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johnnyutah · 10 months

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i finally finished this old wip for @stonathanweek (and coincidentally also @stoncyweek2023!)

prompts: canon-verse (day 5), long distance relationship (day 7) summary: Steve comes up with an awesome plan to make Nancy jealous. It backfires in the best way. rating: explicit ships: stonathan, stoncy, established jonathan/nancy, past steve/nancy (and future? 😳) steve and robin being best bros word count: 5660 content info: drinking, phone sex, miscommunication, smut & feelings, pre-polyamory, set before season 4

Also on AO3!

The front door of Family Video slams shut on yet another failed attempt at flirting, and Steve’s head falls into his hands yet a-fuckin-gain. “This is it, Robin,” he declares, elbows digging into the cheap melamine counter and fingertips digging into his temples just above his furrowed brows. “This is it. We’ve got no prospects.”

“That isn’t true,” Robin, the light of his life, tells him, soft and kind-hearted as ever. She pats his shoulder and goes on to correct him, “You’ve got no prospects. I’m just in the wrong city for love; you’re on the wrong planet.”

“The wrong p— you’re a real asshole, you know that?” Steve glances up from between his fingers just to check that she knows that. Robin’s sweet smile doesn’t falter for a moment, confirming her own theory. He’s sure that if they did live in another place, or perhaps another time, Robin could have a girlfriend in no time at all. Steve, however, is doomed. “What am I supposed to do with that, huh? I can’t exactly set off to Mars.”

“You could try changing it up,” Robin suggests. It’s the third time this week she’s suggested that he change. He’s starting to feel like she might mean it. “Instead of ‘ahoy, ladies’…”

She scrunches up her nose, thinking. Steve rests his chin on his knuckles and watches her. “Ahoy… fellas?”

“Ha-ha.” Robin pushes his shoulder again, this time not to comfort but to chastise. “I meant maybe coming up with a different approach.”

“I don’t do the Scoops routine anymore.”

“Right, you’ve switched to local video store geek recommending all your favorite flicks.”

“Geek! I’m not a geek! What about this,” Steve gestures up and down his body with broad, sweeping motions that draw out a flurry of giggles from Robin, “says geek?!”

“Like, all of it,” she laughs. “Every part of it. The hair? Dork. The smile? Total nerd smile— see, look, you’re offended but you’re smiling!”

Through his not-smile, Steve hisses, “What am I supposed to do about my smile? I’m freaking screwed!”

“Calm down, you’ll be fine!” It’s hard to take Robin’s consolation seriously as she struggles not to laugh. Some consternation must show on his face as she finally relents, wiping an eye dry before leaning away, and repeating, “You’ll be fine. You’ve got plenty of time to work out the new Harrington act anyway, and in the meantime, you’ve got good friends who look out for you.”

“I thought you said Dustin and the gang were annoying little kids.”

“God, I meant me, you dick!” This time he’s ready for the blow to his shoulder and he dodges it effortlessly, ducking under the slap and then swatting it away. It’s a good thing Keith left right away after his morning shift, as he hates when they squabble like this in the front end of the store. Not that there are any customers. Steve has apparently frightened them all away with his utter and total lack of charisma. Fantastic.

After he loses— quite badly, really, Robin, where was this killer physique and athleticism when they were being held hostage by enemies of the state— and they resume their work, Steve doesn’t put up much of a pretense of actually working, far too distracted by his foreboding future. The loneliness gnaws at him deeply, scraping down to his marrow until he starts fidgeting, uncomfortable with his own turbulent emotion.

Robin hadn’t meant it, and god knows she’s got it worse than he does, but… it does suck, not having someone and not seeming able to find anyone. Even when things were bad with Nancy there had still been things. And before her, when Tommy and Carol had dragged him to each and every party like a prized stud ready for the auction, he had felt wanted. He can’t remember when he last felt wanted.

Before he can voice this pathetic thought to Robin, she sighs, taking obvious pity on him. “You have any plans tonight?”

“Take a wild guess,” Steve grumbles.

Unaffected, she continues, “Sooo… my parents went to this big Christmas party last weekend, and they brought home these two huge gift baskets they apparently won in some raffle. And one of the baskets had some bourbon, and, um, I don’t really know anything about drinking, so, I… uh, I brought it, and I thought maybe it’d be fun if we. Drank it.”

Steve twists to stare at her incredulously. No part of the story makes even a lick of sense— what kind of parents let their eighteen-year-old daughter drink liquor freely? What kind of parents bring gifts home without occasion or cause? Who throws a Christmas party in January? Baffled, he echoes, “You brought it?”

“I brought it,” Robin confirms.

“In… what, in your backpack?”

“Yeah, in my backpack.” Both of them glance at the staff area, and she says, “What, you don’t want to? If you don’t want to, it’s—”

“Hold on, they just let you have it?”

“They don’t drink.”

“Well… what kind of bourbon is it?”

“I have no clue, doofus. I don’t drink.”

“Never?”

“I’ve never had anyone to drink with.” This confession lingers in the air for a heavy moment— not necessarily a bad one, but it weighs them both down, together. Then Robin coughs, and changes tack, “What types of bourbon are there?”

Steve doesn’t actually know. He’s not sure that he’s actually ever tried bourbon. It sounds both quaintly Southern and exorbitant, but the likely high price tag only adds to the allure. “Alright, we’ll just have to make sure we don’t leave anything for Keith to catch onto us. Guy would flip his freaking lid. But… we could try a glass, or two.”

“Neat,” Robin grins, eyes practically sparkling. “Yeah, I probably won’t have more than a sip.”

Steve sits— well, crashes— down onto the counter beside Robin. His legs dangle over the edge, while she keeps hers crossed. “I think I lost my voice,” he tells her, and in response she passes— well, slams— the bottle into his hand. “No, Robin, I’m serious, I think I sang too hard.”

“They’re making another one of these.” She points, and Steve follows her gaze to the TV set up in the corner over Comedies and International, which is currently playing The Evil Dead, but set to the soundtrack of the album Steve has been blasting over the Family Video intercom. “With the same director and everything. I bet it’ll be terrible; sequels always are.”

“Not true,” croaks Steve. He drinks the bourbon. It tastes a little better with every sip, although it still mostly tastes like he’s hiding in a cleaning closet and drinking heavy acid instead of hanging out with his friend and drinking actual good liquor. If this is good liquor, he thinks he’ll stick to cheap beer. “Dawn of the Dead.”

“Remake, not a sequel.”

“No way, it’s a sequel.” Steve passes the bottle back, massaging his throat. “Zombies and shit.” AC/DC comes to the end of howling ‘Back in Black’, thank God, no more falsetto— and the tape switches to ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’. He starts tapping his heels against the counter to the rhythm.

On screen, Ash’s buddy Scotty shoves one of the zombified girls away with an ax. Robin watches. Steve grimaces. Scotty swears his head off on mute. Brian Johnson wails, “She was the best damn woman that I ever seen!”

“I love women,” Robin sighs, deep and emotional.

“Me too,” agrees Steve fervently.

“And I don’t hate bourbon.”

“Me either.” He reaches for the bottle and she takes a sip before sharing; it burns when it hits his already scratchy throat. Scotty locks the zombie in the basement. Robin reaches back for the bottle. The confession squeezes out before Steve can think any better of it: “I miss Nancy.”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean it—”

“I know you do—”

“I love her, Robin.”

“Oh My God.”

“Listen,” Steve says, hopping off the counter with grace and precision. He completely misjudges the distance between them and the floor, and ends up crash-landing hard; but at least he doesn’t fall over. Robin laughs harder than she needs to as he steadies himself. “Listen. She was my best damn… the best girlfriend that I’ve ever had. And I was so stupid to her. And she left me.”

“I thought she left because she didn’t have feelings for you anymore.”

“Could you just—” Steve flails for a moment, trying not to throttle his best friend and also trying to sort through his drunk thoughts to find the words he needs. “Yes. Okay. That may be true. But feelings come and go!”

“Fine,” says Robin reluctantly. “But, and I hate to put a damper on your drunken dreams of winning her back, but! In this case, Nancy has already moved on to someone else… right?”

Steve snaps his fingers. Jonathan— of course! That’s why that stupid horror movie seemed so familiar; he remembers seeing the freaky poster hung up in Jonathan’s room from when he and Nancy and Jonathan had fought off the Demogorgon the first time around. Steve hasn’t thought about Jonathan in a while, which seems odd given that he used to waste so much time thinking about the guy. Even before their team-up— actually, especially before they had teamed up, he had a penchant for watching the weird Byers kid. “Right,” he exclaims. “Yeah, yes! She’s moved on!”

“So,” says Robin, with the patience of a schoolteacher. “Don’t you think it’s time that you move on too?”

“Totally,” he agrees, catching her off-guard. “Yes. I’m gonna make her so jealous.”

When he looks over, Robin is fully chugging the bourbon. Steve snatches the bottle away, laughing somewhat maniacally— except not at all, this is awesome, he has a totally awesome plan.

Step one is get on the work computer and misuse his employee privilege as a Family Video store clerk. When he fails to type in his password correctly a third time, Robin sighs, finally hopping down from the counter. “I want it on record that this is a bad idea,” she declares, typing in her password anyway before heading to the back room. Steve takes advantage of her absence to quickly scan through their alphabetized account list. Thankfully Byers, J. is close to the top.

He scrawls the phone number down on the back of an empty receipt as Robin closes down the store— beginning with the music, then the lights. They are left alone with only the computer, which Steve quickly shuts off, and the television, which Robin misplaced the remote for. Neither of them can find it in the dark and so they leave Ash and friends to face their inevitable demise at the hands of the zombie demons. It won’t be the worst close they’ve ever done, and Steve refuses to believe that Keith’s opinion of him could sink any lower.

Robin grabs the nearly empty bottle, shoving it into her backpack. Steve grabs his jacket, pulling it on with a wince as they step out of the store into the January night air. “It’s too cold to drive, and I’m too drunk to walk,” says Robin, arms already tightly folded over her chest but teeth not quite chattering yet. “I mean… no, wait, maybe that is what I mean.”

“I got this,” Steve assures her. It’s then that Robin notices the receipt, and lunges for it. Maybe if Steve had full control of his faculties he would be able to hold it out of her reach. She snatches the paper and Steve moans, “Aw, c’mon, give it back! You’re messing up my whole plan!”

