#the initial prompt in my head was 'cursed by desire to have to confess their darkest fantasies' XD sort of fuck or die but lower stakes
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(from some unfinished scene that was bouncing around in my head, the premise of which was, "confessing your darkest fantasies to each other") bit nsfw, needless to say
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"God, I had this one--" Hob scrubs a hand through his hair, torn between embarrassment and a buried longing that's still very real-- "after I met you in 1689. This recurring dream that you would just... take me with you."
"With me," Dream says.
"To faerie land, or wherever it was you came from, as I imagined it. You must've lived in some fantastical place, I thought, and life was hardly treating me well then. Would just be for a few months, mind," he adds, before Dream starts getting the idea that he hadn't wanted to live. Hob had always wanted to live. He just needed a break. "A year, maybe. But just... that you would..." he ducks his head, "take care of me. God, the things I'd do then for a loaf of bread, or a warm bed. Things I did do, for lesser men. Would do lot more for you."
"Like what?" asks Dream. His voice is... considering.
Surely Dream, being, well, Dream, won't find it strange? Hell, he's so damn princely, he'll probably just be vain about it. Still Hob takes a steeling gulp of his wine. "Anything you wanted. You were the only one that was kind to me then."
"Barely kind," says Dream.
"Still. When I was really deep in it I-- I used to imagine you'd just keep me there. Like a pet." It should be more embarrassing to admit, but Dream doesn't seem judgmental. And Hob has often found that confessing deep feelings to him is easier than it would be to any other person. "Figured I was just a curiosity to you anyway. In exchange for your kindness I'd have done anything. Knelt at your feet. Let you use me. Kept your cock warm while you conducted your-- your magical affairs of state, or what have you, God I could only imagine what you did with the rest of your time." It still stirs something in him to think of, even with no starving desperation to spur it.
He's still looking down, and hears rather than sees Dream lean forward in his seat, the shift of fabric, the creak of the table as he leans on it, letting himself have real weight. "This fantasy..." Hob looks up to meet his gaze, and the dark intent he finds there nearly knocks him out of his chair. "Is it one you would still care to indulge in?"
"To-- indulge in?" The words are barely choked out, the heat of Dream's gaze brands his throat shut.
Dream looks him up and down slowly. "If I brought you with me to the heart of the Dreaming for an evening," he purrs, "would you truly kneel at the foot of my throne? Let me show you off to guests? Would you..." he leans in closer, his fingers trip up Hob's throat, "submit, and warm my cock like a good pet, while I presided over my kingdom?"
Hob's never beating the monarchist allegations now. He nearly slides off his chair and kneels at Dream's feet right then. God, but Dream is a king like none the earth's ever seen. He's right out of a story.
Heart pattering in his chest, he says, "Would I?" It sounds less a question, more a plea. "Would you let me?"
"Dear Hob." Dream tips his chin up, studies him from under his lashes, thumbs over the corner of his mouth. An evaluation, and a caress. "You need someone to care for you. In my realm you would want for nothing. You would not need to fight, or worry about your next meal. You need only do as I tell you. And I would not steer you wrong."
Hob swallows hard. Dream is too good at this. Why did Hob think it was a good idea to share a fantasy with the King of Fucking Fantasies again?
It was a terrible idea for his sanity.
And a wonderful one, too. For as Dream spins the tale he can see it in the back of his mind, the vague and changeable sense of a dream, the all-consuming weight of Dream in his mouth, Dream's hands in his hair, his low voice above him, all else faded away as is the nature of dreams.
Dream hums in approval, and Hob remembers quite suddenly that he can sense daydreams, too.
Dream digs his hand into his hair, tips his head back just so. "This isn't fair," Hob croaks. "You didn't even share one of your fantasies yet."
"Perhaps I've adopted this as one of mine," Dream muses. He leans in and claims Hob's mouth, tipping his head further back, rises from his chair to lean over him. Hob barely suppresses a whimper. "In fact, I have a delegation from Hell due to arrive in the Dreaming for a negotiation tonight. It promises to be both dull and incredibly infuriating. Would you care to join me, and comfort your king during this trying time?"
"From Hell?" Hob squeaks. But Dream is looking at him with those dark eyes and Hob is helpless to him. Helpless to the pull of that fantasy.
"I will keep you safe," Dream says, a soothing, easy tone that makes Hob want to bend for him just as much as his intensity does. "You need not worry."
Hob's worried for his sanity more than anything else.
But he says, "Okay. All- alright then." He swallows down the lump in his throat that catches at the gleam in Dream's eye. He steels himself. Takes Dream's hand. Kisses it. "Take me to your realm, then, King of Dreams."
#i'm feeling a lack of dom dream in my life lately. granted i'm contributing to it with my 10k dom hob wip#nsft#dreamling#dom/sub#things i write at 2am#my writing#the initial prompt in my head was 'cursed by desire to have to confess their darkest fantasies' XD sort of fuck or die but lower stakes
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euphoria ; itadori yuuji
synopsis; a serene beach date, followed by intimacy at home
pairing; itadori yuuji x fem!reader
genre; fluff, smut
warnings; smut! unprotected sex, which i do not condone this is fanfiction people. curses i guess? yuuji being cute as fuck <3
note; all characters are 18+ . please don’t read the smut if you’re a minor. there’ll be a page break separating the fluff from the smut! this shit is like over 4k words rip im sorry if there are mistakes
━━ it's not the first time he's seen you in a swimsuit. it's not even a bikini this time, and he's seen you in much more revealing clothing. you've laid bare next to him as the sun seeped through the curtains and woke the two of you up, and taken countless showers with him, soaked in the water inside a bathtub, his revealed chest to your naked back. and yet, yuuji gawks at you like it is the first time.
you only huff out a laugh as you slip the cover up off your shoulders, kneeling down to roughly fold it in your bag. his gaze is piercing, but you like the lingering presence of it. he whistles as you stand to your full height again, before eagerly removing shirt with a grin, reaching for the neck hemline and pulling it off. "so hot," he tells you, earning an eye roll from you. you're not given much warning before his strong arms are wrapping around your waist, picking you up off of the sand.
"yuuji, put me down!" you exclaim, but he only lifts you up higher, tossing you up on his shoulder.
he grips your waist with one arm, the other reaching up to grasp at your thighs as soon as you see the waves of the beach dance over to where your boyfriend stands. he continues inward, the water rising up to his waist, before he whispers out a measly apology, something like, "sorry, babe," before he's throwing you off his shoulder into the salty water.
a scream ripples out of your throat as you flail around, but there's no stopping it. you hit the water suddenly, initially freezing cold, before you move your limbs frantically to push your head out of the water. scowling at your boyfriend, who's cackling as if he were a wizard that's defeated his lifelong enemy, you push your hair out of your face. "what was that for!" you ask, swimming over to where he is.
he sinks below the water before you, his chin hovering over the water as he laughs. "it was out of love," he argues. "i wish i'd recorded it; your scream was hilarious."
instead of wallowing, you paint a mischievous grin on your lips as you plant your feet onto the sand beneath you, and leap up, aiming to dunk your boyfriend's head beneath the water. he's trained though, maybe not exactly for situations like this, but his reflexes are as sharp as ever. he catches your wrists easily, shifting his grasp of them in one hand, before using the other to grab your waist and push you beneath the water again. your eyes sting at the intrusion of salt water, throat burning, but the only true, lingering thought on your mind is just how easy it was for him to deflect you like that. you're terribly aware of yuuji's athleticism and strength, and yet it always manages to catch you off guard.
"no fair, yuuji," you say, pouting up at him as you blink away the residue of salt in your eyes. "that's twice in a row!"
yuuji only laughs again, reaching out for you beneath the water. his hands settle on your waist, but it's a soothing touch this time. no mischievousness behind them, only safety and security. he urges you closer to him until you rest your forearms on his shoulders, and then he leans forward to kiss the tip of your nose. "i promise no more slam dunking in the water," he tells you, lowering his lips to finally meet yours. you kiss him gently, enjoying the taste of salt that linger on your tongue when he opens his mouth for you. maybe it's a little lewd of you, openly making out with your boyfriend in a public beach's waters, but who can blame you really? he's breathtaking.
and you don't hesitate to him so. "you're mesmerizing, yuuji," you confess, lifting a hand to brush through his damp hair. some strands are sticking to his forehead, the pink of them more evident underneath the sunlight. you think that maybe he's left you this way, so mindlessly in love with him, because of the kiss. but really, you always feel this way for him. even if subconsciously.
"maybe i should slam dunk you more often," he teases you, but ultimately, he leans in for another kiss. "i think you're pretty neat."
"pretty neat, hm?" you wonder.
he hums. "yeah. the coolest girlfriend i could ask for, maybe," he continues. "prettiest, too." you humor him, and nod diligently. "by a long run, baby."
you press one last kiss on his lips, a quick peck, before pushing yourself out of his arms' hold, laying back atop the water. "help me float," you ask him, and then you feel his hands settle flat on your back, leaving a trail of heat along your spine. he's clueless of his effects as his face hovers over yours, shielding you from the sun, and you're insistent on keeping it that way, offering him a small smile.
he helps you dance above the waves for a few minutes, occasionally asking you random questions that you, honest to god, weren't sure if anyone had the answers to. and then, inevitably, he pouts down at you, complaining in a low voice, "m'hungry, babe."
thankfully, you'd prepared in advance for this date. rushing out of the water, with yuuji's hand in yours, you race across the sand to where your belongings were, an umbrella propped up for shade. you shiver as a breeze travels past you, painting goosebumps along your skin while your boyfriend urges you to move faster. as soon as you're there, he picks up your towel first, quickly wrapping it around your trembling frame and rubbing his hands up and down your arms, attempting to warm you up.
"all good?" he wonders, and you nod, even if you're still freezing, because he's still yet to dry himself off. finally, the two of you settle on the ground, a cloth beneath you acting as barrier to the sand, and you pull out the snacks you'd packed from your bag. all of his favorites. "you really are the best," he tells you, moaning as he takes a bite into his food. you offer him a sincere smile, shuffling nearer to him for both his body heat and to rest your head on his shoulder while you eat.
there really is no telling how time will pass when you’re with him. sometimes it’s slow, languid, the universe taking its time to stretch out the moments between you two, allowing you to lose yourself within every little thing. every kiss felt like a hundred, every embrace lasted years, every glance left a lingering tingle at the bottom of your spine. other times it’s quick, breathtakingly fast, but you still feel everything as strongly as you would on the opposing days. your heart just beats a little faster, racing to catch up with the way time speeds around you. his touch is fleeting, but the effect he has on you is always eternal. today, the earth seems to slow down with you, to accommodate with your need and desire to feel every moment to the fullest. it sympathizes with you, makes sure you catch even the tiniest of movements from yuuji, like the way his eyes blink rapidly to rid himself of the intruding salt dripping from his hair, or the way he’s moving closer to you to rest his head above yours.
god, you’re such a sap.
there’s another breeze that flies by, and you shiver again, instinctively pushing yourself closer to him. yuuji takes note, lifting his arm to wrap it around you, encasing you in his warmth.
“if you could be any animal, what would you be?” he asks you. it’s not sudden, the type of question, but his voice so near you is.
you only shiver again as you shrug. “i don’t know. never really gave it much thought,” you admit. “maybe a seal or something. they seem to be doing great.”
“a seal?” he wonders, then cranes his neck to look down at you with an approving grin. “nice one, babe.”
you snort, pushing your head into the crook of his neck, sighing against his collarbones. “what about you?”
his grip tightens around you as he rubs his hand up and down your arm soothingly. then, he replies, “maybe an eagle.”
“because it symbolizes freedom?” you ask.
yuuji shrugs softly. “maybe. or just because i’d like to fly. i’d carry you on my back and take you wherever you want,” he fantasizes.
“baby,” you start, sitting up straight to face him. “that’s what planes are for.”
the look on his face emits loud laughter from you, but he pinches the skin of your upper arm with a playful scowl, scoffing, “yeah but planes aren’t free, are they?” you hum, falling back into his embrace. he easily places his arms back around you, fitting you against him perfectly, before he speaks again. “where would you want to go?” he asks.
you sigh, “anywhere with you.”
he freezes for a moment, before he lets out a giggle. “you sap! god, you’re so in love with me.”
you can’t find it within yourself to tease him because, yes, you really are so in love with him. and you had meant it. his laughter fades out into happy sighs, and then he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “i’m so in love with you too.”
maybe you should’ve anticipated that this is where you’d be the moment you arrived back home with yuuji. it’s not that you minded; if anything, this is probably your fault more than his. it was evident in the way even the smallest of his touches, specifically today, lit a familiar fire in the pit of your stomach. inevitably, you figured, you would have found yourself in his lap anyways, knees perched on either side of him, legs spread and a flush traveling from your cheeks down to your chest.
you’d gone home with him with tired eyes and a glow to your skin. showering together hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary, either. it was simple, intimate, also hilarious when a wad of shampoo had fallen into one of yuuji’s eyes, prompting screams from him you never thought you’d hear. it’s after the shower that trouble started.
he had lazily leaned against the bed, only a towel wrapped his waist, his head tossed back against the wall. the tired sigh that left his lips mesmerized you, but you knew your thoughts were to remain as that, simple imaginations, because there’s no way either of you have a speck of energy for anything. you’re proven wrong when your boyfriend beckons you over onto the bed, not giving you much chance to even slip off your robe and into something slightly more comfortable. instead of allowing you to sit next to him, he’d lead you over onto his lap, propping you up, before capturing your lips in a lazy kiss.
you’d returned it, of course, because nothing feels better than kissing yuuji. nothing feels better than kissing yuuji with your hands on his neck, on his sturdy chest, down to strong stomach. the kiss turns feverish quickly, his grip on your covered waist tightening considerably before they travel down to your hips. he lifts himself up to sit more upright, guiding you closer to him, closer to where he wants you to be, before pushing you down harder onto him. against his mouth, you moan instinctively, hands traveling to tug lightly at his hair. a breathless gasp escapes his lips when you finally start grinding your lower body against his, his hands enforcing a bruising grip on your hips. you’re still covered, and so is he, but it isn’t long before the adrenaline truly takes over, and yuuji’s lifting his hips up to rid himself of the towel.
you’re about to follow suit, but even beneath you, he takes charge, untying the robe and slipping it off your shoulders hastily. neither of you dares to break the kiss as you’re finally completely bare before each other, and yuuji reaches forward to wrap his arms around your waist, pushing your chest flush against his. the action elicits a moan from the both of you, and you feel your nipples hardening as they brush against the muscle of yuuji’s chest. tiredness is long forgotten as your hips begin to grind aimlessly along his lap, and, in response, yuuji unfastens his left arm from around you, using the right one to steady you on top of him, as he brings one hand down between your legs.
his fingers brush against your folds, and he groans loudly at the first feel of you. he pulls back, breathlessly, to look into your eyes, noticing how hazy they’ve become, your pupils fully blown. then, he says, “wanna make you cum on my fingers, yeah?” a whine tumbles out from your lips and you nod frantically, giving him your answer to his indirect ask for consent. he collects some of your wetness on his fingers, before slowly slipping in his middle finger. although your mind had expected it, the intrusion is sudden to your body, and you lift yourself up reflexively. yuuji’s stronger than you though, and the grip of his right arm doesn’t falter as he sinks his finger deeper into you. he watches you through half lidded eyes as you throw your head back, welcoming easily the feeling that’s slowly beginning to overtake you.
he pulls out his finger to the first knuckle before pushing it back in, repeatedly, until he hears a breathless, “more,” fall from your lips. your wish is his command, and when he pulls his finger out, a second joins, filling you up even before. it’s incredible how easily you’re falling apart right before him, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly, your chest heaving as his fingers speed up their ministrations. he leans forward, clasping his mouth around one of your nipples, earning an even louder moan from you. your chest rises against his mouth, and his teeth clamp down lightly, pulling at your nipple, abusing it, as his fingers continue to drill in and out of you. his thumb reaches up to rub lightly against your clit, strengthening the fire filling your veins.
you’re making a mess of him, you’re sure, and you have half a mind to finally open your eyes and glance down at him. he’s fixated on you and your pleasure, mouth eager on your chest, arm flexing as he pushes two of his fingers in and out relentlessly. “m’gonna cum,” you whine helplessly, trembling in his grasp. he hums against your chest, letting your nipple fall from between his lips as his tongue dances along the perks. “yuuji, i’m gonna cum!”
he laughs, looking back up at you when you throw your head back, uselessly attempting to rock your hips in time to meet the thrust of his fingers. teasingly, he retorts, “nothing’s stopping you, darling.”
you’re already shaking in his grip, gradually losing more control of your body’s reactions. then, his eyes meets yours as he looks up, the same time his fingers are curling inside you and his teeth reach out to tug at your nipple —
you scream when you cum, sobbing helplessly as his fingers work you through your orgasm. your thighs involuntarily flex and you lean forward, unable to hold yourself up. his mouth leaves your nipple to allow him the pleasure of watching you properly. “fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chant in a whisper, head falling onto his shoulder. his fingers don’t stop however, and you have to reach in between you to grip at his wrist in a silent plea.
yuuji laughs again, finally slowing down his hand’s movements until he eventually pulls his fingers out. “feel good baby?” he asks, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck as he feels your breathing slowly steady itself. you’re still slightly trembling atop him, but you know that you’re not even close to finished for the night.
you hum in response, nodding against him. lifting yourself up, yuuji beams up at your state, skin flushed and hair damp — he’s not sure if it’s the sweat or the shower from earlier, but either way, you look too gorgeous for your own good. unexpectedly, he feels you lift up his hand, gripping at his palm, before your mouth falls open, tongue slipping out, and you place his sticky fingers onto the muscle. his breathing halts when you wrap your lips around the digits, and he silently curses when he feels you suck lightly, tongue dancing over, around and in between his fingers.
