#THE FIRE HURTS WHEN IT BURNS TOO LONG. BUT NOW YOUR NERVES ARE DEAD AND YOUR MIND IS FREE. BURN THIS CORPSE AS YOU WISH TO GET WHAT YOU WAN | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

applesontheground · 8 months

Text

pretend i'm well 🕯️

i began writing this during a trying time and much like me it fell apart into an ill-fitted little comfort thing. i had originally intended for my eyes only, but if anyone is as down bad as me you can see it too. hopefully i didn't write him too dang soft, but who knows if he even means that shit at the same time when he is, you know?

he's fucking difficult and i really do enjoy that in a fictional man.

SFW | Word Count: 2,041 | Bo Sinclair x GN Reader contains canon typical/mentions of murder, some maso behavior + nihilism to taste, hurt/comfort, fluff, implied kidnapping/stockholm syndrome, reader is an accomplice and they are NOT having a good time 🎼: x

A deep chasm was opened in your chest, trailing down your body and into the unknown, and it was where all words went to burn up in dark embers. You were utterly silent, almost furiously so. You fixed what chaos had conspired in the form of the twins, quietly standing furniture back up and picking crumbling wax on the floor, gently setting it on the various surfaces or even a few of them directly in Vincent’s hands. He had been helping in mute solidarity alongside you, and in that you had a realization that he was expecting some sort of complaint.

You didn’t look at him once, and when the job in one building was done you were sure that the only sound that showed you were leaving was the door closing behind you.

Down at the station, Bo merely watched from the dark as you did the same for him. Setting items back on the shelves, straightening anything that had been thrown about and misplaced from evening’s struggles. You merely turned blind eyes to the oddities that would be left for them to handle, too big for one person alone; the body behind the counter, splayed on the ground and brutalized with blood pooling against dirty concrete. Blue eyes merely glowered as you stepped over it in between pacing with your cleaning, keeping your stare into the void of the night outside.

It was like both of them were waiting for you to join the mess, to snap and start another fire under the fanfare of a long dead town. That idea couldn’t spark; it only sat heavy in your throat, making you grimace when you swallowed it back down and left as silently as you had entered.

When you had ventured back up to the house, you let yourself come undone in the bathroom towards the back of the first floor. The door locked, and the shower turned on to drown out the heavy sobs that hurt your chest, letting them fall from you and cracking the hard shell you had been forced to grow in the safety of the small room. Crumpled in front of the sink, you held your hands under scorching water, letting the pain it sent through the nerves of your palms bring the night back in the form of terrifying recollections that rushed to the forefront.

You had to do something to feel the anguish, otherwise it would smother you for who knew how long.

Your eyes lifted from the sea of tears and caught sight of the light from the hallway, blocked by something between the hardwood and the door between when you had first closed it and now. It immediately made the whimper on your breath die, falling silent despite the running water covering most of the noise to begin with. You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to wash the grime and cold wax from your hands. The pressure of being heard – knowing you were being heard – did a decent job, helping pull yourself back together.

It was more scaring you into silence, but you took it in stride. Everything was ringing from the short-lived episode, finding its footing through a surge of heat in your skin. Gravity was a savior as you brought it all back inside, turning the sink’s water cold to splash on your face, and your sinuses popped in a revelation. You have to get a grip – at least until you’re alone again.

There was a knock on the door. You froze, staring at your own bloodshot gaze in the mirror. “Yeah?” Your voice was surprisingly steady, not nearly as shaken as you felt when you called out.

“You okay?” Bo tried to sound genuine, but it was more forced than anything else. After a beat, taking another breath through your nose, you lied, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Not lyin’, are you?”

You swallowed hard and asked him as you began to towel off your hands, “Why would I lie, Bo? What good does that do for anyone in this situation, huh?”

Silence. You peeled your shirt off, tugging down on the damp camisole underneath and turning towards the shower. You set the toilet seat down, sitting and taking another long moment to hang your head. When the doorknob jiggled slightly, you glared at the attempt.

“You…” Bo trailed off, and you shook your head as you looked back at your feet. “You need anything?” He finished, the floor scuffing as he shifted weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortable at his own offer.

“…No, thanks.” You muttered, a truer tone showing itself in the form of a small crack in your voice. Still, you held your ground, hoping he’d just walk away. The bastard was so incredulously abrasive most of the time, so why the hell was he lingering? You gave up on showering, turning the water off and taking your shirt off the bathroom counter. Mustering the wall back up and running your hand under both eyes a final time, you turned and unlocked the door.