“Your plan to get back with your ex by making her jealous? Oh my god, you’re serious.” Robin laughs, shoving the receipt back at him. Her grin is too wide and goofy to cause any real hurt, especially when her eyes crinkle up in the corners and she teases, “Look at that, Harrington! You finally got a girl’s number.��

Steve, smiling back, doesn’t correct her.

The only cab in Hawkins surely isn’t the only cab in Hawkins, but it feels that way as they drive down the otherwise dormant city streets. Most people, Steve reckons, don’t stay up late drinking with their coworkers on a cold weeknight in January. Or if they do, they probably go to a bar close to their office downtown, or even a nightclub.

In the backseat of the only cab in Hawkins, Steve and Robin lean against each other like siblings on a road trip, slouched together thanks to the late hour and all the drinking. He’s sure they smell like shit but they feel amazing, smacking each other’s arms to point out passing landmarks or giggling about the music on the radio. The driver hasn’t commented, leaving them to their own devices as they joke about how they feel like New Yorkers, or like superstars.

The taxi drops Robin off outside her home first, and she leans over to give Steve a bourbon-soaked hug. He relishes in it, trying to remember the last time he got a hug from anyone. Hell, it was probably Robin, and before that, he has no clue. Dustin has been busy with his new Dungeons and Dragons group, and Lucas and Mike were never big on hugs anyway. So he hugs back, still laughing at Robin’s terrible Bronx accent, and as he does she whispers, “You got this, dingus.”

“Thanks,” Steve whispers back, feeling tipsy and joyful and supported— until he realizes that she meant he’s the one on the hook for paying the taxi driver. He settles back into his own seat to sulk.

On the radio, REO Speedwagon choruses, “I’ve forgotten what I started fighting for; it’s time to bring this ship into the shore, and throw away the oars, forever…” and the driver hums along.

Steve’s hand finds its way into his jacket pocket, where his fist closes around Jonathan’s number.

“Hey,” Steve nearly sings, as soon as the call goes through. “Hi. Sorry, I— I know it’s late,” which is technically true, even if he has no idea what time it actually is. But based on the moonlight streaming through the window in the kitchen, he’s breaking several social rules. “I just… It’s, um, it’s Steve. Harrington, in case, uh, you know any other Steves…?”

A woman answers. The receiver slips right out of Steve’s hands and he curses modern, cordless technology, fumbling to grab it before he drops the phone, or worse, the call. “… afraid I don’t know any Steves at all. Can I help you, young man?”

“Oh, shit.” The woman inhales sharply, and Steve’s mind supplements an image of Byers, Joyce. Shit. Of course. “I’m sorry, uh, I’m calling for Jonathan? If he’s even home?”

Sounding much less friendly, the woman pauses. “I don’t know who you mean, but this is a new number. If you’re trying to reach the Byers family—”

“Yes, exactly, yeah, Jonathan Byers—”

“They don’t live here anymore.” Steve crumples up the paper and tosses it, furiously, into the sink. “I have their forwarding number, if it’s very important…?”

“It’s urgent,” Steve assures her, scrambling to find something to write on. He ends up grabbing his father’s fountain pen and writing Jonathan’s new number painfully across the back of his hand.

After apologizing and wishing the wrong number a good night, Steve stares at those messy, ink-blotted digits. Before he can give himself cold feet, he dials the number; he doesn’t breathe once the whole time it rings.

The line picks up again. This time Steve is more cognizant that it might be Joyce, or even worse, Will— the kid would definitely recognize his voice, and while Steve is sure that Jonathan’s impossibly kind younger brother would support him in this late-night endeavor, he’s also sure that Mike Wheeler would definitely hear about it. Which would ruin the entire scheme, of course.

The scheme, which seemed so infallible back at Family Video, swims and wavers in his head now. Steve tries to go through the plan point by point, but it all falls to pieces when a groggy, familiar voice says through the receiver, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Steve says. He leans against the kitchen island, exhaling all the air in his lungs. “Hi. It’s Steve. … Harrington.”

“I only know one Steve,” Jonathan says, dry as a desert. Steve smiles nervously. “Why are you calling? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, all quiet on the Western front.” This nets him a chuckle from Jonathan, so he soldiers on: “I was just wondering, you know, uh… if you wanted to come over?”

Puzzled, Jonathan asks bluntly, “What? Why?”

“I was thinking about you,” says Steve, leaning into it hard. He has charisma, or at least, he once did— he knows how to do this part. “Thinking maybe you could come over and we could fool around.”

Nobody has ever hung up so fast.

Steve stares at the dead phone in his hand. He wonders about the vicious gossip that he’d heard back in high school about Jonathan Byers, that he was more than just weird and a loner. Maybe those rumors really were nothing but rumors spread by small-minded townies. Steve’s parents aren’t home. It would be so easy for him to break into his father’s liquor cabinet. He could probably knock himself out within the hour, and sleep off this whole bad idea. He could laugh about it with Robin tomorrow night at work— I wanted to do what last night? I got some girl’s phone number out of the system? Man, no, I went straight home and went to bed. On an unrelated topic, I need to update the contact information on the Byers file.

Steve presses the redial button.

It rings for a little longer this time, and he can just picture Jonathan deciding whether or not to pick up, leaning over his own kitchen counter with a vein jumping out of his forehead behind his messy, home-cut bangs. Sure enough, when the call does get picked up, Jonathan sounds even more stressed than usual. He demands, “Is this a joke?”

If he’s wrong, and Jonathan’s not that type of person, and he tells Nancy… Steve shakes off the doomed train of thought. “No,” he says, firmly. “Not a joke.”

Jonathan swears softly, so soft that Steve was sure he wasn’t meant to hear it, then: “Are you drunk?”

“Well, yeah,” he admits. Jonathan sighs loud enough to nearly blow the speaker. “What about you?”

“No.” A pause. “I think I should probably be a lot less sober for this.”

“That’s the spirit,” Steve cheers. “Where are you? Can you come over?”

Just as he’s starting to get butterflies, Jonathan cuts through the excitement with a deadpan, “California.”

“California?” He squints at the number on his hand. Is eight-one-eight the area code for California? “What the fuck? Is Nancy there with you?”

“Um.” A very pregnant pause. “No?”

“What… are you… Are you on vacation?”

Once more, Jonathan sighs. “What do you want, Steve?”

“I told you,” he replies, and even to his own ears he sounds bitchy. He adjusts, softening his tone a bit. “Just wanna make you feel good, Jonathan. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“You haven’t exactly kept in touch,” Jonathan retorts, although his voice sounds different now. Steve listens keenly but he can’t hear anything else on the line except the complaining. “I mean, you thought I still lived in Hawkins, and I’ve been gone this whole school year.”

“Well, we’re not exactly friends,” Steve parrots back. That shuts the other boy up alright. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think about you.”

“Steve—”

“Even tonight, hanging out with a friend, I was thinking about you. Should’ve been thinking about girls. I was thinking about you.” Steve frowns. “You and stupid Ashley Williams.”

“Listen,” tries Jonathan. “You’re just drunk—”

“Even back when we were in school together I would think about you,” he admits, low. “Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? I heard what everyone said about you. Couldn’t get it out of my head. It wasn’t the first time I heard that someone could be… like that, but it was the first time I saw a boy and thought that I might be like that.”

What had the scheme been again? Call Nancy Wheeler’s queer boyfriend, rile him up a little? Get him to tell Nancy about it and make her all jealous? What is his endgame here, because only boys who like boys talk to boys about the things he’s talking to Jonathan about right now— and Jonathan isn’t even really reciprocating.

The soft breath is the only sign of life from California. Steve closes his eyes, swaying against the kitchen counter. “And I was so, so fucking stupid back then. That’s how I lost Nance, and that’s how come I treated you like… just like garbage. I broke your stupid camera, and I pushed you around, and when people gave you a hard time I didn’t say shit. I basically made your life hell.”

“You bought me a new camera,” says Jonathan quietly.

“Aw, c’mon, Nance.” Steve grimaces. “That was supposed to be a secret.”

“And I wasn’t the best person back then either. I mean, I can’t think about how I acted in junior high without dying a little bit on the inside. But… um… doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it,” Jonathan tells him, in that same quiet voice. Steve wonders if he’s trying to stay quiet so he doesn’t wake up his family. Even when Jonathan had repulsed Steve, he’d always been secretly jealous of the closeness of the Byers clan. “And… uh, all that stuff you said, um… I used to think about it too. About… you and Nancy, mostly. It was wrong, I know, and—”

Steve interrupts, “Was it?” He sounds as wild as he feels. “Was it wrong?”

“Um…”

“You home alone, Jonathan?”

“I, uh.” Now there is a rustling on the other side of the line. “Will and El are at a sleepover camp thing for school, and my mom’s working nights this week at this temporary… um… Are we really— I mean, are you really…”

Steve hums. “I’m home alone. Didn’t even ask where my parents are, and they didn’t volunteer the information. But it means I’ve got this big place all to myself.”

Shallowly, Jonathan sucks in air. “Where are you?”

“The kitchen.”

That shocks a surprised laugh out of the other boy, which in turn makes Steve smile bashfully. “You can’t— you can’t have phone sex in the kitchen,” he scolds Steve. “People make food in there! Go to your bedroom, you fucking freak.”

“Look who’s suddenly an expert on phone sex,” Steve teases.

He goes anyway, heading slowly and normally towards the second floor until Jonathan casually drops, “Well, I have been in a long-distance relationship since September.”

Steve trips up the stairs, dropping the phone for the second time tonight. When he picks it up Jonathan is still there, breathing just as softly. Steve takes the rest of the stairs four at a time. He lunges for his bed and collapses there like a dead weight, still wearing his work clothes. Shit, he’s still wearing his shoes. He hears soft laughter coming down the line and, embarrassed about his heavy breathing, demands hotly, “You and Nancy have phone sex?”

“It would be pretty hard to have any other kind of sex two thousand miles apart.” That dry humor is doing terrible, insane things to his body right now. Steve chews his lip, closes his eyes, and fumbles with the button on his jeans. “So you get pretty good at discussing, and imagining. And waiting.”

“The first two sound alright.”

“Waiting can be fun too,” Jonathan tells him gently; his voice is so soft and low that Steve doesn’t realize he’s being seduced until his pulse has already risen. “But, yeah, talking is Nancy’s big thing. … I’m sure you remember that.”