“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he admits to you, and you hum again around his fingers diligently. “come on,” he urges you, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and placing both hands on your waist. “can’t let you have all the fun.”
you giggle, nodding in agreement as you place your hands atop his. “want me to be on top?” you suggest.
“yeah, if you want me dead,” he jokes, before easily flipping the two of you over. you can’t help the squeal that cuts from your lips, but he swallows it easily with his mouth on yours, replacing it with a throaty moan. you can feel his dick hard against your thigh, leaking precum, smudged along your skin. he lifts himself up further along your body, pressing down against you until his heavy cock is trapped between your lower abdomens.
“yuuji, come on,” you whine up at him. your hand slides down to between you two, gripping the head of his cock, thumbing the slit. his figure falters above you, his arms trembling slightly at the feel of your hand around him.
his hand comes down to yours, swatting it off, before shifting down slightly to line himself up at your entrance. with his other hand, he spreads your legs further apart, hooking one onto his arm. once he’s satisfied, he settles the tip of his cock near your dripping sex, reveling in the noises that are spewing out of you — countless moans and breathless chants of please, please, please. he loves you always, but especially like this, all spread out for him, the heat of you nearly sucking him in as he teases your pussy.
“you look so pretty like this, baby,” he voices. you whine again as he rubs the head of his dick against your clit, throwing your head back and reaching out to grip his arm.
“please, yuuji,” you beg, and maybe if he had an ounce of self control within him at this rate he’d drag this out a little more. he’d tease you endlessly, till the sun came up again. but there’s a hunger within him that’s pleading and begging to be sated, so against all odds, with his fist wrapped around the base of his cock, he slowly enters you.
you muffle a cry at the feel of your walls stretching around him to accommodate him, and he can physically feeling you spasming around him already. he groans as he continues to sink in, his hand reaching out to fist the pillow by your head. your breath is heavy, labored, when he finally bottoms out. you feel so warm around him, it’s dizzying. “fucking tight,” he groans, his jaw tight.
he steadies himself, waiting for you to relax slightly. he doubts he’d be able to move even a little with how tight you felt around him, but slowly, surely, he feels you lift your hips slightly. “more, yuuji,” you mumble, eyes cloudy. he lifts his hand from near your head, gripping your hip instead, and with your leg lifted up on his shoulder, he pulls out, before slamming back in. your back arches as a loud moan rips from your throat, mindlessly cursing, “fuck!” he does it again, encouraged by the noises you’re making and the way your body’s reacting to him. you’re so fucking wet, dripping down onto the bed beneath the two of you, but he can’t even begin to think of anything but the fact that he’s reducing you to this state.
he continues to thrust diligently into you, his hips snapping against yours repeatedly. with the angle he’s fucking you, he continuously hits a specific spot within you, leaving your head cloudy and your spine tingling. he’s splitting you open in half at this point, but all you can do is lay there, muscles tight and exhausted, skin slick with sweat and chest flushed, rising and falling rapidly. your breasts bounce with every thrust, and you’re convinced he’s fucking you stupid as your eyes roll back, your back arching off the bed.
“fuck, you feel so good,” he praises you. “so good, pretty.” his voice is breathless, deeper too, and you look up at him for a split second. his eyes are trained down to where your bodies are connected, watching as you take him so well, his gaze never wavering.
when he leans forward, dropping your leg to wrap it around his waist instead, you know he’s getting close. his cock twitches inside of you, his hands coming to rest by your waist on the bed. his fingers, suddenly, come to work at your clit, rubbing at the bundle of nerves harshly. “it’s too much! too good!” you wail, and he drinks it at all, his fingers growing slick again with your wetness.
“i wanna feel you cum all over me,” he tells you, thrusts somehow deeper. you let out a broken sob, your nails digging into his shoulders as he works you over to the edge. he’s given no warning other than the relentless squeezing of your pussy around him and your repeated cries of “cumming, cumming, cumming!” before you’re trembling beneath him, struggling to catch your breath as your hips lift up off the bed. the orgasm continues to rock through as yuuji’s thrusts grow sloppier.
“where do you want me?” he shakily asks. despite the overstimulation and the over sensitivity, you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you. he rests his head in the crook of your neck, his quiet moans music to your ears so close to you. “darling,” he groans, gripping your waist as he uses your body to bring himself closer to his high.
“inside, yuuji,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his temple. “please, please, plea—“ a gasp tumbles out as he suddenly stills, your words sending him over the edge. his muscles flex, slightly trembling within your arms, his small pants spreading heat along your skin.
slowly, he fucks into you, riding out his high, pressing chaste kisses along your neck and throat. “love you so much,” he mumbles, finally stilling.
you feel sticky, sweaty, and not at all clean in comparison to when you’d just stepped out of the shower. but you also feel blissful, euphoric, hazy and completely satisfied. yuuji lifts his head up finally, lifting himself up slightly to pull out of you. his cum trickles out slowly, but he pays it no mind as he flops half of his body atop yours, and you let out a pained laugh.
“yuuji!” you whine. “you’re heavy.” he only hums tiredly, his arm slung along your middle, his cheek against your shoulder. you bring a hand up, the one he isn’t immobilizing, to brush away his hair. his eyes are barely kept open, but he still manages to smile dreamily at you. your fingers ghost over his features, admiring them, tracing his soft skin, unknowingly lulling him to sleep. “okay, king of aftercare,” you joke, and he huffs out a laugh.
“i’m sorry,” he mumbles. “aftercare tomorrow.”
you nod, beaming brightly, and leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead. his chest begins rising and falling slowly, telling you he’s already asleep, but when you mumble out, “i love you so much, too,” and press a kiss to his cheek, you swear he smiles.
#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen imagine#jujutsu kaisen smut#yuji itadori x reader#itadori x reader#itadori yuuji x reader#itadori smut#itadori yuuji smut
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In Valentines Day spirit... a lil love... and a lil angst.
Fools And Love.
Since long before Ashara’s flower blossomed, she knew that love made fools of men. There were many that came and went, fell over themselves and professed love for her pretty eyes and tinkling laugh. Even a Dornish prince had played the fool for her and sworn off marriage, and instead pursued fleeting desires.
Elia broke her promises and chose Rhaegar. When she uttered the rejection, Ashara literally heard her ribcage crack from the explosion beneath her chest. She had finally conjured up the confidence to confess long-hidden feelings and Elia gave a response she never foresaw. Her sweet Elia, the one she trusted above all others, and the one that loved her like none. The irony was not lost in that, at the beginning, she had wanted to apologize in advance because she thought it would be her to accidently break Elia’s heart and run, just like she always had. Yet, in the end, it was Elia who ripped her heart out and abandoned her.
It was only in Elia’s abandonment that Ashara realised she never healed what was broken inside of her. Elia was the tourniquet to her being, and without her, she was left bleeding on the cold, hard ground.
First, came an agonising emptiness which left her powerless to rise from her bed. Then, a volatile rage she unleashed on anything in her proximity. Next, she chased an oblivion in endless goblets of wine. Lastly, came the venomous desperation, which had her acting out for Elia’s attention in the most foolish ways.
After a long confinement, when Elia had not come chasing as usual, Ashara returned to court like a hurricane, on the centre stage of the Realm’s biggest and most extravagant tourney.
Lord Whent’s tourney at Harrenhal attracted nobility from every hill, river and rock in Westeros. From the sour lords of winter to the prickly roses of the Reach; to the stags of Storm’s End, to the old keeper of the Mountains of the Moon. Even Mad King Aerys, looking haggard and unhinged, crawled out of the dragon’s den for the first time in years, much to Rhaegar’s dismay. However, noticeably, the lions of the Rock were nowhere to be seen, except the newly knighted golden cub, Ser Jaime.
The tourney was as much a political event as it was an athletic melee. Treason was in the air, and the Great Houses of Westeros had more in mind than jousting, archery, and merrymaking. Ashara knew of the great efforts Rhaegar and Elia underwent to secretly fund the tourney in guise of calling a Great Council and initiating Rhaegar’s ascension to the Iron Throne.
After the opening ceremonies, when the dancing walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, each emblazoned with the symbols of the Great Houses, the psychological games began. Aerys made his own power plays and officially named Ser Jaime the youngest knight in kingsguard history. A clear spite at his Hand, thereby claiming the heir to the Rock his own.
Nonetheless, Ashara had plots of her own in mind. Driven by foolish attempts of attention seeking and many a cup of heady Dornish Reds, Ashara dragged Prince Oberyn up after a long evening of introductions and tedious niceties.
“Now, come. Let us show these stiff Northerners how to dance properly, my prince!”
Always ready for mischief, Oberyn set aside his wine before Ashara swept him to the centre of the dance floor.
Ashara expected the many eyes which stalked them, the distrust for the Dornish and their strange ways was something she was long accustomed to. Yet, there was only one pair of dark orbs Ashara cared to attract.
She took one of Oberyn’s serpents and waved to the musicians, who picked up their instruments and began to liven up.
The technicoloured red and blue serpent slithered up her arm and down her exposed mid riff.
Ashara was a foolish maid in love, recklessly seeking the love she was deathly afraid of losing. When she gazed up at the princely couple, seemingly besotted with one another, she knew she would sooner withstand Elia’s blazing rage than her careful distance.
She brought the serpent’s head close to her face and stuck out her tongue as its forked one did the same. The music swelled and she began to mirror its movements seductively as Oberyn stalked around her gyrating form. She moved with a slow and sensuous purpose as the snake coiled around her and slithered into Oberyn’s grip. Her body wove itself lithely in tandem with the growing rhythm of the seductive beats.
To dance was her freedom, to dance was to become a shooting star, and in the crumbling ruins of Harrenhal, Ashara came alive for the first time in so long.
Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the breath of every person in her audience. She felt her soul become one with the music and she unleashed her emotions into the dance; heartbreak, jealousy, longing. In that moment, she needed to dance as badly as she needed to breath. She wanted to shine and be seen in the darkness.
When she noticed that Elia’s attention remained on her husband, despite the audience she drew, Ashara grew more desperate. She was determined to draw such spectacle that Elia had to do something. Anything. It was not a well thought out strategy, merely a frantic attempt to salvage what had been shattered between them.
When the song ended and the applause came, Ser Barristan the Bold, stepped out another fool in love.
“Lady Ashara, I must insist on the honour of dancing with you. I am no great dancer, but I am certain your talents will more than make up for my lack of skill.”
She nearly declined until she caught Elia curiously watching her. She took it as a small victory and laughed loudly, throwing her head back.
“Ser Barristan, the honour is all mine.”
She took his offered hand, and it was the first of many. She danced with an entire host of men; princes, knights, and lords alike. Ashara was in her element, gliding close to whichever man she held close in her long arms and dared hope to see vexation in Elia’s expression.
She chased Elia and they chased her.
The men would take and so would she, for it was clear love was not meant for Ashara. These men would flirt and dance, perhaps even take her to bed, or to wed, but she knew none of them meant to see her beyond the violet eyes and fair golden skin. The only eyes which had ever seen her were so dark she could scarcely breath sometimes, and now they were blinded by fire.
Despite the sparing glances, Elia made no movement towards her, and Ashara descended further.
She left behind willing partners looking forlorn as she bounced to her next conquests. She flirted outrageously and was vitalised by the scandalised looks.
She was entirely content to continue her path of self-destruction until she saw dark grey eyes watching her. She noticed them follow her as she danced with Barristan, Prince Lewyn, Ethan Glover and Jon Connington. Always watching yet without hungry lust as some, or barely disguised disgust as the others.
She knew he was a Northman from the rigid way he sat between the boisterous young storm lord Robert Baratheon and his patron, old Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Vale.
Her curiosity fell away when from the corner of her eye, she saw Elia gaze over at her before whispering something to Arthur, and when he walked over to her, she felt victorious in her rebellion.
Yet, those hopes were quickly dampened.
“Did she send you here?” She asked.
Arthur sighed and looked at her apologetically.
“No.”
Elia did not want her. Ashara feared that this new meek woman that was Rhaegar’s wife would never love her like Elia of Dorne had.
Were things the way they once were, Elia would have risen from her seat and joined in the merriment long ago, propriety be damned. Ashara yearned for Dornish nights and Rhoynar rhythms, of small soft hands and blood orange scented kisses.
Ashara was taken out of her reverie and reminded of exactly where she was. On the dancefloor of a crumbling castle with near enough every pair of eyes on her except the ones she wished for.
Arthur gently caught her hand.
“Sister, dance with me,” he prompted.
She knew Arthur’s intentions were to soothe her suffering as he always had. For the pleading in his expression, she accepted the request and rocked with him to the slowing tune.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you will learn to breathe again without her,” he explained interrupting the stillness between them.
“I don’t want anything without her.” She answered petulantly, cursing herself for sounding like a spoilt child.
She felt more childish when he leaned back slightly and peeped down at her seriously.
“Ashara, you have to learn to live for yourself, not for anyone else, not even for her. For so long you held love with an iron grip but at arm’s length. You could have had your sweet Elia long ago. Inevitably, it would still have ended the same way because duty was always going to call for the prized sun of Dorne…”
His words stirred something uncomfortable inside her. They were difficult truths to accept. She made many excuses for why she waited so long to reveal the depth of her feelings. It always came down to her own inadequacy and inability to feel deserving of love.
“…You deserve love, Asha. Just because it no longer resides where you believed it to, does not mean it is not out there for you,” he finished.
Deep down she still felt like the neglected child that begged for scraps of her mother’s attention – like the abused girl that was sullied long ago.
It was an arduous and complicated set of issues to settle, but for the first time, Ashara was confronted with the truth.
“I don’t know who I am without her,” she admitted.
“Then perhaps you ought to find out.”
She took a moment and considered Arthur’s suggestion.
She wondered if it truly was time to attempt to move on. It left her chest feeling tight because it was something she never even fathomed to consider before. It was in the unknown to exist anywhere that was not Elia’s side.
Before she could respond, she was swiftly whisked into the arms of another, the charming Brandon Stark. He had made himself as well known as the young storm lord that evening, and it would be a lie to say her eye had not wondered to him during the introductions.
“Lady Ashara,” he greeted with a mischievous smirk and mirth gleaming in his eyes.
She feigned disapproval but continued gliding along with him despite it.
“The Sword of the Morning will not take too kindly to that, lord Brandon. I fear you may have made yourself a formidable enemy in the lists tomorrow.”
Brandon was not typical of the stony-faced Northmen. He was bold and confident, which she found attractive, although she would never admit that aloud; there was a cockiness to him that raised her defences.
“It’s just harmless fun, why should he make an enemy out of me?” He countered.
He acknowledged Arthur and nodded in respect, although the twinkle in his eye remained.
“You have a sister do you not – how pleased would you be if a man took off with her?”
The smugness fell from his expression momentarily.
“I suppose for her honour, he would become my enemy,” he answered gazing towards a young dark-haired girl Ashara assumed to be his sister.
She was a pretty thing, with the same teasing glint in her eyes as Brandon.
“Then what makes you exempt from my brother’s wrath?”
His knowing smirk returned as he peered at her with his grey eyes, and she hated how it made her blush.
“For a start, you think me quite handsome, and you enjoy me.” He winked with a growing grin.
Ashara laughed despite herself.
“And that’s enough to warrant his forgiveness?” She countered.
He shrugged playfully before brushing her hair back from her shoulder, with just the right look of heat in his eyes and moving in so close she could feel his lean body pressed up against her.
“Then perhaps I ought to give him better reason to make me his enemy.”
She pretended to be indifferent to Brandon’s seduction. It would not do to allow someone with an ego like his know how much power he had. Thus, she refused to lean in or seem too keen.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“As are you, Ashara.” He looked pointedly at the men that stood peeved in the wake of her abandonment.
“If you came over to insult me Brandon, you can surely return.” She scolded as she recoiled.
Ashara was not a stranger to rumours, men and women alike often set their tongues wagging over tall tales about her. Unlike Dorne, the rest of Westeros were prude little creatures when it came to pleasures, but she would be damned if the would-be Warden of the North, who had his own whispers of lovers and bastards, would question her integrity.
“My lady please forgive my impertinence. In fact, I truly came here to request a dance of you, with a man far more honourable than me.”
Confusion washed through her, but strangely, she was intrigued. Man after man had taken what they wanted from her this night, and it was odd that one remained reserved.
“That won’t take much… but go on, who is this poor fellow?”
A wide grin spread across his features.
“My young brother is too shy to approach you. Don’t be so hard him. Whilst I was blessed with all the charm in the family, he is good and honourable, a man worthy of your time.” He spoke with pride.
As audacious as Brandon had been, it was evident now that it was act to make his brother appear the better man.
“Very well, but I shall decide that for myself.”
Brandon returned to his table and Ashara was surprised to find that his shy brother was the stiff Northman that had been watching her all night.
Ashara could not help but chuckle endearingly when she saw the younger Stark’s back stiffen and panic wash across his features as Brandon whispered to him.
The young Stark was not as tall as his brother, just of a height with her; he kept his long hair tied back messily, and unlike Brandon, wore simple clothing unadorned with any marks of House Stark.
