.”
He’s santalum and cardamom musk, spuming seemingly from his pores — a clean scent that catches on the breeze and traverses, even through the void of empty space between them (a proper two feet, surpassing the respectful six-inches-for-Jesus rule. It wafts in the zephyr). Who are you, mystique. What is your little life?
She’d remember a man like him. Everyone knows every face in the poky expanse of her little county, and this man isn’t familiar.
He sets the crate into the backseat of his convertible, stretching over the boundary of the door, aided in the lack of its roofing.
“Does your car go fast?” Dixie chirps.
The rays bask on the inching of his simper, too, face downcast.
“Not really. It’s a little too old.”
Talc flickers from the bleached leather coating the interior, to the kid, and then up to her mother, where it stays. He peers at the bonnet, tipping his head as he nears it.
“You’ve done some artwork,” the man observes, using that voice utilized with kids — the kind that implies every half-assed attempt is an impressive feat. There’s a lopsided rendition of something decorating his hood, curved lines enclosing blotched stippling. “What’ve you drawn there?”
“A ladybug.”
“A ladybug,” and then, without missing a beat, “That’s quite good.”
Jana eyes him, and then glances down — Dixie beams up at the stranger like he’s hung the moon.
Slowly, he drags a pointed index through the sheath of pollen beside her artwork. His knuckles are firm, callused scarring stretching over every joint; hard like a rigid ballpoint pen coated in flesh. The tip of his forefinger circles and spots. Dots and drags. His eyes flick up, and then back down to the murky artwork. When he takes the pad of his digit away, vermillion shaping through the ragweed sculpts a pair. Two ladybugs, side by side, one to match the other. There’s a lip-sealed smile cresting at his mouth when the man nudges his chin toward the addition, thumbing at the residue over his callused index. Warm, like basking in sunshine.
“There. It’s got a friend now.”
#ladybug man#teaser#just something#:p#harry styles writing#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles smut#harry styles angst#harry styles fluff#harry styles x oc
72 notes
·
View notes
Text
⁀➷ ∵ the soft blue guy
⟶ oc!na'vi x reader
⟶ cw. pure fluffy thirst, short smut, unprotected sex, size kink, SIZE : P na'vis are huge after all, established relationship, interspecies, alien!sex, lots of kissing, lovey dovey + more
⟶ note. hi! this is really short : ) just testing the waters
you never realized how pretty they were. well, from the photographs they just seemed like overly large blue cat people. up close, it's different–like any other species their skin had multiple hues.
soft fingers skim his sharp cheekbones, hues of turquoise and sky blue–darker, richer hued stripes peppered his warm skin. his eyes shut feeling the heat of your touch, and softness continues to linger across his lids–long dark lashes against your fingers. just like his hair.
his noise twitches when you touch it. your lips spread into a cheeky grin and a chuckle leaves your lips. he scrunchies his wide nose bridge shaking his head playfully as if trying to get you off him. "play nice."
"nice? you're making my eyes water with your tiny fingers poking around at it." little strands of hair loosen from his braids from his day out. you scoff, reaching quickly to nip his ears between your fingers.
"ouch." his eyebrows stitched holding onto his pierced ears, littered with hoops all over the cartilage.
you lean towards his face and press your lips against his nose, a gentle kiss that makes his skin brighten and face flush. "hush, you crybaby."
"i am an adult, not a baby."
you lean back onto your palms, "it's just a term, to tease you."
"i do not enjoy your teasing." he nudges into the crook of your shoulder, taking a chomp of your skin, "mate."
"i'm not your mate. you forget."
he breathes, groaning against your skin. "i recall, my love. you refuse to mate with me."
you roll your eyes, drawing his face into your palms, "do you recall what we're doing?" you breath out a moan, feeling him thrust upwards into you.
his lips stretch into a grin, "of course, i enjoy how warm you are." his lips blue, dusted with some purple press a wet kiss on your throat as he sucks on it. you throw your head back, releasing more music to his ears. you're sure this is his favourite position, after all it's uncommon for you to be his height in most situations.
riding him allowed that, and he loved feeling all of you. kissing all of you whilst you did so, he almost rarely allowed you to control the pace of it all–constantly interrupting your rhythm with his hungry ruts. you took too long, as he says.
you roll your hips into him, holding onto his large thighs on your sides as you did. your legs rested on his hips, whilst his entirety punishes your insides. "i still want you to be mine."
"i am yours."
he growls, "i want you to be mine, i want to devote my love to you under eywa."
you know what he means. yet you don't even know if it's possible, it's barely possible to think right now. your mind drunk on his touch and body burning with heated arousal. the angle was almost painful, his cock larger than anything you knew, you recall the first time you took him–he was so proud, pleased you were capable of taking him.
seemed like fucking him inside your makeshift treehouse and home for this mission wasn't enough for him. "my love, eywa is everywhere, is she not?"
his eyes glimmer, you were right. after all, all the sacred lands were destroyed, where would you perform such mating ritual and well, you weren't exactly capable to joining yourself to him in ways the na'vi would.
he loved the way you spoke, so intelligent, so wise. you always knew what to say. his large hand holds your cheek with love, he smiles, "will you be mine?"
he captures your lips. warm and tender it was. he picks up his pace slightly, causing your body to burn. it becomes sloppy, hungry–lips attempting to devour one another. between his heavy strokes and everlasting kiss you manage to catch your breath.
"i've always been yours," you say, breathless–dazed, "now stop asking, and fuck me properly."
he lets out a snort, shaking his head. "my love, your tongue is primitive." he pushes off his butt, pushing you into the soft blankets and cushions splayed across the floor, the bed wasn't big enough to fit him. he angles you, ready to pound, your toes curl feeling him enter so slowly, "but of course, i will fuck you properly."
© moongumi 2022. all rights reserved, do not copy and publish my writing anywhere else.
#avatar smut#avatar 2009 smut#avatar drabble#avatar 2009 drabble#navi drabble#na'vi#na'vi x reader#na'vi drabble#na'vi smut#na'vi pwp#avatar#avatar 2009#avatar x reader#navi x reader#navi#navi smut#alien x human#alien x reader#exophilia#pandora#pandora avatar#pandora avatar x reader
3K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
ot12ficrec
EXO FIC RECS
selidbe-beograd-ats
ATS SELIDBE BEOGRAD
elaniotavares14
#PALCOCHAPADA
angel-of-tears
Cassiel sideblog
ahogarmesll
ahogarmesL