Steve makes a face, giving up on his zipper. What he remembers about his sex life with Nancy is mostly too sad to dwell on, except during his most pathetic, embarrassing shower sessions and wet dreams. Things were good between them, of course— she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet— but after that pivotal time at the party, in this very bedroom, things were never the same. Sex with Steve had begun to remind Nancy of her dead friend, which would have been a mood-killer for Clark and Lois. Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised when she dumped his ass for Jonathan.

“What about this?” Steve imagines that Jonathan is right next to him on the bed instead of two thousand miles away. He turns his head to face the other pillow, but his eyes stay firmly closed. “Shouldn’t you… talk to Nancy about this?”

Once again, Jonathan effortlessly flips his world upside down with a sentence: “We did.” He sounds almost amused. “That’s why I hung up on you. I freaked out, and called her.”

Steve sits up so fast his head spins. “You called her? You— what did you tell her?”

“I told her you were drunk and trying to hook up with me,” says Jonathan, like it’s not a big deal at all. “And then her mother kicked her off the phone and chewed me out for calling the house so late.”

“But,” splutters Steve, “what did Nancy say?”

“She was really excited,” Jonathan admits. Steve, himself, is really excited— in fact, he thinks he might throw up for reasons entirely unrelated to the consumption of alcohol. “She asked for details, and I said I’d let her know if you called back. Then Mrs. Wheeler got on the line.”

He stares at the empty walls of his room, desperately trying to make sense of what Jonathan is telling him. “She wasn’t mad?”

“She was furious. Kept going on about time zones and all that shit.”

“Jonathan, I mean Nancy.”

“Steve, I know. I’m just teasing. You sound so tense.” Steve wonders how any man could feel relaxed while hearing this information. ��Yeah, she was excited, and… a little nervous; she warned me it might have been a prank or something, but then I said ‘what if it’s not’, and she said ‘well, if it’s not, then obviously’… yeah.”

Steve gapes. “Obviously?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan echoes. “And asked for details.”

“Makes sense,” he says, weakly. “She’s a great reporter.”

“So, details.” Jonathan’s voice sinks down again, and Steve mirrors the change in tone, lying back down. He’s still reeling from the news that his plot to make Nancy jealous has been found dead in the water, and instead it seems that Jonathan and Nancy have machinations of their own. “Did you listen to what I said?”

“About Nancy?”

“About leaving the kitchen. Where are you now, Steve?”

“Oh. The— my bed.”

Jonathan exhales, “Good,” and Steve starts to melt. “And what are you doing right now in your bed?”

“Taking my shoes off,” he answers honestly, which startles another laugh out of Jonathan.

“That’s… a good place to start, I guess. How drunk are you, man?”

“I just feel… I don’t know. I feel good.” Keeping up the honesty is probably a good bet. “I like that you told Nancy. I like that she… likes the idea. She’s thinking about it, maybe.”

The line is silent, but live with Jonathan’s breathing. Steve’s chest rises and falls in sync. “Thinking about what, exactly?”

Right. Details. “This isn’t what I’d pictured,” Steve tells him. “I never imagined you out in California. In my head, you’re still the same scrawny, skinny kid forever stuck in Hawkins. Doesn’t make sense, you living so far away. Do you have a tan now?”

“Not really,” he admits, sounding sheepish. “I look pretty much the same. Taller, maybe.”

“I doubt it. Bet you’re still small enough for me to pick you up, toss you around.”

“You could try it,” Jonathan huffs.

“Bet you’re used to taking the lead with Nancy,” Steve continues, closing his eyes again. He kicks off his other shoe. “You ever been with someone bigger than you? I mean, someone who could really put you where they wanted?”

“You’re not so big,” says Jonathan. He sounds uncertain— it sends goosebumps down Steve’s arms. “Where would you want to put me?”

“I’d like to pin you down and watch your face as I get you off.” The reaction is immediate— the bitten-off gasp is a sound Steve will treasure forever. “I would want you in my bed, in my car… I don’t know. Everywhere. I’d want you to ride me.”

“Jesus.”

“I’d ride you too,” Steve hastens to add. “I’m not totally unfair.”

Jonathan makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a whimper.

“I used to think about making you suck me off, back when I was still kind of learning what blowjobs were and so they were pretty much all I could ever think about. You have a really pretty mouth,” he goes on even as Jonathan’s breath hitches, “and I think you would look good on your knees.”

“I do,” Jonathan says. “I mean, I would, I— Nancy tells me all the time.”

“What, you suck her off?” Steve laughs, except the noise kind of dies in his throat because Jonathan doesn’t laugh too. He puts the phone down, suddenly desperate to be free of his clothing. Throwing his work vest and shirt towards the dresser, followed by his jeans and briefs, he lies back down and repeats his question. “You go down on her?”

“Of course,” says Jonathan, kind and sweet and kind of dirty. Steve shuffles around until he’s comfortable under the blankets, and he can hold the phone in one hand and his dick in the other. He would usually grab lotion from his bedside table, maybe stop at a non-family video store on the way home from work to pick up a tape. Right now he doesn’t need any of that; he’s too close just from the sound of Jonathan’s voice. “I could do that for you too. I never thought it was something you’d want.”

“Well, you know what they say, Byers.” Steve palms himself, fucking in and out of his fist slowly. It’s too hot, too sensitive, too intimate. He clenches, his muscles tightening as he thinks about Jonathan doing the same. “If you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

Sure enough, there’s a quiet noise other than Jonathan’s voice. The connection isn’t clear enough for him to hear everything, but he can connect the dots. Jonathan says, still sounding strangled, “Did you manage to get your shoes off?”

“Yeah, now I’m working on getting my rocks off.”

A groan, low and a second too long. “Ugh. Nancy could’ve warned me you liked to tell jokes in bed.”

“What, am I not cool enough for you, California? Should I, like, tone it down, brochacho?”

“You’re kidding, but I do actually have a friend out here who sounds exactly like that.” Steve speeds up, his hips thrusting forward in small, jerky movements as Jonathan talks. God, he’s in so much trouble if he’s just getting off to the sound of the guy’s voice. He twists his wrist for a better angle as Jonathan continues, “You’re plenty cool enough for me, Indiana.”

“Hey, you’re Indiana too,” Steve reminds him. “God, I’m so— can you do more of the phone sex stuff?”

“Who says this isn’t the phone sex stuff? Maybe two guys jerking off together, talking about the state they grew up in is high-quality phone sex,” Jonathan teases. Now who’s telling jokes in bed? “You want me to give you the serious script, Harrington?”

“I want you to stop fucking around and put me on loudspeaker,” Steve gasps.

For a beat, Jonathan is silent. Then he does; the audio quality is slightly different, and Steve can more clearly hear skin-on-skin. Jonathan picks up the pace and Steve matches his rhythm, groaning through grinding teeth. When Jonathan speaks, he sounds nervous now. “Better?”

“Almost,” Steve says. “I want you to touch yourself. Keep touching yourself, the way you do when you do this with your girlfriend.” Jonathan’s breath hitches, and the sounds pick up— they are filthy in the best way. Steve is beyond glad they’re both home alone. His legs shake as he keeps going. “Except it’s different, right? When Nancy gets off she seizes up, right, like her whole body goes tight. With us, it’s different, and I want to hear you, wanna hear every part of it. I want you to ruin those fucking sheets.”

“Fuck,” gasps Jonathan. Steve tightens his grip too. “I wish—” and then before he can deliver that wish, he’s grunting, loud and primal and unmistakably masculine, as he comes all over himself. Steve can just picture it, those nimble, pale fingers wrapped around his dick— except he doesn’t exactly know what Jonathan’s dick looks like, so he has to make do with thinking about his own. And right as he’s about to sail over the edge, Jonathan breathes, “I bet Nancy’s getting off right now too.”

Well. It’s embarrassing how instantaneous Steve’s orgasm is after he hears that.

After all the discussing and imagining, as Jonathan had called it, they both come down slowly and in shared, comfortable silence. Steve sinks back down to sober, cold Earth like a fluttering leaf, and even after the reality of what just happened hits him he still doesn’t feel ready to accept it. The hard, unflinching truth is that Steve feels better right now than he ever has after sex, and Jonathan isn’t even here. He thinks he almost feels better right now than he ever has in his entire life. Uh oh.

“So,” Steve finally breaks the quiet post-orgasm haze lingering between them. “Are you coming home for spring break?”

#stonathanweek2023 #stoncyweek2023 #stonathan #stoncy #stranger things #fic blogging

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spaceorphan18 · 1 year

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5 Times Kurt Talks About Sex and 1 Time He Doesn't (Part One)

A/N: So, this was inspired the other day by a Nonny who was asking about how Kurt interacts with others on the topic of sex and this little idea popped in my head.

It's a little mini-series, and I'll post one part a day, then I'll get it up on Ao3 after it's complete.

It's set in a post-canon-ish world when they're all living in New York. The whole thing takes place over the course of a day.

****

Conversation One: Tina

There’s a banging on the door. Kurt hasn’t even had a sip of his morning coffee yet, and reluctantly regrets even getting up in the morning as he makes his way through the kitchen to the living room. The pounding intensifies. Good, god, what is so important this early in the morning?

He opens the door, and in stumbles Tina. “Blaine!” she calls, without even a hello. “Blainey!! Blaine, get out here, I need to talk to you.” She pushes past Kurt, in a frenzy, and goes straight for the bedrooms, as if it’s normal for someone not even invited in to do so.

“He’s at rehearsal,” Kurt grumbles. He shuts the door and heads back to the kitchen, not even bothering to stop Tina as she races around the apartment in search of Blaine.

“It’s Saturday,” Tina cries, as if that’s some sort of argument against Blaine being gone. The apartment is small enough that it takes less than a minute for Tina to confirm that Kurt is, indeed, alone.

“People still have to rehearse on Saturdays.” He pours himself a mug of coffee, taking in the deep, rich smell of it as he waits for Tina to inevitably join him.

She’s grumpy as she enters the kitchen. “Well, that would explain why he’s not answering his phone.”

He stares at her blankly. “What do you want, Tina?”

It’s then that she stops in her tracks, as if she’s suddenly aware that Kurt’s really the only one there to talk to. She’s unusually hesitant before she speaks again. “You know what - it’s fine. I’ll just see him later.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow at her. “What did you need?”

“Really, it was nothing.”

“Tina…”

“I should have waited for his text,” Tina insists. “Totally not an emergency. You don’t even need to mention that I was here.”

“You’ve already crashed my morning,” Kurt says, waving his mug around. Sure, it’s annoying to be interrupted during your morning routine - but at least whatever Tina’s backing away from is probably better than anything on TV at the moment. “You might as well just tell me.”