It would be difficult to guess they were brothers if their features were not so similar, and even then, where Brandon was always smiling, the young Stark already had frown lines across his brow.
“My lady, I thank you for the honour of a dance,” he greeted, inclining his head rigidly, and offering his hand.
She took his hand and led him to the dancefloor.
It was awkward at first, because even at their slow pace, it was clear Stark did not have the grace of a dancer. She rearranged his hands until they were in the correct position, and led the steps, anything to occupy herself from meeting his mystifyingly intense gaze.
“Do you happen to have a name?” She wondered, once they swayed in rhythm to the languid tune.
“I do.” He answered, adding nothing further even as Ashara tilted her head in curiosity.
“You’re not very talkative, are you?”
“If you might give me your name, I shall give you mine.” He said unsmiling.
When she finally met his expectant stare, she saw the beginnings of a smile pulling at his cheeks, and something akin to intrigue flared inside her.
In that moment, instead of seeking Elia, she found herself regarding Stark, questioning if he was not shy at all, but instead, reservedly confident.
“It appears you already know who I am.” She answered with a cock of her brow.
“I would rather get the name from the lady herself than the fame which precedes her.”
Ashara found herself pleasantly surprised by their exchange.
“I am Lady Ashara Dayne, lord Stark.”
“Thankfully, I shall never be lord Stark… I am Eddard Stark, although you may call Ned.”
A teeth-baring grin spread, and his face transformed. She found herself strangely attracted to the quiet wolf.
“Ned.” She said testing out the syllables on her tongue.
The song picked up pace, as did she.
Her feet struck the floor in perfect synchronisation with the building tempo and his pursued with every step. Ned’s grey eyes shone behind the shy expression as they advanced, retreated and pirouetted.
The rapidly enclosing space between them felt electric and burning. There was something she could not explain about this quiet Northman, who stared into her eyes as if he could see past all that she armoured herself with and saw the frightened girl inside. She felt admired, as one might the stars on a clear night.
“Why do you keep staring at me?” She finally asked, fascinated in his unravelling scrutiny of her.
His answer made the flirtatious grin fall from her face.
“You have danced and laughed quite a lot tonight… But I can’t help by notice, you don’t seem all that happy, my lady.”
Shaken, she abruptly halted her movements.
She remembered the pain in her chest and found Elia across the room, glaring at her with fire behind her eyes. She was confused because this was what she initially wanted, but now she had it, it felt nothing like victory. For with Ned, for just a moment, she put aside her heartache… and breathed.
“You’re very perceptive.” She answered, a slow panic filling her.
“I’ve said the wrong thing.” He commented apologetically, noticing the change in her.
She looked up at him wide-eyed, contemplating the stirring emotions inside her.
For reasons unclear to herself, she lurched to kiss him, but he pulled away just as quickly.
Embarrassment filled her and she exploded into blazing anger.
“Is this not what you wanted, Ned – to say you had an easy Dornish wench to your brother and friends?” She spat turning to walk away.
He chased her before she could escape, appearing ahead desperately.
“I meant no disrespect, lady Ashara. I would never dishonour you in such a way, only when I kiss you, I want it to be because you want it, not because you think that’s what I want.” He interrupted.
That he could read her so easily, and was not scared away by it, terrified her. Just like she always did, she crumbled under her fears and lashed out.
“What honour is there in getting your brother to do your courting? I pity you Ned, that’s why I danced with you.”
He flushed in embarrassment, and deep down, Ashara was ashamed for it.
“Then allow me to rectify my actions, may I do something no other has done today?”
Despite her urgent need to flee, she was intrigued.
“Go on.”
“Will you come sit with me, Ashara?”
“What?”
Again, she was surprised by this strange Northman.
“I want to get to know you, is that so hard to believe?”
She carefully maintained a neutral expression. Yet, even in that, he read her disbelief.
“Come on, Ashara, get to know me, take a chance on a fool in love.” He pleaded.
Love.
The word spun around in her head, and she realised, for the first time, it was something she truly yearned for.
Warmth began to spread through her blood and hammering seized her chest.
“I-I…”
Despite her epiphany, her tongue fumbled in her mouth. She did not know how to articulate such desires and succumbed to old behaviours.
“…I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Without a single glance back she fled, a maid made a fool by love.
#asoiaf fic#fanfic#ashara dayne#elia martell#dorne#house martell#elia x ashara#arthur dayne#game of thrones#ned stark#ned x ashara#house dayne#got fic#brandon stark#Brandon x ashara
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@seventeenthingsblr: can you do 38 and 8 with Yoongi for the angst plots please?? Thank you!!
I see you, bub. 💗 Here ya go! Hope you enjoy this lil blurb. added a keep reading tag!
“I’m never letting you go.” + “All I wanted was for you to be happy.” with Yoongi.
Genre; relationship!au, badboy(?)!yoongi, BIG angst, fluff.
Warnings; mention of alcohol and smoking, cursing.
Word count; 1.4K
++
‘No new messages.’ Your phone screen read before you’re tossing the clump of metal to the floor.
“Y/nieee,” Somi droned, her voice reeking of annoyance. She then flopped her petite body next to yours on the mattress of your bed “Are you done sulking over a boy now?” Missing your usually outgoing and talkative self, she pouted. “I wanna hang out with you so bad.”
“He’s been ignoring me for a week now.” You muffled through the pillow concealing your face, each word coming out inaudible. “I don’t know what I did wrong” Your sniffles were barely muted by fabric.
“Maybe it’s what you didn’t do.” She brooded sarcastically, yanking the rectangular plush off of you and chucking it to the other side of the room. She brattier that usual, you think.
“What?” Your blood shot eyes squinted at the abrupt exposure to the florescent light on your ceiling. Nose equally red and lips disgusting chapped.
“Maybe it is you, maybe you did something that ticked him off. Maybe he found you annoying and decided to ghost you. Maybe he doesn’t like you anymore. Who knows?”
“Okay, stop. You’re not helping.” Your worry lines started to show as your eyebrows knit together, not liking her current attitude. A sour grimace imprinted on your face. “Like, at all.”
“Ugh–” She frustratingly mewled, suddenly pouncing on top of you like a lioness striking its prey. Caging you between her arms that were currently pushing and fisting at the bed sheet where you laid flat. “Let’s go out. Jin’s hosting a party tonight. That’ll definitely get you mind off of Yoongi.”
"No.” Your voice was stern and unyielding, reinforced with your incorruptible resolve to stay in bed all day long.
“Please, Y/n! I swear it’ll be fun!”
You pushed her hovering frame and quickly cocooned yourself with the thick comforter, tucking in the edges and shielding yourself from her incoming attacks. It was essentially a game of tug of war now, with Somi giving it her all. You were wrong to underestimate her strength because now the two of you were laughing uncontrollably at the tangled position you’ve put yourselves into.
Knowing Somi, she’d saved the best for last. With her wild puppy-dog eyes focused on you, she was soliciting her desired answer from you like a seasoned haggler. Whenever she’d put on that face, you knew you were screwed.
You sighed as a sign of surrender, “Fine.”
Her eyes lit up exponentially while a wide grin cuts from ear to ear. “I’m picking your dress and doing your make up.”
Ten minutes in and you’re already regretting your decision. Loud music rattling up entire house, dozens of people occupying the whole dance floor and couples two steps shy of fucking each other in the living room.
“I thought you said, this was going to be fun.” You say over the noise, “The only thing this party is making me want to do is go home and sleep.”
Somi grabbed two red cups from the table of refreshments and shoved it in your hand. “Get some alcohol in your bloodstream. It’ll do you some good.” She winked.
You rolled your eyes to the side and recognize a familiar head of silvery hair. Could it be? No, it couldn’t. But what if?
Your body began moving on autopilot, abandoning your friend behind and slipping past the sea of sweaty bodies to get to where the male silhouette was. You reached the end kitchen and caught a glimpse of the same boy puffing out smoke through his lips with a cigarette tucked between his fingers.
“Y-Yoongi?” You were second guessing since you couldn’t really tell if it was him by the way the smoke was still clouding over his face.
As the smog around him began to dissipate, his features were finally distinguishable.
“Y/n? I didn’t expect to see you here.” His cold facade never wavering even at the sight of you, you think.
You scoffed at his fine choice of words “Since when have you been expecting to see me?” Fury bubbled up your in your chest and your cheeks were set ablaze. You wanted to erupt like an angry volcano, spewing out lava and rocks everywhere, obliterating everything that crosses its path. “You’re the one who’s snubbing me! I’ve been wasting my time thinking about what I might have done wrong and you’re here at some wasted party enjoying your ass away while your girlfriend has been crippled by anxiety 'cause you can’t give a damn about how she might be feeling.” There was a significant pause before you could compose yourself again after that horrible mental break down. People were already staring at the commotion you’ve caused, and it’s time to wrap it up. Quick.
“And quite frankly,” You huffed, connecting you arms in front of your chest as you continued to speak, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here either. Good bye, Min Yoongi.” You concluded that someone who’d disregard you like without reason wasn’t worth even one second of your time. You turned on your heel and faced him with your back, preparing to walk away.
Before you could split, Yoongi’s already gotten his hold on you and spins you around.
“Y/n,” He looked at you with vulnerable eyes, his voice was the softest you’ve heard from him. “Hear me out, please. All I need is two minutes, let me explain.”
“You’ve got one.” The resonance of your voice was icy cold.
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, like he was swallowing a huge mass stuck in his throat. He was having second thoughts if he should say it or not but he pushes through, “Your parents talked to me. They said if I genuinely wanted what’s best for you, I should break up with you and leave you alone.”
“And you decided this on your own without even consulting me?!” You were stunned at his confession, but the rage still empowered the initial shock. You knew from the start that your parents weren’t quite fond of Yoongi, with his reputation and all. Though you didn’t imagine they’d go this far to ruin your relationship with a guy they know nothing about.
Under Yoongi’s hard and rigid exterior past all the scars and tattoos he had, hid a little boy who’s just scared. A boy who’d rather put up a tough face than convey his true emotions; a boy who’d rather shoulder all the burden on his own than let the ones he loved suffer; and boy who’d give up his own happiness just to see you smile. Yoongi was everything but what people perceived him to be.
Yoongi was your saving grace. He was your personal angel sent from heaven to make your miserable life more tolerable. He’s that little tune you’d hum in your head when your nerves got you; he’s that soft blanket you’d drown yourself in when you wanted to hide from the world. And he’s the person you’d share your whole life with.
What you didn’t understand was why he didn’t tell you about it instead of making things more complicated. “Don’t I have a say in this? I’m one half of this relationship, Yoongi. Do I really mean that little to you?” You were on the brink of tears, the strain in your voice was a solid confirmation. You fought the sobs wanting to escape with the strength you had left.
“All I wanted was for you to be happy.” His hand was starting to loose its grip on you, dropping weakly at his side. His eyes were heavy and swollen as he looked up at you. “And me? I’m not good for you, y/n.”
“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me. My parents don’t get to decide what’s good for me.” This time, you couldn’t stop the wave of emotion washing over you like a massive tidal wave. Globules of the salty liquid started spilling from your ducts. You pressed forward into him and buried your face into his chest, his once dry shirt was now soaked with your tears and snot. “I do,” you sniffled, wrapping your arms around his torso. “I get to decide what’s good for me, Yoongi.”
“I’m sorry, y/n.” With his voice hoarse and husky, he placed a chaste kiss atop your head. “This time, I’m never letting you go.”
++
Feel free to send requests!
Prompt list.
#Yoongi x Reader#Yoongi Angst#Yoongi fluff#yoonkooknetwork#hyunglinenet#yoonginetwork#bts drabble#bts angst#bts fluff#min yoongi#bts scenario#bts imagine#bts prompts#bts reques#kpop drabbles#kpop fluff#kpop angst#suga x reader#yoongi x you#suga fluff#suga angst
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Course Credit
WestAllen for the prompt, “Person A is studying a major in art & takes a life drawing class. Person B is one of the nude models. Person A has trouble concentrating/keeps erasing their drawings, not because Person B is naked, but because they’re a neighbor & Person A already has a crush on them. Bonus: Person B is either oblivious or is aware of Person A being flustered. Bonus 2: Person A works up the nerve to ask them out after class. Bonus 3: Person B tries to see Person A’s sketches. You decide how Person A responds.”
Barry Allen gathers his sketchpad and charcoal pencil collection in preparation for his walk to Central City University’s studio. As a fine arts student, he loved nothing more than being afforded the privilege of attending a school that valued its liberal arts and humanities programs just as much as its STEM ones. He didn’t think he’d have been able to bear being greeted with disapproving eyes any time he introduced himself and his major otherwise, an occurrence that was far too often whenever he revealed his studies to certain relatives or former high school classmates, even when he explained his desire to work as a forensic artist. Luckily enough, CCU was the perfect utopic institution where the two disciplines coincided with mutual respect, where he could vibe well with his mechanical engineering major roommate Cisco Ramon, and even strike up a close friendship with him.
For some time now, he’s anticipated this assignment for ART 236, Anatomy and Figure Drawing, a drawing elective. When deciding between electives, he knew registering for this particular course was an obvious necessity considering his career goals. Even if his goals changed, it would allow him to step out of his comfort zone of computer graphic design, and he owed it to himself to take advantage of as many opportunities as he could to expand his graduation prospects. It would speak to his skillset if his portfolio included a wide array of images and techniques.
Today’s project has him slightly nervous because it was the first time he was working with a live model. In class, they were moving past drawing from photographic references and onto actual living, breathing people.
Nude people.
He knew he had opted to get himself into these circumstances and that his choice of career could likely have him recreating naked bodies for the rest of his life, but the initial awkwardness of it all was still an obstacle he was going to have to overcome. To ease the discomfort, his professor, Dr. Wells, had each student list their availability at the beginning of the semester to be matched with a model for a private drawing session in the studio. Dr. Wells insisted that one-on-one sessions would allow for maximum concentration and leave no room for anything else, but Barry would rather at least a second student be working adjacently. Caitlin Snow, his TA, would be present in the office next door if assistance was needed, so he did feel a sense of relief that he wouldn’t be entirely alone with a naked stranger.
Hopefully, he would grow accustomed to it sooner rather than later so that his focus could be entirely on producing the best image. He didn’t want his nerves to affect the quality of his drawing, or a more frivolous desire, the chance to secure another A on his transcript. Of course, Barry was aware that artistic talent could not be quantified in grades, but he was still proud of his perfect grade point average and had aspirations to graduate with honors.
The trip to the studio is a short one from his dormitory. Barry checks the time on his phone, and in a panic, sees that it’s 10:08 AM. He was already late to his meeting with the model, and he still had to check his phone in with Caitlin and go over paperwork with her before entering the studio. He curses himself for adding unnecessary stress to a situation he was already apprehensive about and rushes quickly into Caitlin’s office.
“Barry,” Caitlin greets flatly. “You’re late.”
“I know, I know,” Barry acknowledges. Caitlin was a fellow art major, though on a premed track. When she introduced herself during the first day of class, she described this course as the perfect blend of her anatomic and artistic interests, which was why she applied to be a teaching assistant. She was a good one, but she was quite strict and cold, and evidently had a habit of bluntly stating truths, most especially when they least needed to be heard.
Still, he knows her assessment of him is a factor in his overall grade, so he forces a smile and an apology.
“You may be a fast drawer who impresses Dr. Wells-and myself,” Caitlin admits, almost reluctantly. “But you should still be mindful of my time and the time of your model.”
Barry’s stomach sinks at her reproach, despite her compliment. It was true that he had garnered praise for how quickly he worked compared to his classmates, even earning himself a fond nickname, “Flash”, but that still didn’t mean he wanted to be thought of as irresponsible.
Caitlin seals his phone into a security baggie and has him review and sign the College of Art and Design’s non-harassment policy, as well as its student rules and guidelines for figure modeling sessions.
“I’m here if you have any questions,” she concludes.
“Got it,” Barry nods, anxious to get started. He makes his way down the hall, hoping the piece he produced could make up for Caitlin’s dissatisfaction with him.
He pulls the studio door aside, ready to greet his subject, his apology for his tardiness already on his tongue-
He slams the door back shut again as soon as he’d opened it, hardly believing who stood in the room. He half wanted to open it again to check his eyes weren’t deceiving him, but he feared letting it fall closed a second time once he got confirmation that it was indeed her and embarrassing himself even further.
Forget graduating with honors: he was going to fail this class entirely.
Caitlin must have heard the door slam, because she peeks her head outside the office to see what the source of the noise had been.
“Is there a reason you’re not inside the studio already?” she interrogates. “I have an Orgo exam later you know-”
“I can’t do this,” Barry blurts, without even an attempt at pretense.
Caitlin frowns. “Why? Are you uncomfortable or something?”
Barry decides to go with that excuse, given that it wasn’t entirely false: “Yes.”
She stares at him.
“This is an elective course, one that you opted to take. You JUST signed a form promising that you understand what’s expected of you.”
“I did,” Barry gulps. “But-”
Caitlin sighs.
“Look, Barry-don’t you think I’m also going to be a little uncomfortable the first time I have to examine a naked patient?” she states matter-of-factly, as though medical school admission were guaranteed in her future. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You don’t understand!” Barry cries, near hysteria now. “I didn’t realize that-that-”
“That this assignment is worth thirty percent of your final grade?” she suggests, brows raised.