He was still standing, as though he was waiting for that vicious reaction to how he imposed. It merely deflated when he got a good look at your face, and you brushed past him with no bumps or awful expressions. Even if the agony hadn’t been obvious, everything was damp and irritated in all the wrong places.

You walked back down the hall, spotting the far side of the sofa. As you sank down, he still hadn’t moved from the other end of the hall. You didn’t care if Bo stared at you all night, posture limp and neck craning over the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes.

“Better I leave you be?” He then asked, and you almost scoffed at how confused he sounded. It was half genuine, half trying to gauge something. Even if you weren’t necessarily the one that he was set out to snuff at this point, he still had to figure you out. Keep tabs on what was going on, or at least try to. It was in the very nature he had settled into.

You merely shrugged against the itchy fabric on your back, and that was enough permission to approach you. You closed your eyes, the lids promptly stinging and making you grimace slightly as he sat down on the other side. Sleep sounded amazing, a great way to find solace from all the emotion that ran rampant, a temporary ticket into something that couldn't be worse than this living nightmare. You had no clue if you were even going to get to touch that, though: it was a tricky thing when mixed with that adrenaline of being help to the Sinclairs.

“You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want, don’t know how long I’ll be.” You then hinted, knowing he had turned to look at you again through a cracked corner of your peripheral, “Don’t wait up for me.” You smirked despite your chest aching at the thought, “Made it this far without killing myself, right?”

He was mute again, and you let the curl of your lips fall from grace in the grace of quiet. A hand had trailed up from your side, rubbing the side of your neck, finding a tough knot and rolling it from where it lay under your skin. Ambrose was at least a good quarter mile downhill, far enough away for the time. The Sinclair house wasn’t much better, sure, but at least there were no still life shots of a dead civilization pinning you between them, never free from falling stagnant alongside it despite being a living, breathing person.

“Didn’t know you could shoot like that.” Bo stated, and though it wasn’t something that particularly upset you, it was a reminder that you had shot someone tonight. It made your face scrunch slightly, fight the threat pricking your throat and making it impossible to answer, to slide it off and answer him. Yeah, me neither. When he had looked back over the first tear slid from the corner of your closed eye, and despite breaking you tried to save it with the quiet, “Yeah, me neither.”

Somewhere in the haze, you heard the couch breathe underneath you and someone ease up against your side. You kept your eyes closed as there was an arm slinging over the back of the couch, fingers starting to push your hair away from your face. “Hey.” It was the same voice he had used to keep you compliant when he had decided you were good enough to hold onto, start the game of "When was [Y/N] actually going to die?", and it only made you lock up even worse. “Know you’re scared. Don’t blame you, alright? You did a good job tonight, [Y/N]. Kept Vince and I out of real trouble.”

It was weird to think he was trying to make it better, telling you how great of an accomplice to murder you had been, and it made your gaze snap open to look him in the eye. It was a farfetched hope that it’d scare him, unable to face the turmoil he had put you through and remember the part of you that was too human to welcome him.

Instead it just made the last sliver of humanity inside of him come closer, a hand rolling over your jaw as he turned you into his shoulder. Your hands settled on the couch to keep your form angled away from him, unable to breathe at this gesture you didn’t even know where to begin with. He insisted again, “I'm not gonna hurt you. Made it this far without killing you, right?”

It should’ve made you laugh to have your own words thrown back at you, but when your chest caved to huff in laughter it came out as a defeated sigh instead. Whatever this was seemed to break the weird mask of Bo feigning interest in you, because even when you were a hostage at someone else’s mercy, you hadn’t wept in front of him.

Not like this.

Coming back again, he had guided you to hide in his chest, engulfing you in a haphazard hug with arms around your shoulders and chin tucked against the top of your head. Again, warm…and you couldn’t trust it knowing what you knew about him. When you tried to pull back, he only coaxed you to go limp again with a hold far firmer than your own, and a maddeningly easy voice.

“Easy, easy. Shh, nothing’s the matter, baby.” It was an ill-placed comfort, but one you were desperate for – even if you didn’t want to admit that. He huffed more to himself than to you, “That’s right, it’ll be okay.” and that only made you weaker, scrambling for the affection like some sort of deprived animal.