“Well…” she’s hesitant again as she slides into one of his kitchen chairs. “It’s just that you and I, uh, don’t really talk about this stuff.”

Okay, so now his attention is piqued. “What stuff?”

“You know…” her voice grows soft. “About sex stuff.”

She’s not wrong. Tina will gossip about other people’s sex lives until the cows come home, but she’s rather tight-lipped about her own.

“Try me.”

“I should really wait and just talk to Blaine.”

“Do you really think Blaine won’t tell me eventually anyway?”

Kurt’s not sure what is more bitter - his coffee or the expression on Tina’s face.

“Fine, Kurt Hummel.” She takes a deep breath, composing herself. “So, you know how Artie and I are beginning to see each other again? Well, it’s been going great. Or at least I thought it had been going great. Until yesterday… So, I was going down on him. And, I mean, it’s not my favorite thing. Do all men have that weird smell down there? Or do I need to get Artie some kind of genitalia perfume for Christmas? And I mean, I can’t do it for very long because my mouth dries out but anyway…ever since I’ve known him he’s gone on and on about how much he just loves blowjobs. I swear, I have heard about every single woman who has thought it wise to give him one. And, god, he especially wouldn’t shut up about Brittany -- who apparently gives the most magical blowjobs. Sam used to go on and on about Brittany, too, now that I think of it. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, god, don’t tell me you agree with Brittany’s mind blowing oral skills.”

Kurt throws up a little in his mouth. “Do you really think I’d let that woman near my dick?”

Tina waves off the comment, continuing on with her rant. “Anyway… it takes him forever to come and he just seems barely into it. And I am trying all of my best moves. I am not bad at blowjobs. At least, Mike never complained. And remember that one guy I dated a few years ago? Greg? He said I was the best he’s ever had. I may have been the only one, but that’s not the point. The point is I wanted to talk to Blaine so he could give me tips on how to give a better blowjob.”

“Wait, is this really what you and Blaine talk about when I’m not around?”

“This is serious, Kurt!”

Kurt smirks into his coffee as he thinks it over. “I mean, if you want to talk about someone who gives magical blowjobs…”

Tina lets out a frustrated grunt. “Look, it’s not even because of this one time, either. I tried to wake him up this morning with a little surprise and he just kind of shoved me away. It was hu-mil-i-ating. My best friend and would-be boyfriend doesn’t like my mouth on him. Maybe this was just the worst idea I’ve ever had and we should have never gotten back together. I just need to accept the fact that I’m going to die alone.”

Wow. That escalated quickly. It’s Tina, though, he’s not really surprised.

“Okay, Tina.” Kurt sets his coffee mug down and folds his arms across his chest. “Let me get this straight. Did you at any point ask Artie about his weird reactions?”

She sits there silently for a moment. “Well, no…”

“So, to recap your morning - you had a bad sexual experience. And instead of talking to your boyfriend about it, you came to the conclusion that you’re terrible at sex, that you’re going to die alone, and then rushed over here to ask my husband how to properly suck a guy off?”

“You know, this is why I don’t come to you about these things,” Tina scoffs. “You don’t have to be judgy about it.”

Kurt refrains from rolling his eyes at her. “I’m not-- whatever… Tina, Artie’s an idiot. You know you have to hit Artie over the head with a brick in order to get his attention. I think it’s a different set of oral skills that may be more beneficial to your relationship.” Kurt chuckles at his own joke. “If you want, though, you could just say you’ll be refraining from using your mouth on any part of him until he can use his mouth to give you an orgasm. I mean, if you’re not having fun - why would he be? And, god, do not buy him some weird genitalia perfume - I’d be happy to recommend a decent manscaping kit instead. Also, for the record, dying alone isn’t the worst thing in the world - at least you’d have peace and quiet. And god knows I wish I had more of that in my life. But I mean, please feel free to still talk to Blaine. He does know how to do this thing with his tongue that gets me there faster than when we were teenagers. Absolutely magical.”

For the first time since he’s known her, Tina sits in a complete silence, utterly at a loss at how to respond.

Kurt picks up his mug and grins as he sips.

#s.o. writes things #five times #kurt hummel #tina cohen-chang #kurt hummel fic

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roberrtphilip · 3 months

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rewatched enchanted two days ago and i always notice little things about it with each rewatch.

can i just say i LOVE the fact that although robert doesn’t believe giselle’s a real princess for most of the film he never calls her crazy for thinking that. he’s so much nicer than most people would be in that situation - which is what makes it absurd that some people think he’s too mean.

reading the screenplay and seeing that one of his lines is, “she deserves our sympathy instead of our fascination”and even wondering if she went through something traumatic is just so refreshing. he’s SO nice.

even when sam calls andalasia “andalusia” he corrects her.

i’m looking too much into it but it’s so sweet to me idk 😭

YES YES YES YES !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I think about this ALL the time omg exploding.

Robert is SO nice !!!!!!!!!!! Like SO nice!!!!!!!!!!!

He didn't have to let her into his house that night, but he did!! And then he lets her stay the night!!!!!!!!!! And the next morning, gosh okay I know Giselle didn't mean to, but she really put him through hell 😭 like she let vermin into his house (which he didn't know was technically a good thing), then had his girlfriend believe he was cheating on her, and then he finds out she chopped up his curtains. The man hasn't even fully woken up yet, and already he's Going Through It AND STILL !!! Still he says, "I'll get you to a bus, a train, a plane, wherever-", and tells Sam he's going to have to play for her flight, when he doesn't have to !!!!!!!!!!

And then she nearly gets him fired, and he still gives her money, and decides to keep helping her because he just can't leave her behind. and that entire day he continued paying for things like food, and drink. AND !! He lets her stay the night again, and makes the couch into a bed, and gives her his clothes.

And this full line didn't make it into the movie, but god I adore it

like Robert literally does so much for Giselle, which is why the entire "he's mean" thing is truly so baffling. He's stressed out, for sure, but despite how overwhelmed he is, he never stops helping her, and he literally does not have to !!!

He could've easily left her in that alley, or kicked her out of his apartment, or just left her on the street after getting to work, but his heart is simply too big.

Also, you mentioned him correcting Sam, and that's always been a little scene I've loved omg he looks so offended when she says it wrong.

And him thinking she's gone through something traumatic is just. I was headcanoning that he thought she must've been left at the alter, and her behavior was just her way of coping, so when I read the script that at least confirmed he was thinking she went through something horrible, oh, I felt so giddy !!

It's why I also love his "I know what it's like when someone disappoints you. It's tempting to see things the way you wish they were, instead of how they are" line so much, like, he wants to help her through this !!

He's been left before, and didn't get any proper help, and he doesn't want her to be stuck alone with the pain he thinks she's going through.

And, of course, he assumed wrong, but it's still so !!!!!!!!!!!! like he wanted to be a shoulder she could lean on.

Oh, and this isn't canon, but I'm choosing to believe Robert gave Giselle more money so she could buy things on her date with Edward. I think he and Nathaniel had their own sack of gold (??) but I like to think Robert, being the Very Nice and Kind person he is, gave them money just in case.

Gosh, I'm exploding. I love Robert so much.

#ROBERT my pal robert.......#💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙#robert philip #enchanted #impossibledial #ask #certified enchanted moment™️

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wonderlandleighleigh · 2 years

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I have a headcanon that Midge CAN sing, and sing well, but prefers her singing to be private. Only reserved for certain people like her children.

What if Lenny accidentally walked in on Midge singing to Kitty?

(I love that head canon and also subscribe to it. I remember watching the season 3 opener, where Shy realizes she's singing off-key and he has this look on his face, and to me, that read as "WTF is she singing off key for, she knows how to fucking sing." But that's just me. It's not a super plausible head canon, but I still love it).

He gets in late from a gig, expecting everyone to be asleep. Ethan and Esther are at Joel's, but Kitty should be fast asleep at 2:30 in the morning.

When he rounds the corner, he realizes that the light in the girls' room is on, though, and he frowns. Kitty has trouble with sleep sometimes, leftover stress from when Lenny and Honey were still married, he thinks.

And that's partially on him. Guilt settles in his gut at the thought of his very young daughter up at night, stressed out because of his past behavior.

His frowns deepens, though, when he hears singing.

"You are my sunshine My only sunshine You make me happy When skies are gray You'll never know dear How much I love you Please don't take my sunshine away..."

Lenny wanders down the hall, and when he peeks in, he finds Midge settled on Kitty's bed, rocking the little girl in her arms, singing to her, stroking her hair.

And he's not sure what to do. They've been ships in the night for a month, both working like crazy and juggling the kids and he knows if he steps in now, Kitty will fly out of bed and into his arms, and she needs to sleep, and he needs to sleep and Midge needs to sleep.

He takes a breath and heads to their bedroom, intent of shifting out of his coat and tie. Hit the bathroom, wash his face. Brush his teeth.

Eventually, he hears Midge walk back to the bedroom and follows her, noticing that Kitty's room is dark now.

Midge smiles at him as she slips out of her dressing gown. "Hey. Good set tonight?"

Lenny doesn't reply. He walks up and kisses her slowly, his hands settling on her hips, pulling her close, and he feels her sigh happily, her own hands threading into his hair gently.

When it ends, she brushes her nose against his, looking dazed. "What was that for?"

He smirks. "Nah, no reason. Kitty okay?"

"She had a nightmare," Midge explains.

"And you," Lenny says slowly. "Sang to her."

She flushes a little. "I...when people ask if I sing, I say no. They never ask if I can sing. Just...do I sing?"

"And you say no."

"Because I get horrible stage fright when I have to sing," she explains. "I can talk at strangers all day, every day. But singing?"

"But you can sing for Kitty."

"The kids are easy," Midge shrugs sheepishly. "They generally don't judge."

Lenny kisses her again, softer this time. "I'm sorry we haven't had a lot of time for us."

"What are you sorry for?" she chuckles. "We're both busy, Lenny. It's not like you're actively avoiding me."

"God no," he confirms. "Why would I ever want to avoid all of this?" He gently grips her hips, pulling her closer again. "To say nothing of the smile and the laugh and the sense of humor. No. It's all bad luck lately."

"I know," she insists. "We'll get a break soon. If nothing else, we have the Catskills planned for two weeks from now."

"I demand private alone time," Lenny tells her. "I don't make demands often but I'm making one now. Alone time. You, me, a bed."