She was right. There was no option besides following through with the situation at hand. If he left, he would receive a zero, and if he asked for another model, that would certainly raise suspicion. Worst of all, it might offend her, and that wasn’t exactly the best thing to do to someone he admired, someone he wanted to love, someone whose affection he dreamed about…
Mortified, Barry swallows again to compose himself and opens the studio door for a second time, coming face-to-face with his crush, Iris West, wearing nothing but a robe and an expression of confusion.
“Are you the ART 236 student?” she asks immediately. “Barry Allen?”
“That’s me!” Barry chirps, despite breaking out into a sweat.
Iris relaxes visibly. “Thank God. I was beginning to wonder if I came on the wrong day.”
If only you did, Barry wishes. He would almost rather draw a naked Dr. Wells than go through with this.
“Why did you come in and then sprint out?” she probes, furrowing her brows.
Barry's pulse pounds loudly in his ears. He should have known that Iris wasn't going to let him off the hook easily.
“Oh-uhhh-I had to use the bathroom,” he lies, before realizing that presenting himself as someone who put off bathroom use to the point of barely containing himself wasn't quite attractive.
Nonetheless, Iris accepts his explanation as sufficient and seemingly moves on to the next rational step of their meeting, introducing herself.
“I'm Iris West," she states, beaming up at him with her signature smile that confirmed she was indeed the one and only.
"I know," he replies, smiling back instinctively. His grin vanishes however once he realizes Iris isn't exactly aware he knows who she is.
Sure enough, his fear is validated.
"You know me?" she questions.
“Uh-uh-” Barry stammers again, wondering how possibly he was going to explain himself without coming off as a creep. He can't believe the deeper hole he's managed to dig himself into.
"We-we took a Gen-Ed course together actually," he confesses, hoping that would seem more normal than he'd convinced himself it wasn’t.
To his surprise, Iris doesn't seem disturbed by his recollection of her, despite how large the student population was. On the contrary, she appears thoughtful.
“What course was that?" she inquires. “I feel like I would have remembered you.”
At that, Barry's heart flutters. Why would she have remembered him? Would he have left a positive or less-than-stellar impression on her?
He decides to take his chance at answering that question, letting her make the judgement lest he torment himself further.
"It was PSYC 100,” he explains. “I was pretty quiet in class, but I just-remember you always answering questions and leading discussions.”
That much was true, as it was the first time he had been made aware of her, in all her drive, intelligence, and beauty, but he leaves that part out.
"Hmmm," Iris considers, before perking up. "Well, I'm sorry that I can’t remember you, but all that means is that I get a second chance to get to know you now to remember you later, right?”
Barry blinks before an easy smile takes over his face. That was such a nice thing to say. It didn't surprise him that Iris was as sweet as she was beautiful. Maybe he had won the jackpot in being assigned to her for the chance to get to know her better. How else was he ever going to otherwise? Catching glimpses of her at random spots on campus? Reading her articles in the student paper? Clicking her profile on Facebook?
His optimism is short-lived though, as she tugs onto the belt of her robe, reminding him that she was completely nude underneath and that this situation was far from how he wanted to become more acquainted with her.
"So," she bubbles. "Are you ready to start?”
There was no way he would ever be ready, but Barry has no choice but to brace himself and nod yes.
Wordlessly, and with such ease, as though she were alone, Iris slips her robe over her shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. Barry silently thanks whoever had placed the chair in the room in the spot it was at, otherwise he might have collapsed instead of stumble into it out of sheer mesmerization.
His throat goes dry as he takes her in fully, certain that any high score he earns for this assignment would rightfully be attributed to her rather than his technique. Alternatively, he could completely botch the entire thing due to an inability to keep his cool around such beauty.
He had known ever since he first laid eyes on her that she was beautiful, but nothing could have prepared him for just how exquisite she would be unveiled. The first thing he takes note of after her allure is how much more petite she seems nude. Without the enhancements of shoes or clothes, her true height is apparent. She has a chiseled collarbone that Barry isn’t sure he can sculpt with his charcoal. He had practiced drawing breasts of varying shapes and sizes from photographs over the course of the semester, but he’s never seen a pair suspended from a chest as gracefully as hers. As they make contact with the cool air, her nipples animate before his eyes, and he’s suddenly overcome with the thrill of the challenge in capturing their pebbling with a still image.
His gaze follows the contour of her waist that gives way to her rounded hips, then her supple thighs, between them a matte of dark curls whose texture he’s already itching to replicate. Even her feet and hands strike him, despite weeks of browsing and sketching from photos upon photos of different human appendages.
His only regret in looking at her was that he was duplicating her in black, white, and grey, because he'd love nothing more than to paint the vivid brown of her skin or the soft pink of her lips. A portrait devoid of her coloring wasn’t an accurate representation of how commanding a subject she was.
Unfortunately, while his eyes recognize her beauty, so does his body, and he registers that his gaze upon her triggers his pulse, which prompts his own anatomy.
Fuck.
Barry crosses his legs and clears his throat, setting his sketchbook on his lap. Thankfully, he snaps out of his daze the moment he does, because Iris had been trying to get his attention all while he was ogling her.
"You alright?" she inquires. “You've been staring at me for a while now.”
Barry adds that to the growing list of ways he's been giving himself away today.
"Oh, haha," he fumbles. “Sorry, just an artist thing. We tend to-study our subjects intently,” he bullshits. “You know, so that we can do the best job possible. It’s easy to get caught up sometimes, especially when they're beautiful-I mean, not beautiful-I mean, you ARE beautiful-”
Iris smirks. “Let’s get to it?”
Yes. The less he spoke the better.
"How do you want me to pose?"
“Right.” Barry could deal with logistics. He rummages through his sketchbook, to show her a photograph of a figure sprawled across a couch, arms spread out carelessly above her, ankles slack beneath her. “This is the pose my professor wants us to recreate.”
“That’s a relief,” Iris breathes. “I was worried I was going to have to stand on my head or something.”
“No, no,” Barry assures her. “This is a beginners’ assignment, so he just wants us to get the hang of structure and shading and proportions for now before we move on to more complicated poses.”
Iris settles down onto the couch and leans back, raising her wrists above her head so that they dangle off of the arm rest. Her legs follow suit on the sofa’s other end.
“Is this okay?”
Barry takes a deep breath. Seeing her spread out and on blatant display under quality lighting was even more glorious. His dick twitches at the vision.
“It's perfect,” he manages.
He commences his sketching like he typically does, positioning vertical and horizontal lines in strategic locations on the page to scale the image. His next step is to lightly trace shapes to represent different body parts, but just as Barry puts his pencil tip to the paper to draw an oval, he hesitates.
It doesn’t feel proper to craft a body as beautiful as Iris's from basic shapes. She’s too ethereal to arise from simple figures. Suddenly he wants to try to emulate her as intricately and as meticulously as he can, fashioning her from head to toe. It would take him longer than he’s used to, especially considering his "Flash" status, but he owes it to Iris to capture her as best he can, even if Caitlin isn’t going be too pleased with him.
He hopes she’d studied enough for her exam later.
"Why are you taking out a fresh sheet of paper?" Iris wonders, a smile quirking her lips. “Am I harder to draw than you thought?”
You have no idea, Barry muses truthfully, but he’s also honest when he replies, "Wanna make sure I get you down in a way that does you justice.”
Iris's smile widens, and the image of her lounging elegantly while her eyes sparkle at him has his dick straining in his pants. He squeezes his thighs together tightly and does his best to concentrate on his work.
“So, what year are you?" Iris asks, her tone singsongy.
“I'm a sophomore," Barry answers, tracing an outline of her silhouette.
“Me too!” she gushes. Barry tries not to let himself feel too roused at her enthusiasm. "Art major?"
Barry connects the ends of Iris’s profile together.
“How’d you know?” he jokes, trying to make her laugh before self-consciously following his attempt to be funny with a, “You?” He was eager to know everything about her after all.
"I'm undecided," Iris states. "But it's a toss between psychology and journalism."
Barry bobs his head thoughtfully, now shading under the neck of his figure to highlight the angle of Iris’s chin.
"Both valuable in their own right."
"So is art," Iris remarks. "If only more people in the world thought so."
“Yeah," Barry agrees, pleased that she not only was accepting of his studies, but critical of the society that wasn’t. "I actually have a career plan that’s more ‘practical' as they say, but even if I didn’t, I still would study art. It’s what I love.”
"And that's all that matters," Iris comments warmly, and Barry’s surprised to be more moved by her support and approval than he’s ever been by anyone else’s, even his parents and friends.
"I wish I were more artistically inclined,” she sighs.
You are art, Barry wants to say, but instead he grasps another opportunity to compliment her.
"Well, I wish I had your writing skills," he says, meaning it.
Iris perks up, shifting slightly. “You-read my articles?" she asks incredulously. “In the student paper?”
“Ahhh wait-can you go back to how you were,” Barry snickers, finding her excitement endearingly adorable.
“Oops, sorry about that.” Iris settles back into her pose. "I just can’t believe that people actually read what I write in CCU Local. I love researching and reporting, but I was worried about joining the paper here because CCU's journalism program isn't all that. That's why i'm also considering psychology.”
"I think you have potential in either subject," Barry declares sincerely. “I remember how passionate you seemed in class and I’ve read how thorough your articles are. You have a way with words."
“Thanks,” Iris beams. “It's really nice to know that someone out there is reading my stuff.”
It falls silent momentarily, and his drawing exerts its relaxing properties on Barry. He finds himself consumed by his piece enough for his initial nerves to ease. The bulge between his legs is still there, but thankfully, isn't as bothersome as it first had been. He'd probably take care of it once he got back to his dorm because as much as he hates to admit it, the tension in his body at the sight of hers is too good not to release.
He’s actually almost done sketching her body so that he’ll be able to progress to her face, surprised at how long it’s taken him to get her down on paper compared to his usual pace, but Iris was deserving of all his attention and effort when it came to her details, from her dainty ankles to the grains of her brows and everything in between.
"I'm surprised I'm not sick of this yet," Iris giggles. “Usually I start to get restless after half an hour, but it's been fun talking to you and watching you work.”
Barry tries not to let that get to his head, particularly the part about watching him.
"How long have you been working as a figure model?” he asks, hoping to deflect the conversation from himself and exhibit a collected manner.
"This is only my second semester doing it.”
“Do you like it?” he continues, genuinely curious.
Iris shrugs. “I guess? It's a side gig that earns me some extra money. You know how crazy expensive this school is.”
Barry nods sympathetically, recognizing that probably nothing could unite him and Iris like the burden of college tuition could.
“Are you-shy about it?” he wonders, unable to help himself.
“Not really,” Iris replies practically. “I was a little bit when I first started, but you get used to it the more you do it.”
“That makes sense.”
Iris studies him carefully: “You should think about modeling.”
“Me?” he exclaims, pausing from his work to stare at her, bewildered. “I don’t think I could.”
“Why not?” Iris challenges.
“I’d be way too nervous,” he snickers. It was true: he didn't think he could ever possess the valor to strip down naked and be scrutinized.
“You really do get used to it,” she promises, “but I understand, it’s not for everyone.”
“Yeah,” Barry agrees, seizing the opportunity for humor. “It’s for the better though cause I don't think anyone would be too excited to have to draw me,” he jokes.
“But you’re beautiful,” Iris says simply.
Barry nearly ruins his sketch with the jerk of his wrist, his face heating dangerously. Of all the possible responses she could have offered, that was the absolute least one he expected. In fact, it never even would have crossed his mind.
“Uhhh-thanks, that is-that’s really nice of you to say,” he stutters, knowing his blush was deepening with each word he uttered. “Especially when you yourself look-like that…”
His brain finally figures it’s better to just shut up and his mouth follows suit. He swallows to get a hold of himself, his heart pounding in his ears as he erases the stray mark on the paper with what he hopes is subtlety. If he didn't know any better he would think that Iris was grinning slyly at him, but he doesn't want to consider what those implications could be. She was most likely just teasing him anyway.
It’s time now for him to draw her face, so he sighs and gets straight to it, knowing this would be the most challenging part of the session. Copying faces was always more difficult for him than anything else, and at the task of duplicating one like Iris’s, he was intimidated even further.
“Okay so, I don’t mean to be commanding or anything, but I’m working on your face now, so I’ll need you to hold a steady expression, which means-”
“No talking?” Iris guesses.
“No talking,” Barry laughs nervously. Perhaps this was better for his sake as well as the the drawing’s.
“Got it.”
Once silence permeates the studio though, Barry wishes that they could still talk. In the absence of their casual conversation, the setting and situation suddenly take an intimately private turn from the academic, given her nudity, his attraction to her, and her possibly reciprocated attraction to him (???). The atmosphere becomes too muted for his liking, too charged. Most fraught and suggestive of all is how she bores into his soul with that piercing smolder of hers that he has no choice but to keep looking into, not even just briefly, but requiring his fixed attention, as he has to replicate it as best he can. Without being able to speak, their eyes seem to carry on an exchange of their own, one devoid of words and laden with something else.
He prays desperately that she's oblivious to the reddening of his cheeks because he senses them burning up again as his focus alternates from her face to the page and back again as he crafts the apex of her chin, the bow of her mouth, the circle of her nose. He attempts to animate the zeal in her eyes, the wisp of her lashes, the purse of her brows…
God, she was gorgeous, and this was turning out to be one of his best pieces, perhaps his best simply because she was so.
He tries not to each time he glances up at her, but when he studies her lips, he contemplates kissing them, and when he studies her nostrils, he pictures their flare in pleasure, and when he studies her pupils, he imagines them gleaming at him with want-
Barry releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been suppressing at the tension accompanying his overwhelming eye contact with her.
“All done.”
“Already?” Iris queries.
“That’s actually the longest I’ve ever taken,” Barry chuckles. “I’m usually much quicker, but…”
“But?” Iris probes.
“But…I guess I wanted to take my time,” he says, his gaze directly on hers.
Iris blinks at him before sitting up slowly, making her way toward his chair. He notices she doesn’t fetch her robe to wear again.
“Can I see it?”
He inhales sharply at her towering over him, but tilts his sketchbook so that she can see her portrait.
“Wow,” she marvels, drawing her own breath in. “It’s beautiful.”
“You are,” he agrees, subdued.
Their eyes meet, voluntarily this time. Barry feels a bit lightheaded at her proximity, all the nerves he had repressed materializing. Now that he didn’t have his assignment to occupy him, he was gradually slipping back into his daze at the vision of her.
“Can I-use this for my portfolio?” he asks, somewhat to calm himself and somewhat because he really did want to know if he could.
“Of course,” Iris urges, still seemingly stunned over how well he had done. “People need to see how talented you are.”
“Its all you,” he insists to her once more.
He doesn’t think he can stand being in her presence any longer, not especially with her still naked, making no attempt to dress, and watching him carefully. The crotch of his jeans starts to constrict again.
Barry stands abruptly.
“We’d better get going,” he announces, hoping this might prompt her to at least put her robe back on.
Iris continues studying him, as if he hadn’t said anything.
“My TA is waiting for us,” Barry tries anew, using Caitlin as a convenient excuse despite not having been considerate of her earlier. “She has an exam later.”
Still, Iris doesn’t acknowledge what he’s said. Barry shivers, breaking out into a sweat. There was no sketchbook to save him this time, no diversion he could employ. There was only her standing before him in all her glory, refusing to take her eyes off of him.
“I signed a form that said I would remain professional throughout the entire session,” Barry offers one last time, his last-ditch effort to prevent what his physiology was readying him for.
That finally elicits a response from Iris.
“So did I,” she whispers, and then she’s on him, and any coherent notion outside of her flees Barry.
He doesn’t know why he stood from the chair in the first place, since Iris was just going to thrust him back into it, kissing him fiercely as she did. Barry makes a noise he’s never made before, startling himself at how helpless he sounds, but it’s fitting considering he’s never lacked defense like this.
Then again, did he really expect Iris West to not be a force of her own?
“Iris,” he breathes, powerless beneath her as she sucks on his lips in a frenzy. “Iris-God-”
She bites him at his pulse point, having moved onto his throat, and Barry thinks he might meet God right then and there, wonders if he’s going to make it out of the studio alive.
Iris surfaces, but not to go any kind of easy on him.
“Let’s make this an even playing field, no?” she coaxes, lifting the hem of his tee past his navel.
He doubts his own nudity could repair the imbalance between them, but he lets her strip him of his shirt nonetheless.
“Wish I could trace these on paper,” she huffs, grazing his freckles with her fingertips. Apparently, not being able to fulfill her wish wasn’t going to stop Iris from trying to, and she bends her neck to lick a path across his chest from mole to mole.
Barry jerks underneath her tongue, at the mercy of her ministrations.
“Didn’t you-say you wanted an even playing field?” he manages to get out before shuddering at her wet kisses to his skin.
A cunning smile takes over Iris’s face, and Barry questions if he just signed his death waiver.
“You’re right,” Iris smirks, fixating on his groin: “We need balance.”
Before he can prepare himself, she has his fly open in an instant and her palm around his erection.
“This has been ready for me for a while, hasn’t it?” Iris purrs in his ear. Barry swells even further in her hand, his own way of confessing that, indeed, it had.
She wastes no time wrestling his jeans down to his knees. He kicks them off his feet for her, figuring it was the least he could do. There’s already a dark spot expanding through his shorts, seeping outward as if she needed further proof, and if that wasn’t enough, his springing free at her tugging was the last credence.
She eyes his dick hungrily.