Sleep was a sneaky thing, and somewhere between your last push in attempts to get away from him and the final shivering breath falling from your lips, it came for you. It didn’t help that you could hear the bastard’s heartbeat when held against him, adding to a rhythm that somehow soothed through the utter discomfort you felt towards your life, your surroundings…

You considered that was what Bo wanted when you came to, taken to bed with him and against his chest still. He was asleep, quiet deep breaths against the crown of your head and a limp arm still pulled around your shoulder.

Although it was far less rehearsed than how you had fallen asleep, it was still like watching a bear hibernate and knowing when he woke, it'd maul again. You stayed dead still, because there was no telling if even the smallest movements underneath the weight of his arm would get him up. He was a man at the end of the day, but knowing what the man was capable of only made you stand still all over again. You were closer to him than you ever had been, tangled in the covers that he slept in every night.

Might as well have crawled into his ribcage while you were at it, make yourself at home in the very thread of Bo Sinclair’s everyday life.

#bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #✏️#🕯️#'is he manipulating the poor thing?' you tell me :)#local confused fic writer wants to write slasher porn. writes getting slasher hugs instead when she's halfway through. more at 11.

56 notes · View notes

sincerelylea · 1 year

Text

tw: angst, severe angst

platonic between reader/winchesters, fix me fic. that's all ur getting out of me writing wise for supernatural; fix me fic galore.

sam's hand, lifted by his elbow, raises to wrap against your bedroom door. he can see it now, dean’s disappointment showing evident on his face when he’d inevitably tell him he couldn’t do it or that you refused to answer again. his jaw clenches then releases numerous times - and by god his hand is nearly shaking trying to knock against your door.

truth is, he’s afraid. afraid of what he might find one day when you don’t answer and he gets brave enough to break down the door.

you aren’t the same. but he knows no one could after spending a year in flames - a year in the pit.

a familiar sting of pain rings out in his chest at the thought. sam knew fixing people was impossible; hell he’d tried too many times with dean to know it was. but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t help you pick up your pieces and glue them back together.

dean’s leg is shaking as he lays back on his bed - that frustrated line in his brow as he thinks over what could be going on a few doors down. he has a sick feeling it isn’t good. that you won’t answer, that you might be dead in there. and he throws himself up from his bed at the thought.

they’d been where you were - he wanted you to realize that to at least let them in again. he knew you would look down at the handprints on your arms and think about it - hell dean still glances over his shoulder in the shower or when he shaves and thinks about being pulled out by cas.

but this. this was eating you - he saw you crumble by the day. him and sam both.

you spent your days curled in bed, eyes fixed on the wall with visions of hell plastered behind your eyelids playing like a film you couldn’t escape. you’d scrub your skin to rid the permanent feeling of slick blood dried on your skin. you’d cover every inch of you if it meant to hide the healing wounds and bruises and scayou’d pull your hair back taught behind headbands and clips and bandanas if it meant you didn’t have to feel your hair touch you like it felt when you were down there. rs. you changed your body wash and lotion to a scent you didn’t remember.

but worst of all. you saw it in their faces. saw that look that said they saw you like that. naked and bloody from the pit, following you anywhere, you were puddy in their hands.

looking at them was a reminder that it was real. you couldn’t escape your brain - you had to live with it. and a burning guilt ate at you besides the constant reliving of it that you were failing them.

the next morning you showered, pulled your hair back, wiped tears from your eyes and cheeks, and covered your hands with your long sleeve shirt and flannel (stolen from dean’s arsenal he kept) and met them for breakfast.

it was nerve wracking enough to step out into the world outside of the safe space of your bedroom. shaky handed, watery eyed, your knees almost buckled at the thought of having to do it.

you villainized the idea of touching someone after you returned - it’d been a week since you saw the insides of hell, and six days since looking at sam or dean. your greatest comfort turned so sour in your mouth - you only yearned to gain that comforting feeling form them again.

you knew they’d never hurt you,

up here at least.

when you turn the corner, the skin around your eyes a sickly shade of red and your eyes as well - dean looks like he’d seen a ghost.

you shuffle out further and clear your throat - sam turns from his spot at the stove. the smell of coffee warms your insides, and you stand at the table and feel small beneath the two set of eyes focused keenly on you.

at any second you’re waiting on fire to spurt from the table and engulf the room and to be reminded you’re still in hell - but it doesn’t happen.

dean stands, ditching his coffee and computer.

your eyes focus on the floor, but for a moment they dart upwards to meet dean’s. he’s got that soft look - melted like butter. the line in his brow is soft, concerned, worried. it’s killing you. his fists clench once by his sides. you decide to keep your eyes on him.

you remember dean before hell. his metallica and motley crue records - the way he ate his burgers, that one time you sneaked a couple of strips of bacon in one you’d made with him and you thought he’d pass out right then in there. the way he always smelled woodsy and his working-man-hands were surprisingly kind. the way he’d squeeze your shoulder and force you to tell him that you’d be careful on a hunt. how his hugs felt, how he kissed the crown of your head when you found out your parents were dead.

you owe something to them.