"Yes, sir," Midge teases. "Whatever you say sir. Ay-ay, sir."

He grins and kisses her again, but yawns and then groans. "I'm sorry, I swear it's not you."

Midge laughs softly. "Oh, believe me, I know it's not me. Get some sleep, we both have to be up in a few hours."

Lenny sighs longingly and gets ready for bed. "Yeah."

#fic #au #tmmm #Midge/Lenny #Midge x Lenny

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solradguy · 2 years

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I-no for the ask meme? 👉👈

YEAH WITCH WOMAN!!!!!!

🎸 Overall opinion of them:

I-No's design is so COOOOOOOLLLLLL. Witch rockstar??? Hell yeah!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🎸 Gender/sexuality headcanons:

I know like no less than 3 trans women who really like I-No so when I see her I'm like "aww fellow trans bestie <3" haha. As for her sexuality, I-No is anything sexual. It's basically confirmed she'd bone anything as long as it was fun/consensual.

🎸 Favorite moment in canon:

All of her interactions with Sol in +R are great. They hate each other SO MUCH she doesn't even come up with witty sex/music puns when she fights him, she goes right into stuff like "I'm gonna rip your guts out and hang you from a ceiling fan with them" kinda lines. Her boss fight is really fun too, once I figured out how tf to dodge all the patterns.

🎸 Favorite line, in canon or otherwise:

God it's so hard to pick just one because her puns are all great. I just learned about this one while skimming over her quotes page on the wiki and it got a hearty snort outta me:

"I don't know much about fighting bare-handed, but I do know what to do with a fist, if you know what I mean." (victory line against Jam in XX)

And then her victory line against A.B.A. (XX), which I also just became aware of earlier today:

"That thing's your husband? It looks like a big toy for such a little woman. Can you handle all of it? Haha! You have great taste in men!"

Amazing.

🎸 Characters I love seeing them interact with:

Sol, definitely, but mostly their early interactions where they're like 2 steps away from either destroying a small country from their fighting or having the WILDEST hate sex ever (or both). They toned down their dialog by Strive lol I miss the vitriol.

I-No is in the Lightning the Argent novel too and I'm looking forward to seeing who all she interacts with in that, and especially her interactions with That Man. I'm curious if there's anyone in this series she doesn't make dirty jokes at lmfao

🎸 Last thing before sleeping headcanons:

Actions that would make a good Catholic boy like Ky blush. I-No is proficient enough with magic that any kind of body maintenance stuff, like brushing her teeth, can be done almost without thinking about it. Maybe she does still enjoy manually brushing her hair though, since it feels kinda good.

🎸 Sleeping habits headcanons:

Sooooo, so much silk. Silk sheets, night gown, pillowcases. She probably doesn't even need to sleep, but she definitely has a nice bed for lounging in and other activities. I don't think she'd need to, but for some reason I can imagine her sleeping with an eye mask. Maybe there are a bunch of rituals like that that she does because she just likes the rhythm of doing them every night. Like putting on lotion and face peels. It keeps her grounded, in a way.

🎸 First thing after waking up headcanons:

Hmm... This is tricky. I'm trying to envision I-No in early morning scenarios and they all feel kinda silly or out of character for her. She's too much of a late night person... Maybe she starts the day off going 100 miles an hour and jumps right in with a shot of whiskey and then whatever plans need to be done that day.

🎸 Favorite locations headcanon:

I-No definitely is not a nature person. She probably likes hanging out in seedy clubs where she can be a freak without judgement and have a good time with a bunch of strangers she won't have to see again. I think that's an important factor for her, not having to deal with people more than once because she gets bored with the repetition/monotony.

#ask memes #jarofmag1c

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ficsilike-reblogged · 3 years

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Precious Inexperience II

A/N: Welp. You guys voted and here I am...trying to deliver my second attempt at a dark fic. Please let me know what you think. I never expected this little fic to take off like it did. I love you all. If you want a refresher--here’s the first part!

Pairing: King!Robb Stark x F!Reader

Rating: M for DARK THEMES including dub-con, death, death of children, Robb being a dick, a bit of smut, and canon-typical sexism

Warnings: Again, dub-con/dubious consent, talk of pregnancy and childbirth, men being terrible-PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: The King in the North was now King of the Seven Kingdoms. Peace reigned. Kings need heirs. But queens need love.

King’s Landing had over a half a million people calling it home and she had never felt more alone. Her ladies in waiting were kind but aloof, more preoccupied with making sure the child she was carrying was healthy than if she was happy. Court was filled with lords and ladies and foreign dignitaries who were all but throwing themselves at Robb’s feet in hopes to gain his favor—she was barely more than another tapestry on the cold stone walls of the Red Keep.

A pretty thing to be looked at and then ignored.

Whenever someone had deemed it a worthy venture to speak to her, Robb quickly put an end to it.

“You are here to speak to me, my lord, are you not? Do not let your eyes linger on my queen.”

But she was lonely. The only time she felt the smallest bit seen was when Robb came into her chambers. His hands still left her tender and hurting, even after the maesters confirmed she was with child a month after their wedding night. But he was all…he was all she had.

Writing to her mother, asking if she could come to the city to spend a season at her side, was quickly rebuffed as well. My darling girl, you are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I will not distract you from your duties. Your husband and child will come first, always.

That did nothing to bring her comfort.

And she learned quickly that Robb did not like her tears.

“Have I not given you enough? A crown? Jewels? Dresses from Essos? What more do you want?” His face was bright red with anger so she quickly wiped at her cheeks and nodded, murmuring an apology. He let out a strained sigh and she watched him walk toward her through watery eyes. His warm hands grasped her face and rough thumbs brushed away her tears. “You are my queen. You are bringing my heir into the world. You have made me happy, Y/N.” His hand settled over her stomach, now showing the advanced stage of her pregnancy. “That should be all that matters. You are emotional because you are with child. This will pass.”

It will pass.

It didn’t.

She winced as she felt her child move and kick as she laid atop her featherbed, listening to the city start to wake before the sun. Thankfully, the morning sickness had subsided only a few months into her pregnancy but the need to rise early had not left her.

Her door opened and she felt herself smiling as Robb entered. She knew he would stay, at least for a few moments. She would have someone who wanted her all to herself, even if just for a little bit.

Without a word, she held out her hands to him and welcomed him into her bed.

His hands were still rough as they tore at her thin nightdress. They were rough as they spread her legs. They were rough as grasped at her shoulders as he rutted against her.

“This is the first of many. You’re so beautiful like this.”

“I want…” The words were strangled in her throat when she felt that all-too familiar coil start to tighten and fray. He always made it feel good. “I want to be beautiful for you. Always.”

A visiting Pentoshi magistrate was the reason almost all of the court had gathered in the Great Hall. He had a band of exuberant contortionists and firebreathers to entertain the lords and ladies of Westerosi court while he spoke with Robb. His entourage were quick favorites of the upper echelons of society in King’s Landing and it was all so… strange. All this pomp and circumstance around a man who was essentially begging for help against the Dragon Queen who seemed hellbent on rebuilding the Valyrian Empire, including Pentos.

Robb would not help. She knew this. The Court knew this. But they wanted a bit of entertainment. This Pentoshi politician was not the first to come to beg for the Wolf King’s help and would not be the last.

But it did give her a little more to distract herself with, as the days dragged on.

She watched a young man contort himself into a strange shape while another contortionist balanced her entire weight on his foot. Robb was seated atop a raised dais with a grey stretch of fabric to keep the sun off his skin.

Beside him sat the Magister who had come and a handful of his advisors—Naavio was his name.

He had silver hair with piercing green eyes, a little thin compared to the King, but handsome in a strange way. He spoke the Common Tongue with the lilting accent of the Pentoshi people which made Y/N smile for some reason. Perhaps it was just the abnormality of his and his entourage’s presence that made it exciting but she felt a little like she had friends whenever one of them would stop and speak to her.

“How are you feeling this morn?”

“Have you decided on names for the young prince or princess?”

“You look as if you are glowing, your grace.” It was all so lovely. And it seemed so genuine, so unlike the empty-eyed smiles she would receive from her ladies-in-waiting and the rest of court. But her favorite was Naavio.

The magistrate made it a point to seek her out whenever he could.

“These two are my favorites,” he whispered to her.

Y/N nearly leapt from her skin, having not noticed him sneak up behind her. “Oh, Seven Heavens, Lord Naavio, you must not frighten me so!”

He chuckled. “I am sorry, Your Grace. You know I would never try to scare you. You are in a delicate state.”

Y/N pressed a hand to her stomach with a smile. “Yes, the maester said only a few more weeks until I can welcome them into the world.”

Naavio’s hand was suddenly pressing against her stomach too and she laughed when she felt her little one’s foot kick right where he had placed his palm. “They enjoy my presence just as much as their mother does, it seems.”

A sudden shadow loomed over them and Y/N pivoted to see Robb standing behind them. His silver and iron crown glinted in the sunlight, a sharp contrast to the near feral light in his blue eyes as he looked at her.

“Take your hand off my wife.”

Naavio’s hand quickly pulled back but he chuckled—again. “Your heir has a strong kick, Your Grace.”

“Yes. My heir.” Robb reached out and snatched Y/N’s wrist. His grip hurt but she knew better than to let out the hiss of pain she felt bubbling at the back of her throat. He tugged, just once, and Y/N knew to walk to his side.

There would be no spectacle.

“You must know how precious a child is,” Robb’s voice was steady but she knew better. The grip he had on her wrist dropped and he pressed his hand against the small of her back. “For a man who seems so desperate to save his kingdom, you are playing a dangerous game.”

Naavio blanched but he still smiled at the wolf-king. “I was only congratulating your wife on the health of her babe. It was a compliment-”

“My wife, the queen of my kingdom, knows how beautiful and lucky she is to be carrying my heir. She does not need your input.” Robb turned to her, eyes piercing. “Am I correct, wife?”

Y/N could only nod.

Y/N knew that Robb would never hurt her. His grip while in the throes of passion left her sore, but he never raised a hand to her. Seven Hells, he barely raised his voice. But Y/N knew of the violence that simmered just below the surface of his skin.

He was a wolf.

He was King.

He was the husband the gods had given her.

And she was scared of him. Something innate and quiet in the back of her mind told her she could not truly trust him. She was not safe.

But he had always kissed her when he was finished with her womanly duties.

And he still found pleasure in her even after he knew she was with child. His eye never wandered to the other many, beautiful highborn ladies who were readily available and arguably eager to be a young king’s mistress. But no.