“You ever try to draw this beauty?” she murmurs, wrapping her fingers around him.
Barry squeezes his eyes shut, hoping he’ll delay the inevitable.
“No,” he musters, his legs trembling with anticipation.
Iris laughs.
“Relax, I’m not going to let you come like this,” she promises, though she rubs his shaft until his head tilts and his jaw drops, all his control forsaken.
“I just want to treat you like you treated me, to convince you that you’re beautiful,” she tempts. “Like you’re something to be worshipped, something to be admired, something like art…”
Her voice drops several octaves as she stills her wrist: “Besides, there’s no way this cock is coming anywhere but inside me.”
“I told you you have a way with words,” Barry manages to choke out, his hips seeking out her movements again while she giggles at his desperation. “But I hate to break it to you-I don’t have a condom.”
Iris actually swears in frustration, apparently choosing to express her dissatisfaction with him by kissing him furiously. Barry recognizes the chance to finally get on equal footing with her. He manages to get her hands off him and pry her own thighs apart, figuring he should apologize for his lack of protection.
“What are you-hunnnh…” Her mouth parts to break their kiss as he makes bare contact with her skin, his finger passing where she protrudes most.
Barry swears he can only see the white in her eyes before they close, answering to his fingers on her. He spreads her, already dripping impatience, and strokes her like she’s velvet, up and down the curvature of her, around and between the flesh of her, in and out of the cleft of her.
“Of course you’re good with your hands,” she rasps, her pelvis surging forward, her depraved attempt to to parallel his touch.
“Only when they have a good subject,” he entices her, getting the hang of her game, and he can tell it’s working because she mewls appreciatively. While his fingers soothe her, he licks the skin under her breasts, just at the line where they started, hoping to rival her even further. He’d outlined them in pencil as best he could, but nothing he had created could come close to her texture beneath his tongue, her flush nipples between his lips.
The fingers fondling her were now coated down to his knuckles.
“Wait,” she breathes, still feverishly grinding into his hand. “Wait-I want your cock.”
“But-”
She doesn’t give him the chance to finish because before he knows it, her palm is squeezing the head of him against her.
“Iris,” he sighs, because the feeling is divine, “I wasn’t lying-I don’t have-”
“It’s okay,” she gasps, sliding up and down until her cunt opens around the length of him, his shaft locked in the thick of her folds. “Just-do like this…”
And they do just that, Iris rolling into him and Barry bucking into her, exchanging breath to whine and moan together, comprising their own unique chorus. She worries him in between her folds, seesawing up and down his cock, and Barry watches her through half-lidded eyes, knowing that no artist could ever capture the image of her like this arching against him, pressing into him, her breasts moving in rhythm to her panting. Perhaps his whole study of art, maybe even the entirety of its discipline and its practice was futile for this reason alone.
Just when Barry thinks he can no longer hold out, Iris thrusts forward so that the tip of him aligns with clit. She rubs against his skin one more time until she spasms around him, the sensation so sublime that he in turn shoots upward once, twice, and finally for a third time before trickling back onto the floor.
Barry lays slack against the chair, astounded at what had just occurred. He couldn’t believe he walked into the studio an hour ago to complete an assignment only to be reduced to a post-orgasmic state with Iris West buried into his shoulder.
“What-just happened?” he vocalizes, because he feels like he needs confirmation that this is real.
Iris giggles against him.
“We made a mess,” she jokes, glancing down at the tile.
Barry tilts his head back to study her, wondering if she had any regrets about what they had done, but when he finds her beaming down at him, it’s hard to stop his mouth from twisting into a slow, satisfied smile, mirroring her own.
“That was-”
“I know,” Iris agrees, making no attempt to conceal her suggestive grin or the lewd wiggle of her brows.
Barry’s smile takes on a playful hue of its own. “Aren’t you a writer?” he teases. “Shouldn’t you be able to describe what that was?”
“Yeah, well, some things render you speechless,” she replies haughtily, eyeing his lips before bending forward to take them in her own. Barry smirks at her wit, opening his mouth to accept her kiss-
A pounding on the door startles them apart.
“What are you two still doing in there?!” Caitlin’s muffled voice demands. “I’m going to be late for my exam!”
It’s then that Barry realizes he very likely may have just lost his chance to earn an A on this assignment, but as he and Iris chuckle together and dress each other, all he can conclude is that she had absolutely been worth it.
Author’s notes: This is only my second AU, and again, Barry is an artist 😂 @cygnetofthesea asked if I could do this literally months ago. I don’t typically do prompts (probably because they take me that long loll), but I did give this one a shot. I hate my ending, as usual, but I hope you enjoyed!
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Warmth (Part 4)
Hi friends! So so so sorry that I've been MIA these past few weeks. Final's were hell, but on the bright side my thesis for next semester was approved and I was accepted into law school, so yay! I hope everyone did well on their finals as well and is currently enjoying their Christmas/holiday break. I should hopefully be able to upload again soon, so I won't keep you hanging for much longer.
Also, I've sorta been working on some other stories (featuring Hiddles, obvi) and I wanted to know if you'd like to read them. I really appreciate all your kudos and I hope that means you really like what I'm writing, but any suggestion is welcome if you want to comment as well! Thank you all so much and enjoy!
You can also read this on AO3!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
-
“You know, we’re going to have to leave the house at some point. People will start to wonder if we’ve disappeared.” I said, propping myself on my elbow. Tom was looking up at me and gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. My hand was absentmindedly tracing his jaw. “We’ve left the house.” He defended. I scoffed and rolled my eyes; “a few trips to the grocery store doesn’t count! And going back and forth from my place to yours doesn’t count either.” I retorted. I laid my back down on the bed and he rolled on top of me, trapping me between his arms. To whispered, “Where would you like to go?” while kissing my jaw and down my throat. “I don’t know, just… somewhere.” I said, trying to fight of his distractions.
Tom had returned to London two weeks ago and it felt like we hadn’t seen the outside world since. Not that I’m complaining; being wrapped up with Tom has been one of the most deliciously romantic experiences of my life, but I was starting to miss interactions with others. “Two weeks ago, you didn’t want to leave the house for an hour, but now you can’t wait to get out. Have you already grown tired of me?” He asked sarcastically while moving his mouth towards my chest. “Two weeks ago, you agreed to go out with others when you hadn’t seen me in weeks. Now I can’t get you to step outside for more than five minutes. Sounds to me like someone’s becoming a little obsessed.” I mocked. He moved his kisses back up towards my neck, nipping slightly as he did before getting right next to my ear and whispering “you’re right about one thing.” I felt myself shudder in desire.
I placed my hands around his neck and brought his mouth to mine, pressing against his lips hard. Our tongues fought for dominance, and his hand went to grip my hips while the other tangled in my hair. I hooked my legs around his hips, feeling his erection pressing into my abdomen. Tom started peppering kisses down my jaw and I chuckled a little; “you’re insatiable, Thomas.” I felt him grin against my collarbone, “You love it, as I love you.” With those magic words, I felt my body grow much more needy. Something about a gorgeous man confessing his love to me heightened my desire more than I thought possible. I took initiative and flipped us over so that I’d finally have some leverage. I clasped my hands around his face and moved my mouth along with his. His hands grazed my sides and rested on my ass, giving it a good squeeze. I kissed down his chest, and made sure to rub his member against my core. I heard him whimper slightly and smiled to myself.
“I like it when you take charge…” He breathed, with closed eyes and trying to control himself. “You don’t let me very often.” I say, moving my body back up to face him and taking his cock in my hand, slowly moving it up and down. He swallowed thickly before speaking again, “I really like seeing you writhe beneath me.” I bit my lip and whispered to him “I want to see you come undone beneath me.” His breathing hitched and I lifted myself to hover over his center. I rubbed my dripping core against his erection a few times before sliding him into me. A string of profanities left his lips as I slowly began riding him. His hands went up to my breast, squeezing them and rubbing my hardened nipples. We both got sloppier as we felt our orgasm approaching. His eyes stared intensely into mine, while I struggled not to throw my head back at how good he felt inside of me. My breathing became short and his hips were bucking into me. I closed my eyes for a split second before I heard him growl, “I want you to look at me when I fill you.” And it brought me to my edge. It took everything I had to keep my eyes open, staring into his deep blue ones and my orgasm spread through my body. Seconds later he lost himself and spilled into me, repeatedly saying my name.
I collapsed on top of him as soon as our orgasms came to an end. He wrapped his arms around me and pressed a lazy kiss to my temple as we both tried to regain our breath. “I can see why you like that.” I said, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He smiled down at me, but there was a glint of sadness in his eyes that made a shot of fear run through my body. “You’re so beautiful… sometimes I don’t even think you’re real. I worry that I’ll touch you too hard or close my eyes for too long and you’ll just disappear.” Tom said. My brows furrowed at this confession. Was he really scared of that? I’m not sure there was anything in my body that would allow myself to leave him; if anything, I was worried that he’d be the one to leave me. “I know what you feel, I feel it to sometimes. But I’m real; you and I are real; this is real. Please don’t be afraid that I’ll leave you. I won’t.” His eyes softened, but there was still a sense of lingering sadness behind them. He decided that was enough for right now and pressed lazy open-mouthed kisses all over me before rolling us on our side. It wasn’t long before sleep found us both.
-
I woke up to the sound of water running. My eyes slowly opened to see the bathroom door ajar and steam billowing out. Tom’s large frame came into focus. He was standing at the sink, completely naked, carefully shaving his jaw. I groggily got out of bed and walked behind him, wrapping my arms around his torso from behind. I rested my head on his back, breathing in his scent. “Good evening.” He spoke, low and not entirely focused on me. “You showered without me.” I pouted, letting my hands roam over his body and placing gently kissed down the center of his back. “You looked too peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.” He said. I let out a ‘humph’ and he chuckled slightly. I grazed my hand along his member and felt his breath hitch slightly. I smirked and took him into my hand, slowly pumping back and forth. “Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.” He growled playfully. “What makes you think I’m not going to let you finish?” I teased and felt him twitch in my hand. I could tell now that he was struggling to keep focus on shaving, and his hands were shaking slightly. He was hard now, his body betraying him. I felt a bead of pre-cum leak out and swirled my thumb on his tip. I heard his razor drop onto the counter and I smiled at my effect over him. He braced his hands against the counter, no doubt trying to control his breathing. He moaned and my name spilled from his lips as I used my other hand to squeeze his balls and began slightly nipping at his back. It wasn’t long until I felt him spill into my hand, cursing and gripping the counter so tightly I thought he might break it. I pumped my hand, milking out the rest of his orgasm.
It took him a little while to gain his composure and I felt slightly proud that after all the sex we’ve had, I could still make him cum with just my hands. He suddenly spun me around and lifted me up so that I was sitting on the counter. His lips hungrily attacked mine and his hands immediately started moving up my thighs. “Ugh-un,” I started and pushed him away, “I’ve got to get in the shower, and you’ve got to clean this up.” I said, before licking my fingers clean of his cum. He watched intently as I swirled my tongue around each finger and licked up my palm, getting every last drop of cum that I could. “You’ll be the death of me.” He said resting his head on my shoulder. I smirked, pleased and hopped off the counter, and into the shower.
-
I shuddered slightly at the cold wind, gripping tighter onto Tom’s arm. “I told you to wear more layers. You get so cold so easily.” He reprimanded while grinning. I rolled my eyes at him, “I’m wearing, like, four shirts and three pairs of socks. I’m just an innately cold person.” I retorted. “That much I know.” He said mockingly, but with a glimmer of double meaning behind it. “You never told me where we’re going.” I said, changing the subject. “It’s about time that I take you on a proper date. I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.” He grinned down at me. I bit my lip to keep from smiling too much. Despite the fact that we’d been together romantically for a few weeks and friends even longer than that, there was something thrilling about my first real date with Tom. “That doesn’t answer my question. Dates can technically be held anywhere.” I implored. “Don’t you trust me?” He said, faking offence. “No.” I said, suppressing a chuckle. He grinned and rolled his eyes. “Smart girl.” He said under his breath.
When we rounded the corner, I saw a movie theater up ahead and realization spread over me. “Dinner and a movie?” How classically romantic of you.” I said, smiling up at him. “I figure nothing about our relationship is very ‘classic’, so best to stick with tradition when we can.” He explained. I stopped walking, which prompted Tom to stop and turn to me. “Is that… are you okay with that?” He asked. I stood on my toes and kissed him. He stood, shocked by my sudden public display of affection, but soon melted into it and grabbed me by my waist while I placed my hands on his chest. “Thank you…” I whispered once we broke apart. “Anything for you, darling. Now come on, we don’t want to be late. We’ll have plenty of time to make out in the theater. I playfully slapped his chest before reassuming my position of clutching his arm.
We sat in the far back so that no one was behind us. Luckily no one had recognized us so far, and if they had, we didn’t see them. I tried to squelch the fear of having pictures of us put online before we even realized it, but for a brief moment I heard the words ‘try not to give them anything to write about’ my director had said to me. I had done a good job of not letting the fear get to me, but the closer Tom and I became, the more I could tell that James’ command would be hard to follow. Part of me felt bad about not telling Tom what he had said, but it’s truly for the best if I kept that information from him, for now.
Tom lifted the arm so that we could lean against each other during the movie, which was a bad idea. My legs were draped over his and his arm hung loosely around my shoulders while his other hand rested on my knee. We weren’t in the theater long before I noticed his hand slowly creeping towards my skirt. I gave him a sideways glance only to see him intently focused on the movie. Damn him for being such a good actor I thought to myself. I huffed and sat up a little straighter to indicate that I didn’t approve of what he wanted to do, but my body was betraying me as his did earlier in the bathroom. I could already fell my arousal and my underwear was becoming damper by the second. His hand finally went under my skirt and found exactly what he wanted to. He brushed his fingers over my panties and I let out a low hiss; “We’re in public.” I whispered, resting my face in his neck. “Even more reason to keep quiet.” He said, finally looking down at me. He pulled my panties aside and teased me a little before gradually putting one finger inside my dripping core. I bit my lip to keep from moaning and tried to keep my breathing as natural as possible. He painfully slowly started moving in and out, making me buck my hips in desperation for more friction. He finally inserted another finger making me gasp slightly, and he chuckled lowly at my reaction.
My hand slipped down his chest and began palming his erection through his pants. He quickly stopped his movements and whispered in my ear, “there’ll be plenty of time for that later… it’s your turn right now.” I slowly removed my hand and held onto his arm. His fingers resumed their work and he inserted a third finger before moving faster. My breath was shallow and I’d nearly broken the skin in my cheek from biting down so hard. I placed my mouth on his neck to keep me from making any noises, and I placed sloppy kisses on it. He curled his fingers to hit my g-spot and I gently bit down on his neck before licking it over with my tongue. I didn’t last much longer after that; I bucked into his hand one last time before feeling myself gush into him. He continued his ministrations for a little, letting me ride out my orgasm before removing his hand and licking it clean. I now realized how erotic he must have found it earlier today; watching him lick my juices almost made me forget why I was trying to keep quiet. After he was satisfied with the taste, I grabbed his face and started making out with him, tasting myself on his lips.
Eventually the movie ended, and Tom and I quickly exited before the lights came back on. We were just about to walk into the lobby before Tom quickly stopped us and pushed me back around the corner of the wall. “What?” I questioned, seeing his worried expression. “Paparazzi. Someone must have told them we’re here.” My heart sank, and my breathing became shallow again out of fear instead of arousal. “We’ve been seen out together before, the press knows we’re friends. There’s no reason to suspect that this is anything other than a friendly outing.” He tried to rationalize, but it was in vain. “They don’t need a reason to suspect; they’ll do it anyways.” I said looking down. I took a few minutes to try and figure out what to do while Tom’s eyes bore down at me. “Look… I’ll go out there and lead them away. If they only see me then they’ll think I came alone and will think whoever tipped them off was wrong. Just hang around here for a while and I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.” I said, feeling slight desperation. Tom furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me cockeyed. “I’m not letting you out there with those vultures without security! Let’s just go out there together. To hell what they say, they’ll find out eventually anyways. I don’t want to hide you forever.” He pleaded. My heart clenched at his words, “We can’t, Tom. It’s… It’s better for us to keep it between ourselves for a while, we agreed on that.” I said, feeling more and more panicked by the minute.
My heart was racing. All of the fears I was suppressing were suddenly rising and I was left with no plan of attack. Tom just stared at me; whether out of disbelief or trying to figure out what to do, I didn’t know. After a minute of silence, I finally decided to speak “We can’t do this right now, Tom. Please.” I pleaded, unable to face him. “No.” He said, making my head shoot up to look into his eyes. “I can do this; you won’t.” He said, venom dripping from his word. His expression changed to one of pain and I felt like I was about to shatter into a million pieces. After a minute of looking at each other while I was trying to find my voice, Tom turned away ands started towards the door. I stood in the dark hallway of the theater, knowing that I’d just royally fucked up.
#tom hiddleston#tom hiddleston imagine#imagine tom hiddleston#twhiddleston#warmth#part 4#tom hiddleston fanfict#my husband
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[fic] Handyman (Preston/Sturges)
Happy Holidays!
Here’s @tommytonebender ‘s submission for @sakom75 with Preston and Sturges!