“i-i…” you swallow, and bring your hands together to wring them nervously. dean sees the water growing on your lash line and wishes you’d just stop. you don’t need to do this, you don’t have to do this. “i-i know i’ve been… away… since-” you bite the inside of your cheeks.

“anyway. sorry for not being more active.” every word you say sounds like it’s exasperating; like death could claim you at any second. you look up to sam across the room for only a moment, you decide not to think too much on the look on his face and instead focus back on the floor for a moment before looking back to dean.

“i’ll be better- i don’t know-” you feel his hands push your shoulders into his arms, meeting his body with a small bit of force.

it’s all overwhelming for a moment - but nearly immediately your eyes are watered over. he feels like a strong force. there in that moment you couldn’t be taken, you wouldn’t be - not like this. you were back, and human, and they were human, and real, and not figments of hell made to hurt you. this was dean. dean was holding you.

“i’m here.” he says, a whisper. you wrap your arms tight around his middle, his hand cradles the back of your head, presses you further.

“i know.” you respond, tearfully. that dam breaks like force, and you’re weeping into his sleep shirt, the tremble of your arms around him has him soothing your hair with his palm.

“we’re here, sweetheart.” you pull from dean, if anything to look at him and to remember him this way instead of that fearful look he had while sam wrapped a jacket around your battered frame the night they pulled you.

he braces your forearms first, but his hands are everywhere. he soothes the sides of your face, clearing hair from you and your neck, holding your jaw with care before squeezing your arms again.

“you don’t owe us an explanation.” sam speaks up. he’s wilted, tired even. his facial hair is growing in a bit, and he looks handsome and a bit aged like you always remembered.

you nod your head and wipe your face, tightly holding onto dean’s arm for a moment before you turn to sam and begin to walk towards him. “you don’t owe us anything. we want to help you.” sam’s large hand soothes over the top of your head before swiping over your wet cheeks.

your mouth is downturned, you fall into his hold. his cheeks leans into the top of your head, hand running over your back.

you remember sam before hell. he always smelled warm, and he always was. his embrace, his hands, his voice. he was gentle - always the one to care and ask and plead. you remember the way his face lit up on christmas when you got him a tolkien book set and an audible subscription. he hugged you with tissue paper still in his hands. you remember the way he was always patient at patching you up after hunts and how he’d always share his bed if you had a nightmare.

when you part, sam has that look in his eyes like he’s asking for permission. his hands are focused on your sleeves, fingers tucked into the edges waiting for your okay. dean’s coming up behind you when you nod, feeling the gentle way he braces your forearm with his opposite hand as he pulls up your sleeves to reveal the litters of scars and wounds and bruises - not only that, but the healed over handprints conquering your skin.

sam’s hand wraps around your forearm just over the grip of the handprint on your left arm, dean’s smooths over the one on your right.

“we’d never stop fighting for you, kid.” dean reminds from your right. you look up to him and nod.

“i’ll never stop fighting for you guys either.”

the bath water was pink. though the water was warm you were shaking in the tub. your wounds ached at the feeling of water in them, muscles relaxed in the warmth yet you’re still on high alert that it isn’t over.

dean pours water over the back of your hair, sam gently rubs off dirt from your nails.

your eyes are focused clear on the wall in front of you.

“it’ll be okay.”

142 notes · View notes

chcrryade · 3 months

Text

not one to forget.

Yijun doesn’t really make friends. But there’s always room for enemies.

INCLUDES ⁺⠀qiao yijun, kwak yunseo. TIMESTAMP ⁺⠀BACKSTAGE INKIGAYO, 21 AUGUST 2021. WARNINGS ⁺⠀profanity, arguing. & my obsession with em dashes im so sorry. WORD COUNT ⁺⠀2K. NOTE ⁺⠀is this cringe Be honest.. anyway first chrryade piece we cheered!! sol i hope i didnt eff up your boys thanku for letting me use them 🫂 muah!!!