He had his queen.

And he was his father’s son—that was what Robb had said, anyway.

“You are my queen. I will not dishonor you. And I know you will not dishonor me.” The words were cold as he slammed the door shut to his solar.

Y/N nearly lost her footing as she stumbled in but caught herself on the table, accidentally sending a stack of missives across the floor. “I thought it was a queen’s duty to make allies with her social graces and-”

“A queen’s duty is to provide for her husband.” Robb’s lips were pulled tight against his teeth. But he took a deep breath and then reached for her, hands grasping at her face. “I love you. You hear me? I love you.”

And she wanted to believe it. She had wanted to believe he could love her. “I love you too.”

He leaned forward to press a kiss against her forehead and then righted the spiked crown on the top of her head. “I will not have you near him again.”

Y/N nodded, resigning herself to the loss of another possible friend. Her one solace would be Robb, it seemed. As it had been since she came to King’s Landing. As it always would be.

But Naavio was persistent.

And she was lonely.

When the first letter was smuggled to her, she had not answered. But when the fourth came again and asked her to meet him in the gardens at midnight, her need for some sort of friendship won out and she slipped away from her maids and met the magistrate in a familiar stretch of the garden maze as the moon looked on from above in a starless sky.

“You’ve come!” Naavio said, reaching out to grasp her hands. “I was beginning to think I have offended you in some way, Your Grace.”

Y/N shook her head with a smile, ignoring the sudden sharp pain she felt in her stomach. “I am hard to offend, my lord. But it is good to have an ally in a city such as this.”

Naavio chuckled. “Yes, it seems King’s Landing is as fearsome as its king.” He was quiet for a moment, simply looking at her as his thumbs idly swept across the soft skin at the back of her hands. “Pentos is much more amiable.” His grip tightened. “I shall like to take you there, show you my home.”

Y/N’s smile widened just a fraction. “I would like that. I have heard such wondrous things about your home.”

“I could take you there. Spirit you away from this wretched city.”

She gasped and tried to tug her hands from his but his grip did not relent. “My lord, I-”

“You are not happy here. I can see it in your eyes. Do you want to raise your child here? Do you want to spend the rest of your days hoping your king does not lose his supposed love for you? You should be surrounded by people who worship you, adore you—and the babe you will bring into this world.”

Y/N stood and ripped her hands from his with a grimace as the pain she felt started to bloom and grow. “You misunderstand my intentions. I have only wanted friendship.”

Naavio stood with a sneer. “Then you are a fool. Only a child would misconstrue my attentions for mere friendship.”

Y/N opened her mouth to say something, to argue, to do anything—when she doubled over, clutching her stomach with a whimper as something trickled down her legs. “I…” Her legs shook and she threw out a hand to tangle in the branches of the greenery at her side, the only thing keeping her upright. “The baby. They’re coming.”

“What have you done?”

Another contraction had her almost falling to her knees but she looked over her shoulder to see Robb and a handful of his kingsguard at his back.

Naavio stood straight. “Your Grace-”

“Seize him.”

And the kingsguard did, almost gleefully taking the foreign magistrate to his knees and, by the sound of it, dislocating his shoulder as well. Naavio shrieked but Y/N could scarcely hear it over the roaring of the blood in her ears.

Familiar hands grasped at her face, tilting her chin up so she could look into the dark, hard eyes of her husband.

“The…baby…the baby is coming…”

“I know.” Robb pulled her close and she could feel the next words rumble in his chest. “Magistrate Naavio, you have tried to take my heir and seduce my wife.”

“I have done no such thing!”

Y/N crumpled in her husband’s hold with a choked scream.

“Take him to the Black Cells. I will deal with him later.”

It took two days to bring little Prince Eddard into the world. But he was beautiful—the most beautiful little one she had ever beheld. Her body was tired, her mind was buzzing, but all she could see was the little bundle in her arms.

Robb did not care about the blood and water and sweat coating the featherbed as he sat beside her and pressed a hard kiss to her temple. His finger traced down his son’s nose. “You have made me happy, Y/N.”

She smiled, eyes finally drooping.

“But it is time the magistrate is dealt with.” He stood and waved his hand, having one of her fine dresses laid out across the bed. In a blur, she was cleaned and dressed and a cup of Milk of the Poppy was all but shoved down her throat by an impassive Maester.

The Great Hall was filled with lords and ladies and knights from across the Realm. All of them had been waiting the birth of the heir of the wolf king but were now going to be witnesses to the king’s judgment, too.

“Naavio. You have come here to beg for reprieve against the Dragon Queen, to ask for help against her campaign.”

Naavio said nothing as he glared up at Robb on the throne, thick chains around his wrists and ankles. His Pentoshi ginery was dirty and ripped. The two days he had spent in the Black Cells had not been kind.

“Instead, you have tried to usurp my own power.”

“I did no-”

“I have sent a raven to Daenerys Targaryen, giving her the information you have given me. Your city will fall. It will burn with dragonfire.”

“Your Grace!” The words broke in Naavio’s throat.

The sudden noise made Eddard fuss in her arms and she gently rocked him, mind still hazy from the Poppy. But the cold green glint of Naavio’s eyes cut through the mess. He was a caged animal.

“This was you! You played your part so well. The innocent queen in need of rescue-”

“Silence!” Robb said, standing from the jagged throne. In the strange quiet of the Great Hall, he descended from his perch and took the reformed Ice from its sheath. “For your crimes against your host, against the good queen Y/N, I sentence you to die.”

Before Naavio could even plead for his life, Robb lifted the greatsword and took the magistrate’s head.

Robb was rutting against her, hard hands grasping at her breasts, pulling at the flesh of her hips, wrapping around her throat.

It hurt.

But she loved how he wrapped himself around her, loved how he would press his lips to her sweat-slick skin, loved him. Even if the maester had said it was too soon for the king to visit her chambers for such an act.

“You’ll give me another. You’ll give me ten more.”

“I will!” She cried.

“You’ll give me all of you because you are mine.” His hand tightened around her neck as his hips moved faster and faster. “Only mine.”

“Yours,” Y/N said as her throat burned.

His hips stuttered and a familiar warmth bloomed but he did not stop, could not stop until she was sobbing against his mouth with her own release. It hurt even more.

Sweat cooled on their skin as the high slowly died. Robb turned and pressed a biting kiss to her throat, still tender from his grip. His beard scratched her slick skin. “Mine. And you will always be mine.”

As she caught her breath, Robb rose from the mussed blankets of her featherbed and pulled his trousers on just as the door opened and a nursemaid brought in Eddard, snoozing in her arms. She readily handed the babe over to the king and then left, not even acknowledging the queen’s presence aside from a small curtsey.

Robb smiled down at his son and he looked genuinely happy—the smile he had reserved only for her.

She had made him happy. That was all she wanted.

“I will not have another man thinking to steal you away, wife.”

“O-of course not. You know I would never-”

“I must keep you to myself. And I will.” He looked at Y/N for a moment before leaning down to kiss his son’s forehead. The babe reached up and cooed, pressing his little hand against his father’s cheek. “You are mine. Only mine.”

He walked to the side of the bed and let her hold him as he dressed again and she lathed happy little kisses over her son’s face, listening to him giggle—but then Robb took him away. “What are you doing?”

“I am keeping you.” Robb kissed her cheek and then stood straight and walked to the door. When it opened, she saw three kingsguard standing outside, bedecked in their battle armor and swords at their hips.

“Robb?” His name was soft, strangled in her throat. “Your Grace?”

“She does not leave this room unless I am at her side.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Robb nodded and then smiled down at his son as the door swung closed. A heavy lock twisted.

Y/N stared at the door. She was not sure if she expected it to open again, or to at least hear another word from Robb on the other side, telling her what she must to do. But there was nothing.

She was alone.

A/N: All right! There we go! Please let me know what you think! Thank you for reading!

#robb stark x reader #robb stark imagine #robb stark #darkfic #game of thrones #dubious consent #toxic relationship #tw: dub-cob #tw: dubious consent #dub con #game of thrones imagine

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winter-soldier-vibes · 3 years

Text

I wasn’t there

Bucky x reader

Word count: 2510

Warnings: self harm/self harm scars, little bit of angst, mostly comfort, tears

Summary: Reader self harms and Bucky sees her scars one day on a mission by accident. He feels guilty and wants to help her as much as he can now that he knows.

Based on the quotes: "Show me your scars, I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn't there"

A/N: Thank you SO MUCH to the anon who sent this in! Not going to lie I was bawling writing this, I love it so much. This deals with heavy topics and mental health so as always, if you feel that reading this will be harmful to your journey in any way, please feel free to skip it. As always, I am here to talk about anything you guys may need.

A/N 2: Ok there’s a part at the end that I don’t think is technically canon but it’s rumored and has been talked about before in regards to some of Bucky’s scarring on his left arm. I know it’s not a confirmed canon thing but it honestly works so well and I believe it’s true, please don’t come at me for that. <3

Tags: @buckys2thicc @thatfangirl42 @mardema @stucky-on-spiderman @barnesplums @peggycarter-steverogers @abitgryffindorky @buckfics @freigeistundanderes

Main Masterlist

------------------------------

You trudged back to your room in the compound, exhaustion taking over your body. You had just gotten back from a mission that had taken the life out of you, more so than any others on the team. You had the power to control elements, but whenever you did it drained the energy out of you. At one point you had been surrounded, forcing you to lift the ground around you to knock everyone back.

It was more than you had ever done at once, and nearly made you pass out.

You were able to finish the mission, but you were absolutely exhausted, the worried eyes of Steve, Bucky, Bruce, and Natasha looking over at you. Nat was flying the quinjet, but still glanced back at you from time to time. Bruce was there mainly for medical help, as there wasn’t need for a code green. Steve was just Steve, being worried about you as your Captain. And as the friend of your boyfriend.

Bucky meanwhile would not leave your side. He was concerned, even after Bruce had determined you were nothing more than completely exhausted. He insisted on you lying down and him staying next to you. It was nice to know that he cared about you so much, he would do anything to protect you.

Which is what made your heart ache when you saw his face drop when you had said you were fine, and walked off to your room when you had arrived home.

It wasn’t that you wanted to be around him, not at all. It was just that you wanted to take a shower and wash the sweat and grime off of you, and you didn’t want him to see. Not yet, you hadn’t told him yet.