Pairing: Preston/Sturges
Summary: Written for the following prompt: “I'd love winter in the Commonwealth, any of the pairings below being sweet and staying warm, maybe comforting each other? I give you artistic license to interpret this as you see fit”
Work Count: 1,793
Rating: Safe For Work
Life was a series of adjustments for Preston. Always had been. Since childhood, since joining the Minutemen, since the collapse and then revival and... well, he didn’t foresee himself here of all places. Just over a month since a Vault Dweller unstuck in time rescued them from Concord and invited them back to their burnt-out suburb. Carefully laid plans had folded, but unexpected ones rose in their absence. Reclaiming the Castle was once a far off fairytale that now could easily come to fruition. After all, stranger things had happened right in front of his eyes.
Til then, he was here, shivering. Staring across a river, winter holidays celebrated and their warmth seemingly millions of miles behind him. Night watch was a lonely place, a sea of pitch over the ruins of past civilization. A glorified graveyard filled with things that went bump in the night, sometimes with eviscerating claws and teeth, and even cannibals wielding RPGs. It could be challenging to keep one’s wits, not to let your mind succumb to the anxieties and inner demons that arose from playing chicken with the void.
But most nights good ole Sturges was still up. Rattling around the neighborhood like a ghost with unfinished business, and as if the benefits of sleeping were lost on him. He maintained the cause was insomnia, but Preston couldn’t help speculating if the handyman was keeping one eye on him. Preston had once made the mistake of having a few too many sips of whiskey and maybe confessing a dark thought or two.
He was grown, a leader of sorts, he didn’t need to be watched. It was almost--
“Evenin’” greeted the familiar drawl. Preston promptly glanced to his side and saw Sturges smiling at him with a log hoisted over his shoulder. In the act of consciously ignoring his presence, Sturges had somehow snuck up on him.
“Hey,” Preston said.
“You doin’ alright out here?”
Suspicions possibly confirmed. “Fine. But a little cold.”
“Yeah, thought you might need some stokin’,” Sturges said, setting the log down. “Your fire, I mean.”
“Of-- sure,” Preston said clumsily.
OK, there was another thing regarding Sturges that Preston resisted admitting, even to himself. He was... a piece of chiseled perfection. Not exactly what Preston had ever considered his type, or found so eye catching as he did now, but the man at work was more hypnotizing than watching a sunset. He attempted to explain it away as being the byproduct of shared trauma but, well, this wasn’t his first tango with events that scar you for life and Christ, look at him; it’s effortless, like cutting through butter.
“There... that should hold us for a while,” Sturges said, neatly piling the wood.
He lifted his arms and stretched, bare skin exposed from under his t-shirt, glistening just the slightest in the glow of the campfire. Preston's eyes tracked the man’s faded tattoos, morphing and changing as they moved along his muscles. The mesmerizing display slowed and then, to his chagrin, came to a halt.
Shit.
Preston’s gaze flew up to meet the handyman’s. Sturges raised his brow as if waiting for a confession.
“How can you walk around like that?” Preston said sheepishly, deflecting the situation.
“Hmm?”
“Like there's no chill in the air. I've got three layers and a scarf and I'm still frozen to the damn bone.”
Sturges gave a hearty chuckle that made Preston feel a burst of happiness. “Well, even if I couldn't stand the cold, I don't have much of a choice.”
The group had left Quincy only with the clothes on their backs and whatever rations they could grab. They were slow to pick up the pieces, Sturges especially becoming so immersed in distractions, presumably to deal with the loss.
“Guess not.” Preston’s leg was shaking with nerves, and he prayed if the other man noticed he’d merely write it off as a side-effect of the weather and not… Sturges himself.
Preston blew between his hands and rubbed them together.
“Guess you don't have gloves either, huh?” Sturges asked.
“Ha, haven’t found time to go shopping yet.”
Sturges took a few steps, then kneeled before Preston, like a knight pledging allegiance to his lord. Before Preston could react or even process what was happening, Sturges’ calloused hands enveloped his own.
“Hoo, no kiddin’,” he said, in the same tone as if he were diagnosing a plumbing problem. “These suckers are as clammy as death-- no offense.”
Preston let out a strangled laugh, half flustered by the touch and embarrassed that his crush found his hands to feel unpleasant. Now he was really trembling.
“Probably circulation based, huh?” Sturges asked.
“Probably,” Preston replied, cursing his voice for wavering in such a way.
“Do you get cold at night too?” Sturges inquired, massaging his frozen palms. “I mean, when you’re tryin’ to sleep?”
“Yes,” Preston breathed.
Sturges seemed so casual about it, and practically unaware that he was a great buff slab of handsome behind a pair of thick frames. Preston had never been one to make the first move, in fact he repeatedly waited til it was too late and cursed his inability, but Sturges made it look so easy-- and thank God he took the initiative. Or else Preston would be staring, longing, forever... and with much colder fingers.
“Who's got next shift?” Sturges asked.
“Uh-- it’s uh-- Jun...”
“How long til?”
“Another half hour, maybe,” he replied, uncertain why Sturges was so curious.
Sturges made a contemplative noise. His fingers slipped away as he stood up. “Well, I got a few things to, do but I’m gettin’ mighty sleepy, which is rare for me, y’know.” Preston nodded. “Gonna... finish things off and then hit the hay. If your bed’s too cold, you know where to find mine.”
All words got caught in Preston’s throat. He gaped for a moment, trying to force out a sound. All he produced was a strained “mmhmm”. Sturges smiled, apparently satisfied, then wandered back into the darkness.
---
Preston waited for a sign of life, or rather of consciousness, holding his breath and listening for Sturges’ own. A bulky form could be seen in the bed, wrapped in a quilt. Preston raised his knuckles to wrap on the doorframe-- then Sturges turned over.
“Well... howdy,” he said, his voice thick, possibly with sleep. “You’re quiet as a mouse, huh? Wasn’t sure if you’d show.”
“I went back to get bed clothes. Is... Is that OK?” Preston wasn’t entirely sure what connotations the bedroom invitation contained.
“Yeah. Now it’s a proper sleepover. Wouldn’t want you to wrinkle up your dashing uniform, now.”
Every word, every move made things clearer; reciprocation. And somehow that was more harrowing than rejection.
“C’mon,” Sturges said, sitting up to shake out the blanket. “I warmed it up for ya.”
He could tell Sturges was shirtless, even on a night this glacial, and considered it both a blessing and curse that there wasn’t enough moonlight to allow for ogling. Preston cautiously stepped out of his shoes and into the bed. Already he could sense the heat rising from it -- or maybe it was his own flushed cheeks.
As he laid down, Sturges wrapped the blanket around both of them, but in a meticulous fashion, where Preston felt the other man’s hands in places he’d never felt them before.
Preston’s nerves frenzied again. “Listen--”
“I know,” Sturges replied lightly.
“I... It’s not that I don’t--”
“I know. I said come over; I’ll keep you warm. This is an... ice melter,” he said, then laughed at his own joke. Preston could feel it vibrate in the mattress, and he nearly swooned. “You don’t have to do or say anything. Just sleep. You're exhausted, you work too damn hard.”
“I…”
“There’s no reason for you to offer to take a night watch, you’re nuts. You’re stretched thin as it is.”
“So are you,” Preston parried.
“Yeah, but I’m restless. I like it. You’re... You do it out of obligation. I watch you. I know you.”
“Yes. You do.” He was thankful for Sturges, even before the feelings started. Conceivably Sturges’ devotion to him was a beholden debt to the Minutemen; called to aid based on a mad woman’s premonition, only to be massacred. But either way, having a friend by his side after losing it all, a man so capable and so damn loyal… it was a life raft.
“Now you get as close or far as you want,” Sturges said, flopping onto his back. “And I can get another blanket if you want that too.”
Preston desired nothing more than to be as close to Sturges as possible, both to soak up all his body heat and to know how his muscles felt wrapped around him. But making a move… just the idea of making a move was paralyzing.
“It’s not just the cold, isn’t it,” Sturges stated. “It’s your mind too. You’re like me, but your restlessness is in your head.”
“I just… I have a lot of responsibility now,” Preston sighed into the pillow. “It’s not what I signed up for, but if I don’t do it maybe no one will.”
There was a lengthy breadth of silence, and Preston blinked his eyes. They were heavy but still he felt the routine tremolo in his chest that trapped him in the waking world each night. Sturges seemed to have a system for sleeping, toiling his body into exhaustion until he apparently crashed. A damn clever way to fight a fidgety brain.
“It’s OK to be sad about what happened, I’m sad too,” Sturges said suddenly, and it bristled through Preston’s body. “You don’t have to be sad alone. My strength doesn’t end at my muscles; I can carry some of the load you bear.”
“Sturges…” Preston generally considered his compassions taken advantage of, though endured it willingly in fear of being seen as fragile. For too often he feared if he didn’t believe he was strong as stone, he would crumble to dust. But Sturges was all about fixing things, never seeing anything as too far in disrepair, even when it laid in a hundred pieces at his feet.
Preston realized right then he could break, and not lose any value in the other man's eyes.
“I just wanna see you smile again. A real one, where I see it in your eyes too. When you smile and when you mean it, feels like everything is right in the world.”
Their fingers intertwined again, Sturges’ hands something secure to keep hold of in the sea of uncertainty. Heat spread up Preston’s arm into his chest, and down until it reached his tingling toes. And for the first time in months, sleep carried him away swiftly.
#long post#fanfiction#preston/sturges#preston garvey#sturges#fallout 4#fallout#submission#tommytonebender#sakom75
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When
(Slightly nsfw. Death mentions, blood mentions. Messy timeline. Smack of co-dependency but a lot of that is probably best boiled down to being early twenties and completely in love. Have this mess I made. I don’t know what happened. Initially, I was all, “I’ll do a love confession fic because I used the confession prompt during SpiritAssassin week for something else” and then this got really emotional and heavy so. I’m sorry. It’s not great, but it is what it is and my philosophy is to complete things and then release them into the void and start working on something else that will hopefully be better.)
“I think I. I think,” he stammers, straining to put things into words, and then losing his senses completely when Chirrut’s teeth sink into his neck and the heel of his hand presses against Baze’s erection, trapped in his pants. The combination of sensations is almost enough to make stars bloom behind his eyelids when he slams them shut, and the moan that Chirrut pulls from him is breathy and long and deep enough that Baze wonders whether it comes from the heart of their moon itself, funneled through him somehow.
“You think too much,” Chirrut mutters, the frequent accusation made softer by the way his tongue sweeps over the flesh of Baze’s neck, licking across the mark he just made.
And it's a fair point because Baze lives inside his head, gets lost exploring the caverns of his own thoughts and worries and concerns. He speaks little, which frustrates Chirrut sometimes, though he has been trying to be better about it. “I think I love you,” he forces out because three of those words are damning in the wrong light. Or the right light. Baze isn't completely sure, has spent entirely too long mulling it over without coming to any discernible conclusion.
From his position atop Baze, seemingly trying to cover every inch of him with his own body, Chirrut just huffs and presses the heel of his hand back against Baze’s trapped erection, pulling a sharp curse from Baze’s lips that instantly makes him blush even more fiercely than before. “Of course. I knew that. Bother me with new revelations when you find some, Malbus. I'm currently mastering physical worship.”
How Chirrut manages to not lose all his words, all his finesse is beyond him. Baze whose brain starts stuttering, shaking apart, losing sense and meaning the moment Chirrut looks at him, smiles at him, the barest hint of skin to skin contact. Yet Chirrut can seemingly keep up five conversations with his hand on Baze’s cock and that is supremely unfair. It just makes this all the more wanton, more desirable, better somehow, though Baze would never admit to any of that.
Chirrut’s nonchalant, flippant answer, however, bothers him, rakes unwelcome jealousy and fear through his stomach such that it quivers in an unpleasant way that has him pulling away a little. He knows, of course, that he is not Chirrut’s first lover. He knows too that there is a difference between the love that he feels for his fellow initiates and the love he feels for Chirrut. There is a difference too between wanting to crawl into Chirrut’s skin versus wanting to crawl into his soul and Baze has always, perhaps embarrassingly, wanted the latter from the first moment that Chirrut wavered and kissed him. He feels like his affections are plain, writ large across his face, laced into every word he utters and every move he makes, but Chirrut, like a cloudy stream, confuses him, and he can't discern how deep the water goes and what lies beneath. Will it be shallow and lovely, pleasant and cool? Or will it be a drop off and jagged rocks and a hole to slip so far into that he will never be seen again? (Would the latter really be so bad?)
He knows that Chirrut loves him, but Chirrut loves everyone, everything. That's the Force in him, Baze thinks, moving through him in gleaming, shining, effervescent wonder. But Baze wants more than just the Force love reserved for everyone. He wants Chirrut. Chirrut’s love. Chirrut’s heart. Wants it greedily and completely and all for himself in a way that scares him, especially when given voice like this, though he knows that he has to try before it grows too large and overwhelms him like a strangler vine.
His words stumble, trip, break in his throat such that he feels like he is spitting shards of crockery when he speaks. “No. I. Chirrut. I think I'm in love. With you.”
Chirrut, lips kiss dark and swollen, eyes blown with wanton desire, skin flushed to a shade of rose gold that Baze would happily give up all other colors to live in forever, pulls back, stops moving, almost seems to stop breathing.
And Baze wants to pull the words back in, swallow them, eat all that jagged clay and let it rip pieces of his insides apart as it descends into the darkness of his interior world. As much as Baze wants to hear the words back--and he does, he wants to, his heart and his soul are clamoring for it--he would give that up if it would somehow manage to ease this strange look from Chirrut’s face that he can’t quite parse. Baze catches Chirrut’s face with his hands, slides thumbs over his cheekbones and across his mouth and hopes that he won’t pull away from him before he can fix it. “I don’t. You don’t. I just wanted to say it. It’s not. It’s not important.”
It is important, but it is not important enough to break everything to pieces. It is not more important than Chirrut and not making this strange, though it is already strange, that does not mean he has to call that strangeness out, hold it up to the light, examine it. Baze knows that he cannot just put this in a box now, the way that he puts so many things in boxes, and hide it away to deal with later because his confession has spilled across the floor, across the walls, across everything. Now it has to be dealt with. And Baze has never been very good at that.
Chirrut has practically shrunk to the size of his breathing, which still comes faster than normal, as though he has been running for a very long time, as though he has been training hard. As though he is upset and seconds from crying, something Baze has not seen since they were very small, and Chirrut, prone to fits of riotous anger, a seesaw of flickering emotions, sad greater than any other sadness in the world and rage as bright as a lantern, would get easily overwhelmed by the press of everything. In those years before he learned mastery of his mind and his heart before he took the Force’s hand to let it led him where it wanted. “When?” Chirrut’s voice, when it comes, seems flat and unlike him.
“I’m sorry?” Sometimes Chirrut jumps ten paces ahead in the conversation, and Baze cannot find his footing, is always left mired in the mud, his brain too thick and systematic for the sharp changes, the quick corners. It is even harder to keep up now when those words have been loosed, and Chirrut looks poised on the brink of something, and Baze wants to cower and kiss both at the same time.This is a path with too many forks, and Baze feels stuck at the crossroad, wringing his hands, fretting about the decision in front of him.
“When did you know?” Chirrut clarifies, his voice giving little away except for his breathing, quick and sharp like the raps of his staff against Baze’s chest and knees when they spar.
When, the word tickles through his bloodstream, arches through his bones, travels into each patch of skin and makes the hair on his arms jump like they do in the hours before lightning swarms across the sky during the rainy season. When. Baze presses his tongue against it over and over in much the same way that he explored the hole left in his jaw when they pulled out one of his back teeth, gone bad inside of his mouth, though he had shouldered the pain for weeks before Chirrut tugged him to the healers. He hadn’t wanted to be a bother. Sometimes Chirrut’s tongue finds that empty space when they kiss and he laps at it greedily as though it is just something else he aims to fill in Baze’s life. Baze never knew there were so many holes to be found until Chirrut crawled into every single one of them, though he has never been able to ask if it was on purpose or just because Chirrut, like a loth cat, fits in everything, leaves nothing unexplored.
When. There are too many answers and not enough answers all at the same time, and Baze wonders how it is that his mind works like this, how it provides too much information but details that feel paltry and unworthy. Forever lingers on the edge of his tongue, something easy enough to admit to but not specific. Surely not specific enough for Chirrut who adores details and words, who drinks them greedily when he can get them, who is always plying Baze for more, more stories, more feelings, more desires, more information. Also more kisses, more touches. Chirrut is seemingly never satisfied and this realization has made Baze’s blood boil happily in his veins on several occasions since this dance began.
No, forever will not sate him, will only turn one question into a whole barrage of them. So Baze has to prepare more than that even though sitting in silence is making Chirrut squirm and fidget, which makes it harder for Baze to concentrate when they are pressed together like this and every shift of Chirrut’s hips provides friction and the reminder of Chirrut’s cock just as hard as his own. Physical worship Chirrut had said, and Baze thinks of the two of them Chirrut is the one to be worshiped even though that is hedging on blasphemy. Patience is a color that Chirrut has never worn without complaint, and he grinds his hips into Baze again as though thinking the physical reminder of where they left off when all this muddy conversation started will hasten the process.
Baze’s answer is a groan because it is hard to think of anything but Chirrut when he is so close. Actually these days it is hard to think of anything but Chirrut at all, which is why they are here, frozen in wait instead of naked and gasping into each other’s mouths as hands linger and bodies press against each other. He just had to open his mouth, didn’t he? He just had to speak the words that had been crowding their way onto his tongue again and again over the past few weeks, words that he had been able to suppress until today, tuck them into the hollow of his cheeks or under his tongue or in the back of his throat to caress the head of Chirrut’s cock when he took it into his mouth. So much time spent hiding it in plain sight that he thought well. He thought Chirrut might have caught on. But Chirrut sometimes has trouble paying attention to things that are not shiny, that do not gleam with an inner light as brilliant as his own. Force knows that Baze is anything but that. Chirrut is polished kyber crystals, and Baze is the rock surrounding them, too dull to even reflect the light back, basking in its glow, wanting it.
The exhalation of air through Chirrut’s nostrils is frustrated and forced and means more than any combination of words that he could string together in that moment. Baze knows them all anyway. He is taking too long, lingering in front of the pathways, and pretty soon Chirrut will pick for him. This is not always the preferable outcome to a situation.
He forges ahead.
“When you volunteered for kitchen duty during the week of my birthday so you could swap out the tarine tea for jasmine.” It had been years ago, but Baze has never forgotten how appealing the scent was when he lifted the cup to his lips, how wonderful the taste had been on that first day when he had been expecting the awful tarine tea that he forced down because it was given to him, and there was no room for waste in the life of the devoted. Chirrut had been banned from kitchen duty since, but that had not stopped the jasmine tea from coming because now the other knew how to make it, how to brew it using the plants in the temple garden, and Baze could have it whenever he wanted.
Baze walks his fingers across Chirrut’s neck, his eyes focused on the skin there instead of the other’s face because he is not sure what he will find lingering in his eyes and whether or not he can continue speaking if he sees it. “When you missed the test for your fourth duan to keep me company while I was ill and read passages from the ancient texts aloud even though they bored you but because you knew they comforted me. You sang while I slept. I remember sleeping very lightly, on the cusp of sinking into fever dreams, nightmares, rising and falling, being led away from the worst of it by the sound of your voice.”
Chirrut’s fingers catch at his own, wind through them, hold his hand so tightly that Baze wonders what is behind the show of strength. It is not painful or forceful. There is something in it that he would qualify as desperation in someone else yet that is not a word that he would ever ascribe to Chirrut. Despite this, he finds that he still cannot look at him, cannot run the risk of having his words stolen by whatever perfect or stormy cloud has gathered in Chirrut’s eyes, has pulled at his mouth. The other’s breathing is still stilted and fast, still breathy and unknown. When he speaks, his voice catches as though he has eaten the shattered clay that Baze felt choked with mere moments ago. “You are the only one who likes my singing.”
“Some sing more sweetly, but no one’s voice is dear to me as yours. I would gather it up and fill my ears with it and hear nothing but you for the rest of time if I could.” That is, perhaps, entirely too much, but Baze is starting to feel split open like an overripe fruit fallen from a stall in the marketplace, juices and pulp everywhere, cloying scent heavy in the air such that anyone close can see all of it secrets, all of its insides spread out on the ground. He feels like that with Chirrut sometimes, exposed and revealed, pulled free from all the many ways that he has found to hide. Exposed but not in danger. Although now. He feels a little like he might be in danger now. Because there is so much at stake here. He is poised to lose so much if this goes awry.
Oh, he should have shuttered his lips when he had the chance, forced the words to another part of his body where Chirrut would never seek it out, never brush against it accidentally. Except that he would, wouldn’t he? Bit by bit, Chirrut is taking over everything about him, and Baze cannot even pretend to mind. This is how love is, he supposes, being overwhelmed by something so completely and not only being fine with that but wanting it. And hoping with everything inside of yourself that the other person feels the same way.
He clears his throat and closes his eyes, focuses on the fact that Chirrut’s grip never falters even though it aches a little as if Chirrut is trying to grind his bones together, prove something in some language that Baze does not understand yet, may never understand. Or perhaps, like Baze, he is just hanging for dear life, scared to let go. This is a strange thought to have about Chirrut who never seems shaken. “When you kissed me. My heart beat so fast that I thought it might burst inside of my chest, and I was okay with that because you had kissed me. And I didn’t know how much I wanted it until you did.” His voice slips a bit, turns huskier and afraid. “I didn’t know how much I wanted you until you did. And now I don’t know if I want anything other than you.”
There are, of course, other whens. There is a whole litany of them, and Baze wonders if he should have gone through more of them before getting to that one. He could have talked about the night they snuck out to tiptoe into the kyber caves, the way that Chirrut’s hand had closed about his wrist in utter joy as they stood there in their sleep robes surrounded by the Force, by the living, breathing pulse of it, and Baze had felt so lost that he thought he would have floated into the ether if it had not been for the solid reminder of Chirrut’s clenched fingers on him. It is a grip very similar to the one the other has him in now, he thinks.
He is afraid, but he looks. He is worried, but he looks. He tilts his head so that he can catch a glimpse of Chirrut’s face, Chirrut’s eyes, and what he finds takes his breath away. It is Chirrut with eyes dark and wide and mesmerized as though someone has opened a door inside of him. Chirrut is always bright and charming and quick-witted, but there can be sharp points in his eyes. If Baze’s eyes are always wet, then Chirrut’s are always honed and careful. Baze gives everything away with a glance while Chirrut exposes nothing that he doesn’t want showing. What he shows now is a flood, a cascade, though Baze isn’t completely positive that these are waters he knows how to navigate, fears they might be dark and bottomless, that they could pull him under.
I cannot breathe water, he thinks in the space between the glance and any words that either of them can utter. I cannot breathe water, but I would learn how to. For you.
Their first devotion is meant to be to the temple, but one look at Chirrut’s face, the feel of his hand, the thought of his lips, and his body, and Baze isn’t sure how much of his devotion can be focused on anything else anymore. Chirrut loves everything around him because he is full of the Force, and the Force loves everything. Baze tries, but he is not flush with it in the same way. He is full of love for smaller things. For the petals in the breeze and the silence on the upper balconies when the world is dark and the stars glitter like the lights in Chirrut’s eyes. But he falters when he tries to love other things like the noise of the marketplace and the crush of all the people there. He becomes irritable and short tempered. He loses sight of his faith because of his own discomfort.
He fails. But no matter how many times Baze fails, he always gets up, he always tries again. One day he will love completely and unselfishly. One day he will love as the Force loves.
This is not that day. This day he finds that he only loves Chirrut. The way the flush is high on his perfect cheeks, the way his eyelashes seem to brush against his skin like flowers, the enticing quirk of his lips. Baze loves each and everything about him. The answer to when is now. The answer to when is yesterday and the day before that and the week before that and the month prior and the year. And the answer to when is tomorrow and the next day. Until there are no more days. Until there is nothing else except the Force.
Until they are twined together there.
It is after he makes that realization that it happens, crowds into his mind, pushy as the wind. An explosion. Explosions. Voices yelling, muffled but known. He would know those voices anywhere. The feel of weight in his arms and a rending in his heart. Pain. Lots of pain. More pain than he has ever felt before in his life, enough that he wonders how he can scratch his way through it to the other side. Except he does. In a way. And then there is just a pulse, just a voice, just a knowing of togetherness, the sort that speaks of never ending because there is nothing else that can happen.
“Oh,” he gasps, the sound little more than an exhalation but loud enough that Chirrut hears and squeezes even harder. When Baze’s mind stumbles, jerks, clatters out of the vision with an almost audible crash, he focuses on Chirrut’s eyes again, and this time they are wet. “Chirrut. When?”
Chirrut is still breathing in that labored fashion only now it seems closer to sobbing than anything else, though no tears leave his eyes. Mastery of the physical is another place where Chirrut excels. When he swallows it seems to be with great effort, and his other hand, the one not squeezing itself knuckle white around Baze’s own, catches the back of Baze’s neck and pulls him closer so that they are forehead to forehead, where all they can breathe is each other. “Not anytime soon,” he says, and there should be celebration in that, but Baze can not get beyond the sadness, the palpable realization of the vision shared.
“When did you know?” Now it feels like all his words are rising through a throat torn and burned. There is smoke in his nostrils, and he swears that he can hear the crunch of boots on sand in the middle distance. It is not the first time that Chirrut has dragged him into the Force with him, reached out and tugged him into a vision or a dream, but most of those were different than this experience. When they were little, it was Chirrut reaching out because he was alone and frightened and needed a hand to hold even if Baze never felt like he could make much of a difference whether in the real word or in the Force itself. As they got older, it was less frequent, mostly just the occasional vision, sometimes other dreams, sweltering dreams that neither of them acknowledged, dreams that Baze thought might have only been in his own mind until Chirrut’s gaze would skitter away from his during meals in the dining hall the next day and then he knew that it was not just a dream.
When Chirrut speaks, his words stick together like rice cooked too long. “I touched your hand when you were seven, and I was six, and the world shattered into something else. I was too young to know what it meant. When I turned twelve, it happened again, and it was full of rain. Shots in the rain. Not the rain on Jedha. I was scared, and I didn’t know what it meant. I was fifteen, I touched your arm, and my body felt like it was on fire, and my heart felt like it would break. Other people didn’t feel like that. Only you.”
Baze is silent, listening, watching, trying to remember the moments that Chirrut speaks of but lost in a whirlpool of emotions and a lifetime of strands twisted together that he never saw before. Now that Chirrut has shown him, now that the Force has shown him, he will never be able to blink them away again, they will remain in his vision like afterimages from looking at the sun too long.
“Other people were safer. You were a plain strewn with mines that I couldn’t keep myself from walking across. I tried to get lost in other people.” Here Baze’s heart lurches again, and Chirrut’s fingers squeeze as though he is willing their skin to fuse together from the pressure alone, for them to disappear into each other. “I know it hurt you,” Chirrut continues. “I am sorry, my song. All I wanted was to protect you from it. Surely, I thought, none of that can come to pass if I keep my distance, but trying to stay away from you was like trying to stop breathing.”
His heart is so full it feels like it will burst, it feels like it will blossom and bloom, a flower unfurling until the petals claw out of his throat to brush across Chirrut’s cheeks and wipe away the occasional tear that manages to seep from the corners of his eyes. This is where he should be the support, where he should comfort, where he should hush him and tell him that it is alright, he doesn’t need any of this, not really, he just needs Chirrut. But Baze can be greedy, and he wants to know. “What changed?”
Chirrut’s laugh is full of bliss and something darker, an edge, a switch. “I kissed you,” he admits, voice as lilting as any song. “I kissed you, and it was everything that nothing else had ever been. It was not,” the hand clenches against the back of Baze’s neck, a twinge of fine pleasure pain. “It was not the fire or the shattering or the rain. It was us laughing. It was us, hand in hand, and my chest felt so full of wonder it was like I was full of the Force for the first time in my life. I understood the entire universe. I understand the entire universe. In you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
This time the laugh is a little hysterical and Baze understands because he feels like that himself, undone, unsure, pushed to the limit, overwhelmed. It is something that he does not usually see on Chirrut, though, and he cradles the other’s cheek with his free hand, swipes errant tears away with his thumb, touches before he can wonder whether the caress will spark something bad, feels eased when Chirrut leans into it as though nothing in the world is as pleasant. “It seemed like too much, and I wanted. I wanted you to love me because of me and not because of what the Force had told me. I think I hoped that if you did not love me back then it would not come true.”
Baze doesn’t need him to elaborate. He saw the vision as well. He knows what the future holds, the bombs and the blood and the shots, the beach, and the death and the reconnecting in the place where nothing and everything exists. Maybe in a smarter person, it would be enough to scare them away, but Baze only has eyes for Chirrut, only knows that he cannot imagine stepping back, especially now. “You were protecting me.”
“Always. You are very tall, Baze Malbus, and very strong, but your soul is in your eyes, and your heart is as vulnerable as any sapling. The universe would make short work of you without me. I will protect you with every breath I take in whatever fashion I can. Until you will not let me anymore.” There is a hint of the normal Chirrut in those words, teasing, joking even when every syllable is truth and heavy, so full of feeling that he cannot say it any other way than lightly.
“You said it will be some time from now?” His thumb moves across Chirrut’s cheek, down until it can trail over his bottom lip, leave the other gasping a little, clambering closer still, legs straddling his lap.
When Chirrut speaks, it is husky and wanton, sounds bruised and swollen, they way his lips look after kissing. “Yes.”
“What about the time until then?”
“It is what we make of it.”
Baze thinks of all the things they could make of it, of all the ways they could try and change it, run their heads up against one wall after another. He wonders if any of it would do anything at all. And then he thinks that it would be such a waste of time. The pain was sharp, yes, and the smell of smoke still seems to linger in his hair, but it was not the end. He would rather spend all their moments like this, curled together, Chirrut crushing his hand, Chirrut pulled into his lap, Chirrut’s lips right there close enough to kiss, close enough to claim. He could spend the moments between then and now worrying, fretting, running, trying to change something that might not even be alterable, or he could focus on what is in his arms, on what is right in front of him. “I go where you go,” he says, whispers right into the perfect shell of Chirrut’s ear and feels him shudder against him, wonders if the other knew what he would say before he even did so. Not that it matters. It doesn’t dull his words or their message any less. The words are a promise as potent as any declaration of love, perhaps more so.
“I love you, my song,” Chirrut’s voice is fierce, a freshly sharpened knife, a flash of too bright teeth in a false smile, a foot striding forward to put himself in harm’s way before Baze can move, a shield. “I am one with the Force.”
“The Force is with me,” Baze finishes for him, a prayer, a vow, a falling.
When does not matter. When will come crawling eventually in its own time. And when will find them together at the end as at the beginning. In the past, and in the present, and in the future. Before and after and beyond when itself. Baze believes this as surely as he knows that his heart beats, as surely as he knows that he will never kiss anyone other than Chirrut, that he will linger in the fall of those eyelashes forever until forever is wiped away and there is only the mingling of energy together in the Force, in the universe itself.
#spiritassassin#sara's fic#otp: i don't need luck#otp: i am one with the Force#otp: i protected you#sara's drabbles
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Every trick in the book
Prompt from the Drabble Games (now closed): “Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?” requested by @givemeadecentusername || Also incorporating this from @imaginexhobbit “Imagine Bilbo getting blushy because you always kiss the tippy tips of his ears.” || Drabble games fics || More Bilbo fics || More fics about “Of Lips and Fingers” (my idea of a “naughty book” in Middle Earth) || Fanfiction masterlist || Fluff, humor, innuendo
More than six months had passed since making your half-hearted request that when “it” finally arrived - wrapped in plain brown paper with your initials in block letters - you honestly couldn’t recall what you’d asked for.
The package was unceremoniously dropped at the front door with such a thud that it awoke you from your afternoon nap. You had run to the door, hoping it was Bilbo, returning home hours earlier than expected from a farmer friend’s abundant tobacco leaf harvest far on the other end of the Shire. But to your disappointment, there was only the mysterious package. No note.
After giving the surrounding lush greenery of the beautiful hilly landscape a sweeping glance from left to right, hoping to catch the person who brought you the bundle, you shrugged, picked it up and went back inside, yawning and craving a cup of tea that your new husband so expertly made. You didn’t think you would miss him quite so much, especially since he hadn’t been gone very long.
As you shuffled past the piles of books and papers of the house you had called home since your festive wedding, it dawned on you what the package felt like: a book.
Your eyes wide, you dug your nails into the thick paper. Bits and pieces sailed this way and that until you uncovered the mystery, confirming your suspicions.
You gulped as you stroked the edges of the cover and read the title of the salacious book in silence: “Of Lips and Fingers.”
You couldn’t help but laugh out loud. What a different state of mind you were in when you overheard a few rambunctious people at the pub table behind you cackling about the detailed illustrations in the book, which had apparently made the rounds from one end of Middle Earth to another over many years.
It was actually refreshing to listen in on the conversation. You had just returned from one of the most harrowing adventures you’d ever signed up for, in which you and Bilbo came dangerously close to losing your own lives and those of three friends, the heirs of Durin. And you had fallen desperately, unexpectedly in love with someone you were sure wanted nothing to do with you romantically, a person you could never imagine desiring before the journey: the fastidious, kind and brave Bilbo Baggins.
Given everything you’d been through, getting distracted by a naughty book enticed you. You told the rowdy group of men, women and Shirefolk your name and that you’d be staying in the beautiful area for at least three months, helping your dear friend Bilbo get re-settled before figuring out your next move. If they ever came across the book again, you asked that they drop it by your quarters at the nearby inn.
“Might take longer ‘n three moons to get to you, my friend,” one of the women said. “People tend to get hung up on those drawings for a bit.”
“Hung, indeed!” someone else said, setting off several seconds of laughter at the table.
“Alright,” the woman said, “soon as it’s made the rounds back to these parts, if you’re still here, it’s all yours - as long as you don’t mind teaching us a few moves with that fancy sword on your hip.”
You bumped mugs with her in agreement, even though you were in no mood to wield your sword any time soon, even for instructional purposes. But you doubted any of this would come to fruition anyway, so what difference would it make?
“Deal,” you said.
And then, just a day later as you helped him re-shelve his cherished books, Bilbo made his timid confession of love. Like a whirlwind, you went from a weary soldier-for-hire to an over-the-moon bride-to-be.
Cradling “Of Lips and Fingers” in your hands, you opened to the title page that had a simple line drawing. At first, it loosely resembled fingers around a pickle. Then you remembered the subject matter and did a double take:
“Is that what I think it is?” you whispered.
Oh it was. And that was just the beginning.
Thirty minutes passed as you you sat propped against the wall in the parlor, alternating between giggling, gasping, frowning, turning the book sideways and upside down to understand what you were looking at, and missing your hairy-footed lamb chop with a deep, fiery longing.