When you closed the door to your room, you peeled off your uniform, exposing your skin littered with scars varying in depth and age. You turned the water on and leaned against the countertop as you took in yourself.

God, you hated them.

You had struggled with self harm for a while now, but it was better than it had been before. It had been really bad before you had started dating Bucky. It’s not like it magically went away when you did, not at all, but just being around him made it easier. Him telling you how much he loved you, spending time with you, you helping him feel more secure. You weren’t alone in your head as much,

He helped and he didn’t even know it.

You traced your fingers over the most recent ones on your wrist from a few days ago. They had scabbed over by now, but the memory was still fresh in your mind. It was a panic attack in the middle of the night, and you didn’t want to wake anyone. You knew this would help you and it did. It grounded you back to the moment, calming you down as you focused on the stinging sensation rather than the panic.

You looked down at all the other marks you had made. Most of them were on your thighs, because they were the easiest to hide. It was easier to wear pants in the summer than long sleeves. But you were running out of room, moving to your arms instead, trying to stay away from your wrists. But a few days ago you couldn’t even think about it through your panic attack. Sometimes you couldn’t think about it, being so overwhelmed that you weren’t quite aware of what you were doing until you saw the blood.

You remembered making every single one of them. They all had a story, a reason. And all of them were different.

You wanted to tell Bucky, you knew you would have to eventually. The two of you had avoided intimacy up until now, and slept in different rooms unless either of you was having a rough night and asked the other to stay. It wasn’t that you didn't want to be intimate with him, you had been together for months. But you had to tell him about this first

And you couldn’t find a way to quite yet.

You just couldn’t find the right time or words. You didn’t want to scare him off, and you didn’t want him to look at you in the sad, concerned way that people usually do with this sort of thing. You didn’t want to put this on him. And you for sure didn’t want him to blame himself.

You sighed, tearing your gaze from the mirror. You stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash over you. You stood there like that for a few minutes before you moved to wash your body, taking your time. You had no plans tonight other than going to sleep.

Bucky had watched you walk slowly back into the tower, wanting to follow you but also wanting to respect your boundaries and space. You were exhausted, but he wanted nothing more than to comfort you the entire night. But you didn’t want him too, and he wanted to respect that.

Still, it broke his heart to watch you limp away. He felt helpless.

He couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong with you. The way that the two of you had been together for as long as you had without some form of intimacy. He was patient, he would never want to push you, but he wondered why. Whenever the two of you had a conversation you had seemed to stiffen slightly and get uncomfortable.

He never pressed it. Just dropped it and hugged you, telling you it was fine to wait.

But the more time passed, the more helpless he felt. He felt like you were hiding something from it. He just wished he knew what it was so he could better help you. But in a way he understood. Everything that he had gone through - forcing someone to open up usually unintentionally makes them shut down.

Even so, as he went back to his room he couldn’t stop thinking of you. He took his own quick shower, putting on sweats and a T-shirt before he came to check on you. He just wanted to make sure you were alright.

You had gotten out of the shower yourself, slowly drying yourself off before going back to your dresser to find something comfortable to wear. It was brutally hot and you were exhausted, pulling on a tank top and shorts. You were about to go back to lie down when you heard a soft knock on the door.

You sighed in frustration, closing your eyes for a moment. “Yeh, just a minute,” you said, exhausted, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a loose sweatshirt to pull over yourself. You walked over to the door and opened it slightly, giving the man in front of you a tired smile.

“Hey Bucky.”

Bucky’s face softened, a small smile spreading on his face. “Hey doll. I - I know you said you wanted some time to yourself but I just wanted to check on you.”

You smirked at him slightly. “I’m just about the same as when we walked off the quinjet Bucky.” You shrugged, tugging your sleeves down - nervous habit. “I’ll be fine, I’m just really tired.”

Bucky looked you up and down quickly. “You sure?”

You hesitated a moment longer than you should’ve, quickly bringing yourself out of it. “Yeah.”

“You don’t sound sure,” he said gently. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Look I’m fine, I just want to go to sleep. I’m exhausted.”

“Please? Let me take care of you, it’s been a long day,” he said.

“You don’t have to Bucky,” you started, shaking your head lightly.

“I want to,” he assured you.

Sighing, you opened the door more to let him in. it wasn’t that you didn’t want him to stay, you did in a way. You always slept better with him there. You just really wanted to take off the sweats. But that would mean having a conversation that you weren’t ready for.

Sweat was better than tears.

You climbed into bed and Bucky laid down beside you, wrapping his arm around you. He kissed the temple of your head as you relaxed back against his chest. “Try to get some rest sweetheart.”

You hummed, already feeling exhaustion overtake you as you closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep faster than you ever had.

-----------

You woke the next morning feeling much better than the night before. You shifted slightly, feeling Bucky’s arms still around you.

“Good morning sleeping beauty.”

“What? What time is it?” you asked sleepily.

Bucky chuckled behind you. “It is almost noon.”

Your eyes widened as you started to sit up. “What? I slept that long? How long have you been awake, I’m sorry -”

“Hey, sweetheart, don’t worry about it. I've been awake for a while but it’s no problem. You needed the rest and I’m glad you got it.”

You hummed again in acknowledgement, reaching your hands up to rub your eyes. What you hadn’t realized was that while you were asleep, your sleeves had ridden up slightly. You never had to worry about your wrists because you had never gone down that low on your arms.

“Angel, what’s that?” Bucky asked, grabbing your arm gently to get a better look. You took your arm away quickly, tugging your sleeve down. You shook your head and crossed your arms as you stood up. “It’s nothing, really. I’m gonna go shower.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Bucky said, standing and walking over to you. You tensed, and he noticed. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Please drop it Bucky,” you pleaded, still unable to meet his eyes.

“Y/n I swear if someone hurt you -”

“I did it.” you blurted out, surprising you both. You took a shaky breath, and Bucky felt his heart drop, praying he had heard you wrong.

“What?” he asked, barely audible. The only noise was your heart hammering in your ears. You swallowed, looking down at the ground and fiddling with your sleeves again.

“I hurt myself sometimes,” you said with a small shrug. “It helps.”

“With what?” he asked, carefully.

You met his eyes, tears pricking your own. “Everything.”

Silence. Bucky walked towards you slowly, pulling you into a hug, as you closed your eyes, silent tears falling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know how to.” you said simply. “I was embarrassed and ashamed, and I didn’t want you to blame yourself.”

He held you tightly, rubbing a hand up and down your back as more tears fell despite you trying to hold them back. “Can I see?”

You pulled back and tensed up, looking at him. “What?”

“Show me your scars,” he said.

You shook your head slightly, confused. “Why?”

“Because I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn’t there,” he whispered.

You looked at him for a moment. “Bucky, I can’t do that, I -”

“Please y/n,” he whispered. “It’s just me.”

You studied him for a moment before nodding. With shaky hands, you pulled the sweatshirt over your head, dropping it on the floor and resisting the urge to cross your arms. You stepped out of your sweatpants next, keeping your eyes downcast. You heard a sharp intake of breath from Bucky, but you weren’t able to look at him yet.

Bucky felt his heart shatter at the scars littered across your arms. There were so many marks, he didn’t want to even think about how many there were. He felt tears prick his eyes but he knew he had to be strong right now. It pained him how much you were hurting and how oblivious he was. He took your hands in his, you still unable to look at him.

“I’m so sorry it took me this long to be there for you.”

You shook your head, looking at him. “Don’t do that to yourself, please, it’s not your fault Bucky. You’re the reason it’s not worse.” You turned around and crossed your arms. “ I’m sorry, Bucky, I didn’t know how to tell you. They’re ugly, they’re disgusting. I’m disgusting. Who’s so fucked up that they have to slice open their skin to make themselves feel better? I hate myself more than anyone I’ve ever known. How pathetic is that?”

“Y/n, can you look at me?”

Trying to blink back tears, you met his gaze again, his eyes glassy. “Your fight is our fight. None of this is your fault, don’t apologize for how you had to fight on your own. I’m here now, okay?” His hand ghosted over your scars. “These scars right here are your battle scars. They tell your story of how strong you are. Never be afraid or ashamed of that, okay?”

You looked down, still embarrassed.

“Hey, y/n. It’s okay.”

Before you could respond, Bucky took off his own shirt, something he had never done in front of you. Your eyes found the scars where metal met skin, most of them faded but had obviously been deep. You reached your hand out to trace over his scars.

“When they gave me this arm and they were starting to tortue me I would scratch at it. Whenever I had been out of cryo for long enough I would start to remember and claw at it too, before they wiped me again. I thought I was a monster.”

You shook your head. “No, Bucky that wasn’t your fault, you didn’t ask for Hydra to do all those things to you.”

“You didn’t ask for your mental struggles either. So why are you ashamed?”

“You didn’t ask for the metal arm, you wanted to get rid of it. It wasn’t in your control. This, what I do, I choose to do it every time. It doesn’t feel like a choice but I still pick up the knife.”

“But I bet if you could you would choose to put it down, yeah?” he brushed a piece of hair out of your eyes. “It’s okay y/n. Don’t be ashamed of how you helped yourself survive.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and pulled you into another hug. “Don’t apologize for letting me be a part of your story.”

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gammija · 3 years

Text

The final Web!Martin evidence list

Now that canon is done, and we’ve got word of god confirmation that Web!Martin wasn’t complete nonsense, I decided to go back to my lil chronological evidence list and actually clean it up a bit, delete parts that in hindsight weren't all that indicative, and put everything in a slightly more readable format. (Obligatory disclaimer that i don’t and never did believe or advocate for some kind of evil web!martin, and that I'm not intending to connect a moral judgement to martin (or anyone else for that matter) having some of these traits)

So here: The (hopefully, please) final list with Web!Martin Evidence! Presented in order of importance, according to. me

The final (hopefully) Web!Martin evidence list

(In order from most to least obvious)

Spiders

I mean, it’s called the Web. TMA reiterates quite a few times that Martin liked spiders. Sometimes it IS that easy.

MAG022: Martin: "I like spiders. Big ones, at least. Y’know, y’know the ones you can see some fur on; I actually think they’re sort of cute -"

MAG038: | Sasha: "A spider?" Jon: "Yeah. I tried to kill it…" [...] Sasha: [Chuckles] "Well, I won’t tell Martin." Jon: "Oh, god. I don’t think I could stand another lecture on their importance to the ecosystem."

MAG059: Jon: "I have done my best to prevent Martin reading this statement in too much detail. I have no interest in having another argument about spiders."