“Hello, hello! I’m home!”
Startled at hearing Bilbo’s voice exactly when you were thinking of him, you jumped. The sudden movement, combined with slamming the book shut, caused “Of Lips and Fingers” to pop out of your hands, fly into the air, and clip your nose on the way to the floor. ·
“OW!”
You rubbed your sniffer with one hand, scooped the book up with the other and stood, looking for a quick hiding place.
“Darling? Are you hurt?” Bilbo called.
“I’m fine, lamb chop!” I was just looking at drawings of nude strangers enjoying themselves…
“I’ve got quite a harvest here. Meet me in the garden to have a look and give your lamb chop proper welcome home?”
“Uh…” You glanced at the stacks of books. You could stick the book in any number of piles but - and maybe it was just your nerves - you just KNEW Bilbo would sniff it out. No new book got by him.
“I’ll be right there!” you called.
In fact, you could beat him there, if he indeed had the bounty he claimed he had. It would take him a minute to drag the sack of leaves to the garden. Plus, his legs were shorter than yours. You could outrun him to the garden, stick the book into some freshly-turned earth and he would be none the wiser.
On the way out, you put on your slippers from the bedroom, then exited through the back. You tiptoed up to the well and crouched, peeking from behind it to make sure he couldn’t see you. He was still struggling with the sack. You dashed to the garden, shoved “Of Lips and Fingers” into a patch of loose earth, brushed off your house coat and then ran toward Bilbo. He turned around just in time to receive your warm embrace.
“I’m so glad you’re home!” Bending down so that your cheek rested on his shoulder close to his neck, you were in the perfect spot: near his right ear. You lifted your head and kissed the tip of it, felt him shiver in your arms, then switched to the left ear and gave him another gentle kiss. He laughed through a short sigh. You broke the hug, and smiled as you took note of his cheeks, which reddened whenever you kissed his ear tips.
“I’m glad to be back, too. But I was only gone for a few hours,” he said.
“This is the first few hours we’ve spent apart since the wedding,” you reminded him.
Bilbo gave you a smile as bright as sunrise and nodded. “True, true. Care to help me lug this away from the door?”
“Certainly.” You grabbed the top of the cinched sack and dragged it to the garden with ease.
“Careful! It nearly flattened me, getting it off the wagon…” Bilbo’s voice trailed off while he followed you, watching you handle the sack as if it were empty.
“Sometimes I forget how strong and fast you are,” he said, looking embarrassed.
“Years of training.” You took a quick look at the odd mound of dirt covering the book and wished you’d pushed it deeper into the soil.
“Training didn’t give you those long limbs.” Bilbo dropped his head for a moment, as he did sometimes when he thought too hard about the differences between the two of you. “What did you ever see in me, fair lady?”
You bent down and kissed his cheek. “We’ll be out here all day if I answer that. Next question.”
Bilbo grinned and placed a small kiss on the tip of your nose. When he pulled away, his eyes were on the dirt.
“Sweetheart, what did you bury in the garden?”
Curses!
Straightening up and glancing behind you, you intentionally didn’t look in the direction of the buried book.
“Um…what? Nothing.”
Bilbo tapped your shoulder and beckoned you to lower to his eye level again. You complied, melting in his tender, concerned gaze.
“You have never lied to me,” he said.
You sighed and stood erect. “I’m sorry, Bilbo. I lied because I’m ashamed.”
“About what, my dear?”
You walked over to the book and pulled it out of the dirt. After you brushed the soil off it, you handed it to Bilbo, and his eyes lit up.
“A new book, for me?” he asked, before opening it.
“It was for me. I’m borrowing it, I guess.”
Bilbo ran his hand over the cover. He started turning the pages. “Why would a book embarrass you, love? I know how much you like to read…oh! My.”
Wanting to run and hide, you took a step back instead and bit your lip.
Bilbo stopped at one drawing and his jaw dropped. “My goodness, she’s certainly limber, isn’t she?” He brought his face closer to the page. “They…they both are. My, my, my. Wherever did you get this?” Bilbo fanned through more pages.
“It’s a long story.”
Bilbo held the book at arm’s length, squinting and angling it, just as you had.
“These look like elaborate tricks performed by contortionists,” he said, amazed. He moved from the images to the book’s ridiculous narrative on lovemaking. “Hm. I’ve never read of coupling referred to as ‘two entangled flowers...’ ”
“Bilbo, please stop.”
He closed it and looked up at you. “These acts…they interest you?”·
“No. I mean, in a way. Maybe a few. But it’s not something I’m asking you to do. I was just curious. I asked to see this book before we got married - before I even knew how you felt about me. I didn’t think we could have a future together. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“But you could be happier. More satisfied, yes?”
“I am already satisfied. That is no lie.”
Bilbo looked at the plain cover again, then placed it on top of the sack and reached for your hands.
“I must admit, I’ve always been intrigued by the positions on page forty-three,” he said.
You wrinkled your brow. “Forty-three?”
“Yes. The page you bent.”
You stifled a laugh but failed to hide your shy smile.
“Shall we try them?” he asked, keeping your hands in his, and taking a step toward you.
Your face got hot. “Uh…which ones?”
“Every trick in the book.”
At once flustered and aroused, you weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t know if Bilbo was just proposing the shenanigans to please you or because he really wanted to try them. Maybe he felt self-conscious. The men and women in those drawings, with the same long limbs he’d just remarked about you, weren’t Hobbits. Maybe he felt inferior to them, and wanted something to prove.
“You’re a perfect lover, Bilbo. The illustrators and writers of that book could learn a thing or two from you.”
He smiled and rocked on his heels. “Let’s practice the suggestions we’ll submit to them for a second volume, then.”
“Lamb chop!” you gasped, followed by a surprised and pleased smile.
Bilbo laughed, grabbed the book with one hand and with the other started leading you to the back door of the house, closest to the bedroom.
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prompts #0001 - 0150 + bonus (wwyd)
ALL PROMPTS | SMUT PROMPTS | WWYD | RULES | ASK | MY WRITING
I’m happy I made it this far, and I hope to make many more prompts. Without further ado, here are the first 150 prompts on my blog:
Prompt Number - Prompt Name - Prompt Tags
bold = smut
0001 - AFTER WORK DRINKS - drunk, bar, romance, alcohol, one night stand
0002 - NO PANTIES - public, humiliation, domination, no panties, sexy texts
0003 - HIGH CLASS HOOKER - cheating, prostitution, hooker, escort
0004 - ONLINE HOOKUP - online, webcam, cyber sex, nudes, selfies
0005 - DADDY’S FAVORITE TOY - daddy kink, bdsm, d/s, fetish
0006 - DARKEST DESIRE - desire, secret, kink, fetish
0007 - HOW MANY LICKS? - oral, oral sex, filth, dirty talk
0008 - BEHIND CLOSED DOORS - politics, cheating, romance, spite, revenge
0009 - VIOLENT TENDENCIES - violence, scary, domestic violence, dark
0010 - DON’T LOOK AWAY - mirror, kink, dominance, voyeurism, exhibitionism
0011 - SOLO (HER) - masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fetish
0012 - SOLO (HIM) - masturbation, pornography, voyeurism, exhibitionism
0013 - SUCK - supernatural, vampire, roommates, funny, illness, au
0014 - OUIJA - gore, horror, ghost, death, scary, ouija board
0015 - SNAPSHOT - au, camera, evil, good, personality, love, dating, romance
0016 - THE TRUTH IS - confession, revelation, secret, vulnerable
0017 - HOMECOMING - home, family, relationships
0018 - BREAK ME - rough sex, angry sex, tension
0019 - POKER FACE - gambling, debt, power, addiction
0020 - ODD - weird, habit, strange, odd, character development
0021 - JEALOUS - jealousy, rough, angry, sex, teasing
0022 - LOREM IPSUM - horror, au, curse, supernatural, demon, monster
0023 - ASPHYXIATION - asphyxiation, bdsm, choking, pain, dark, domestic violence
0024 - EYES - dark, soul, eyes, character, scary
0025 - ROAD TRIP - funny, road trip, misadventure
0026 - PRIVATE SHOW - college, teacher, student, stripper, romance
0027 - RETAIL - supernatural, black friday, retail, au, funny
0028 - FULL MOON - supernatural, werewolf, curse, death, murder
0029 - FUCKBOY - fuckboy, club, nightclub, sex, one night stand
0030 - DADDY’S RULES - daddy kink, fetish, bdsm, d/s, rules, obedience
0031 - DEALER - cocaine, mafia au, gang au, drugs, violence, crime
0032 - AFTERLIFE - murder, ghost, justice, crime solving, supernatural, au
0033 - LIAR, LIAR - lies, liar, punishment, violence, danger
0034 - BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN - mortician, blonde, funny, morgue
0035 - ANGEL - angel, question, character development
0036 - COLLEGE - college au, university, meeting, ominous
0037 - GODS AND GODDESSES - gods, goddesses, mythology,
0038 - FEAR - test results, fear, concern
0039 - NOT ENOUGH - inadequacy, self-esteem, dark, sadness
0040 - THROUGH HIS STOMACH - horror, medical, dark, torture
0041 - HARD DAY - love, romance, prostitution, sex workers
0042 - INSOMNIAC - insomnia, fatigue, smut/no smut
0043 - TRISKAIDEKAPHOBIA - thirteen, fear, irrational
0044 - FAKE - fake, imposter, deceit, lies, grifter, con artist
0046 - VILE - kinkshaming, ostracism
0047 - HEAD - oral sex, dirty talk
0048 - 666 - graduate student, mathematics, satan, devil, antichrist
0049 - ONE HELL OF A TIME - satan, devil, romance, funny, dating
0050 - TAROT - exes, tarot, fortune telling, romance, love polygon
0051 - NECROMANCER - necromancy, supernatural, socially awkward, au
0052 - FAVORITE MOVIE - movies, au
0053 - TYPO - typo, coworkers, accident, funny
0054 - LUST (FIRST DEADLY SIN) - cheating, money, sex, power
0055 - GLUTTONY (SECOND DEADLY SIN) - drugs, addiction, sex
0056 - GREED (THIRD DEADLY SIN) - royalty au, blood lust, violence, war
0057 - SLOTH (FOURTH DEADLY SIN) - anxiety, depression, sadness
0058 - WRATH (FIFTH DEADLY SIN) - violence, hatred, murder
0059 - ENVY (SIXTH DEADLY SIN) - vengeance, beauty queens, pageants
0060 - PRIDE (SEVENTH DEADLY SIN) - villain, hero, transformation
0061 - THE BOY ON THE ISLAND - mystery, neighbor, romance
0062 - SAD - sadness, inadequacy
0063 - BATTERIES - song lyrics, miley cyrus, masturbation
0064 - OTHER PEOPLE NEED FOOD - song lyrics, mac miller, sex, oral sex
0065 - PORNSTAR - pornography, adult movies, normalcy
0066 - SEX, CIGARS, AND BOOZE - character development, favorite things
0067 - HOROSCOPE - horoscope, astrology, zodiac, deceit, ominous, warning
0068 - I TOLD YOU SO - flexibility, dare
0069 - TOO MUCH CLOTHING - nudity, nakedness
0070 - STOCKHOLM SYNDROME - kidnapping, deceit, abduction
0071 - BORED GAMES - netflix and chill, boredom
0072 - LOST LUGGAGE - sex toys, accident, funny
0073 - REALITY LEAVES A HORRIBLE TASTE SOMETIMES - reality sucks
0074 - MEMOIRS OF A GRIMOIRE - supernatural, au, witch, spells, magic
0075 - SHE USED TO BE ME - love, romance, cheating, sadness
0076 - STORY WITHIN A STORY - au, character development
0077 - HOTLINE BLING - sex workers, phone sex, college au, professor
0078 - STARS - why astrology isn’t predictive of future spouses
0079 - PLAYTHING - used, toy, lonliness
0080 - CROSSROADS - devil, selling your soul, midnight
0081 - RUMORS - au, rumors
0082 - OPERATION: DONNIE BRASCO - dea, drugs, mafia au, gang au
0083 - INITIATION - gang au, romance, violence
0084 - DESTROY YOU - dark, scary, danger, kink, fetish
0085 - SPANK ME, MISTRESS - bdsm, master/slave, d/s, kink, fetish
0086 - POTATO CHIPS - funny, incident, office, cafeteria
0087 - BATED BREATH - lingerie, nervousness, phone call
0088 - FUNERAL - death, loss, grief, sex
0089 - SHOW’N’TELL - private show, show and tell, voyeurism, exhibitionism
0090 - BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE SPREADSHEET TRANSCRIPTION ERROR - beauty, au, funny, rating scale, typo, error
0091 - VACAY - song lyrics, fifth harmony, sex
0092 - BODY - song lyrics, mino, kpop, khiphop, sex, foreplay
0093 - 10 OF THE SEXIEST THINGS YOU CAN DO IN BED - clickbait article, sex life
0094 - I JUST WANT TO KNOW - hate, sadness, inadequacy
0095 - SEASONS CHANGE - people, idiom, change, life lessons
0096 - POTLUCK - sex, potluck, habits, funny, personality, character development
0097 - ILLEGAL - illegal activity, money, business
0098 - PINTEREST - pinterest, funny, character quotes
0099 - LOOK AT ME - funny, character development
0100 - HUNDRED WORDS - drabble, serenity
0101 - 101 - sex, teasing, teacher/student
0102 - AN APPLE A DAY - medical, dating, romance
0103 - CAM GIRL - cyber sex, romance
0104 - FROM ENEMIES TO LOVERS - environmentalist, real estate developer
0105 - SHORTS - scantily clad, sexy
0106 - SWINGERS - kink, fetish
0107 - 90′S PARTY - funny, mistake, 1790s, 1990s, party
0108 - KEY PARTY - kink, fetish, funny, accident
0109 - BRIDESMAID - wedding, cheating, sex
0110 - SWEET MEMORIES - writer, memories, dying
0111 - BOOKSTORE - mystery, romance, danger
0112 - MORNING AFTER - one night stand, alcohol, embarrassment, romance
0113 - INKED - tattoo shop, independence
0114 - PERSONAL TRAINER - personal trainer, d/s, fitness
0115 - GOALS - character development
0116 - LOVE NOTE - character development
0117 - REDUNDANCY - funny, character quotes, character development
0118 - I’VE NEVER SEEN A DEAD BODY - corpse, scary, funny, death
0119 - WHAT ARE YOU WEARING? - phone sex, funny, romance
0120 - IF I WAS THERE RIGHT NOW - housework, funny, character quotes, character development
0121 - 21 - wild night, adventure, hangover
0122 - AMBER - angst, dreams, regret
0123 - SEASHELLS - business, funny, tongue twister
0124 - LIKE A MOTH TO A FLAME - mystery, danger
0125 - HE’S BEAUTY, HE’S GRACE - funny, facesitting, character quotes, character development
0126 - HAPPINESS AT STAKE - money, happiness, deceit
0127 - MONTHLY ALERT - au, menstruation, funny
0128 - TEACHER’S PET - omegaverse, teacher/student
0129 - PLAYMATE - omegaverse, online, hookup
0130 - WHO’S YOUR DADDY? - omegaverse, orgy, paternity
0131 - MINE - omegaverse, love polygon, danger
0132 - CONSORT - omegaverse, consort, sex worker, love polygon, danger
0133 - SERVANT - money, power, sex, royalty au
0134 - MAMA’S BABY, DADDY’S MAYBE - incest, royalty au, affair, secrets
0135 - ONCE A BLUEBLOOD - sex workers, drug abuse, modern aristocrats/ royalty au
0136 - TRAVELING MERCHANT - sex toys, salesman. royalty au
0137 - FOR THE GOOD OF THE KINGDOM - well-being, royalty au
0138 - A CHANGE IS IN ORDER - self-hate, desperation, change
0139 - SIGNS’ FAVORITE KINKS - astrology, WRITING PROMPT, sex, kink
0140 - ROOMMATES - desperate, roommates, college au
0141 - NOT DONE YET - command, character quotes, character development
0142 - WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF I CALLED YOU DADDY? - daddy kink, fetish, spanking
0143 - BEST FRIENDS…WITH BENEFITS - friendship, romance, love, sex
0144 - PLAYING THIS GAME - teacher/student, college au
0145 - EAT SHIT AND DIE - anger, character quotes, character development
0146 - BROTHEL - sex workers, first time, nervousness, coercion
0147 - BROAD DAYLIGHT - public sex, fingering, kink
0148 - BUBBLEGUM-FLAVORED - condoms, funny, sex, character quotes, character development
0149 - READ MY LIPS - kissing, character quotes, character development. love, romance, flirting
0150 - ORDERLY - mental hospital, au, scary, murder, death
BONUS - WWYD (1/17/17)
WWYD #1 - RUDE IDOL
WWYD #2 - WEIRD NEIGHBOR
WWYD #3 - HAPPY ENDING
WWYD #4 - REAL WORLD
WWYD #5 - PREACHER’S KID
WWYD #6 - CULT
WWYD #7 - INTERIOR DECORATOR
WWYD #8 - WRONG NUMBER
Thanks so much! Now what? I need more smut, clearly.
#list#writing#writing prompt#writers#writing help#writing tips#writing inspiration#writing ideas#character development#characters#character quotes#kpop#kpop scenarios#kpop smut#fanfiction#kpop fanfiction#kpop roleplay#krp ad#krp#rp ad#urban rp#rp advert
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