MAG079: Jon: "Apparently, biologically, his account of the spiders doesn’t make any sense according to Martin."

MAG197: Martin: “What? Because I like spiders? Well, used to.”

Lies and subterfuge

Martin is able to use lying and subterfuge to achieve his goals, and is called manipulative a few times.

Lies:

MAG022: Martin: "[He] became slightly more co-operative after I lied to him and told him that one of the upstairs residents had buzzed me in."

MAG056: Martin: "I lied on my CV."

MAG158: Peter: “But you said –” Martin: “Honestly, I mostly just said what I thought you wanted to hear.”

MAG164: Jon: "You – I actually believed you!"

MAG189: Martin: “Sorry. Sorry, John. Not sure how much everything up there actually understood what was going on. But, y’know, I didn’t want to take any chances so it made sense to… um…” Jon: “Put on a show?” Martin: “Yeah, basically, more or less.”

MAG191: Martin: "That's not true." Arun: "Liar!"

Subterfuge:

The plan in 118, which revolved around convincing Elias that Martin was only “acting out”, to create a distraction for Melanie. (Also compare the way he evades giving a straight answer here with the way Annabelle talks in 196.)

Working with Peter in s4 under false pretenses, to distract him from Jon and eventually try to learn what Peter wanted.

Manipulation accusations:

These, I know, are somewhat contentious, since it’s mostly villains saying this to him. I’m still including them, since

1): From a media analysis standpoint, being mentioned 3 times is a sign to pay attention, even when it may not be the full truth.

2): I only see it as describing Martin’s behaviour in the previous points, not as a moral judgement; Especially since he almost always ‘manipulates’ people in positions of power over him.

Still, if it bothers anyone, feel free to ignore these.

MAG138: Martin: "That’s it? No, no monologue, no mind games? You love manipulating people!" Elias: "That makes two of us."

MAG186: Martin: “I can be a real manipulative prick, you know that?” Also Martin: “Oh yeah.”

MAG196: Annabelle: “Because you always managed to get what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings that weren’t nearly as awkward as they seemed.” [SMALL SOUND OF MARTIN’S CONCESSION TO THE POINT] Martin: “Point taken.”

The Lonely/the Web

The Lonely and the Web sometimes affect Martin to similar degrees.

In season 3, when Martin is getting used to reading statements for the first time, most of them leave him emotionally affected: MAG084, MAG088, MAG090,

MAG095: Martin: “S-S-Statement… done.” [HEAVY BREATHING & TREMBLING AS MARTIN STEADIES HIMSELF] “I don’t like recording these. There. I-I said it.”,

MAG098: Martin: [Panting] “End of statement.” [Deep breath] “I, um, I think I might need to sit down. Oh. Yeah, I am. Right. I don’t, uh, I’m not really sure if these are actually getting easier or harder. I mean I don’t feel –”

Only the last two statements he reads are remarkably easier. This might be a hint that Martin is just getting used to reading them, but the quote from MAG098 seems to contradict that. Either way, it’s likely not a coincidence that those last two happen to be the Lonely and the Web:

MAG108: Martin: “Statement ends.” (exhale) “That wasn’t so bad…”

MAG110: Martin: “Statement ends.” [...] “I mean, I think it sounds like a Jurgen Leitner book. About spiders. Hm. Good John didn’t have to read this one, anyway. I know he’s not a fan. Although, this one wasn’t too bad, actually! I – yeah. Anyway.”

In season 5, there are two powers’ Domains that actually affected Martin mentally, as opposed to only physically: the Lonely’s, in 170 (and arguably 186), and, depending on your interpretation, in 172, when Martin went exploring without knowing why he did so.

Proximity

Martin investigates a lot of the Web statements during season 1 to 3 (in other words, when the archive team still researches statements). The only ones he isn’t mentioned in during this period are MAG019 and MAG020, when he’s being harrassed by worms, and MAG081, which Jon records by himself outside of the institute.

Most notably, he’s the one who discovered the statement in MAG114, ‘Cracked Foundations’, which is the one statement in the entire show that sets up the interdimensional properties of HTR.

The Web!Lighter passed through Martin's hands first, before he gave it to Jon.

Similarly, Annabelle mostly spoke to Martin in season 5, despite most other Avatars usually focusing on Jon.

Aesthetics

Apart from the above obviously Web related areas, there are some other aesthetics which are mentioned in connection to both the Web and Martin, throughout canon.

These are describing the Web;

These are describing Martin.

Tapes:

Martin is the only character to treat the tape recorders as friends - any other character is either indifferent, or treats them as enemies.

MAG039: Martin: "I think the tapes have a sort of… low-fi charm."

MAG154 Martin: “Oh. Hi. Hello again.” … (small laugh) “Sorry pal, false alarm this time.”

MAG156 Martin: “Mm? Oh.” [HE LAUGHS, GENTLY.] “Yeah. (rustling paper) I was going to read one. Hate for you to miss it!” [SHORT, FORCED LAUGH, AS HE FLAPS THE STATEMENT AROUND.]

MAG170 Martin: “Oh. Oh, hello. What’s this? Wow, retro! What are you up to, little buddy; just – listening? That’s okay. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

MAG190 Jon: "[The tapes] seem to like [Martin]."

Retro:

MAG069: Statement: “I only saw Annabelle Cane once during this period. She wasn’t hard to pick out. She dressed like a vintage clothing store exploded on her, and her short bleach-blonde hair stood out sharply against dark skin.”

MAG160: Jon: “Anyways, don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic.” Martin: “It – might. Maybe.”

MAG163: Annabelle/the Web callying Martin via an old payphone: [ A PHONE RINGS. IT’S NOT THE TINNY, ELECTRONIC SOUND OF A CELLPHONE – NO, THIS IS A TRUE, HEAVY, CLASSIC RING.] Martin: “Uh. John? Uh, J, John – the, uh, payphone that’s – here, for some reason – it’s ringing?”

Hatred of burns:

MAG067: Jack Barnabas’ statement: “I looked up and noticed within the corner of the room, where there had been a spider’s web this morning, there was just a faint wisp of smoke.” “Another held a bag that seemed to be full of candles, while a third had a clear plastic container filled with hundreds of tiny spiders.”

MAG139: Statement by member of Cult of the Lightless Flame: “The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.” Agnes burned down Hilltop Road.

MAG145: The Web ties Gertrude to Agnes, stopping the Desolation’s ritual (the only Power whose ritual the Web is known to have prevented).

MAG167: Gertrude enlists Agnes’/the Desolation’s help in order to burn her assistant Emma, who was Web aligned.

MAG169: Martin: "Look, I just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever. [...] I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!"

Phrasing:

MAG039: Martin: "I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck. [...] It's just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think."

MAG079: Martin's poem: "The threads of people walking, living, lovi–"

MAG117: Martin: "This last couple of years, I’ve always been running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but, but now it’s my trap, and, well, I think it’ll work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but it felt good leaving my own little web. Oh, oh, Christ, I hope John doesn’t actually listen to these. “Good lord, is Martin becoming some sort of spider person?” No, John, it’s an expression, chill out! Besides, spiders are fine. I mean, yes, people are scared of them, obviously, but actual spiders, they just want to help you out with flies."

MAG167: Jon: “Methinks the Spider dost protest too much.” Martin: “Jon –” Jon: “Joking! Just joking.”

Personality:

How applicable these are depends heavily on how you interpret Martin's own personality, so your mileage may vary.

MAG008: Statement: “Nobody ever said a word against Raymond himself, though, who was by all accounts a kind and gentle soul [...]”

MAG123: Jon: "The Web does seem to have a preference for those who prefer not to assert themselves."

MAG147: Annabelles statement: "I discovered a deep and enduring talent inside myself for lying. [...] My manipulations were not intricate, but they were far beyond what was expected of a child my age, and I have always believed that the key to manipulating people is to ensure that they always under- or overestimate you. Never reveal your true abilities or plans."

Word of God and Annabelle

I kinda wanted to ‘prove’ that Web!Martin had quite a bit of evidence to back it up, hence this header being last. But of course, in this post-canon world, there are a few lines that most obviously confirm the theory:

MAG197: Martin is Web enough to be able to read the 'vibrations', like Annabelle, and see Jon and Basira (the latter being especially notable, as he hadn't known she was there beforehand): [CHITTERING, BUZZING AND HIGH-PITCHED SQUEALS CHANGE CADENCE] Martin: "Wait… Wait, hang on, is that him?" Annabelle: "Yes. I guess you’re better with the Web than we thought." Martin: "And – Wait, ha– No, uh… is that… Basira? He – He’s got Basira with him!" Annabelle: "Yes."

Season 5 Q&A part 2: Jonny: “Essentially, it was fascinating looking at the fandom and, like, the Web!Martin believers, because what they were doing was correctly picking up on hints dropped in the early seasons that were later, like, not exactly abandoned, but it was much more like, ‘Well, no, he does have like aspects of The Web to him, but he is moreover The Lonely.’ And that came about very… very organically, really. Because throughout Season 3 and going into Season 4, we had this conversation and we were like, ‘No, actually he's like-” Alex: “‘It can't be, it cannot be, it must be the other way round’ Yeah.”

(Note that they say “throughout season 3 and going into season 4,” which likely means that season 1, season 2, and at least part of season 3, aka half of the entire show, were written with Web!Martin as an intentional possibility.)

If you read all that, thanks so much! Obviously, Web!Martin never really came to fruition, so it's fine if you still don't like it. This is just a post explaining where it was coming from, at least for me and the other theorists I've spoken to.

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma #tma s5 #web!martin #web martin #webmartin #or as jonny called it:#spider!martin #tma theory #tma meta #martin blackwood #martin k blackwood #martin #tma martin #magnuspod #i feel like i say this every time too but #when i say martin lies a lot i dont mean that #in comparison to 'normal people'#i mean that in canon he gets specifically mentioned to lie; at a higher rate than the other protagonists #ditto for everything else. im not speaking about real life people who might have these traits. im doing a media analysis #my own real life bedroom curtains being blue dont mean im depressed but in media sometimes aesthetic themes can be deeper signifiers #and tma especially has some very strong aesthetic themes #ok i think im done talking now. webmartin theories always get me rambling #EDIT: oops i changed a part on mobile and now the formatting is a bit fucked #ill fix it back tomorrow #if anyone cares #EDIT EDIT: ok fixed it

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hansoulo · 3 years

Text

whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver. “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

“Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting. “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

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