Sweat was drying uncomfortably on the back of Yijun’s neck. The makeup plastered all over his face felt cakey, unnatural. The lights were too bright and his shoes were too big and with every step he took down the corridor he felt irritation dancing along his skin, sparks flickering and waiting for the final little inconvenience to tip him over the edge, ignite him completely.

He wanted to go. Where, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he knew was that he wanted to be somewhere else. Outside. A bar. The dorms—and not the new ones, in the new apartment the company had set the rest of the newcomers up with and shoved a room in for him too—the original ones. With Hyeonmin. And Ilwoo. And fuck, he’d even be happy to see Jiyeol’s perpetually dead-eyed stare looking back at him when he opened the door. Back home, in their flat. His mother had probably ripped out every memory he’d made in his childhood bedroom to replace it with some minimalistic decor and some fake potted plants and an exercise bike by now, since the last time he’d spoken to her on the phone she’d been waxing lyrical about her ‘new health goals’ for the year.

Anywhere other than the Inkigayo backstage corridors sounded like a dream. He’d take a locked and bolted room with completely blank walls and no-one for company other than Jaehee over a minute longer here.

His fingers crept up the sleeve of the jacket he was wearing and his nails scraped long trails up and down his arms, touch cool to the overheated skin. The sound of it was muffled, and everything felt a little far away. Like he was drifting underwater, wading around under the surface without any real direction—like now, and how he was pacing up and down the corridors in hopes that something would relieve the itching feeling crawling around just under his skin, jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending.

He didn’t have to search for any longer. The faint pressure closing in on him popped all at once, leaving him gasping for air. Or rather—left him slamming hard into someone’s shoulder as he passed them a little too carelessly, head lost in the clouds and deep underwater simultaneously. He swivelled on the heel of his too-big shoes, his lips poised and ready to toss out a half-hearted apology before going on his way, but then Yijun saw the look he gave him.

It wasn’t outright disgust. However much you hated someone in this business, you’d never let them know. It’d stay hidden in the creases of paper-thin smiles and the palms of clenched fists. The look was more.. Reproachful. A drag upwards to the arm Yijun had hit, a hand coming up to brush it off, and then flicking back upwards to meet the rapper’s eyes. The stranger’s lip curled up at the corner, half a sneer on his face, and that was the flame that started the fire. That was all it took. An expression that lasted less than a second, gone faster than it had appeared, and Yijun was gritting his teeth, and turning to face him fully, and trying his best to push the burn of all his vitriol into a singular look.

“Surely it didn’t hurt that much. No need to give me that look.”

That only served to make the look worse. The sneer was full-force, now, and the stranger’s hand dropped from his arm to thud uselessly against his side in a way that seemed far too loud for the quiet of the hallway, even if it was still populated by the distant chatter from other dressing rooms and constant buzz of the aircon.

“And who are you to tell me how much it hurt? No need to be rude.”

The words fell distorted on unhearing ears, static filling them to the brim instead. Who are you? It wasn’t what he meant, wasn’t what was being said—but his mind twisted it that way anyway. Who are you? Reporters at the door. Eyes on his back. A tap on the shoulder, a look of realisation. You’re that.. That Yijun kid, aren’t you? From that group. Whatever they’re called. There’s a new one, now. The other.. Well. I guess you would know what happened to them. From one failed group to another that no-one knew the fate of, from headline to headline and scandal to scandal, and he was still a nobody. Who are you?

He glared right back once he’d snapped himself out of his frozen state, pushing forward to lean closer, leering at the stranger even if he had to raise his gaze to do so. Anger was filling up his head again, leaking out of his ears and pooling onto the floor around the shoes that still didn’t fit. His words were growing in volume, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides and nails leaving crescent moons indented in his palms.

“Rude, my ass. I was just saying.”

Realistically, he knew he should’ve walked away before it went any further. He should’ve turned and retreated, kept it to judging looks when they passed on end-of-show stages and quiet eyerolls when no-one else was looking. But he didn’t, so he couldn’t. Especially when the still-stranger pushed blood-red strands of hair that had come loose from its styling out of his eyes and smiled, the expression stretched thin across his face. Yijun wanted to scream, and he himself didn’t really know why.

“I think I’ve been in this business long enough to know what being rude looks like. I don’t know why you think I have a problem with you—I don’t even know who you are.”

His nails bit into his skin so hard it broke. The stranger kept on going.

“I must’ve missed your performance earlier. Or maybe.. It wasn’t all that to begin with? Anyway, like I said—I don’t know you.”

You’ll know me in a minute, he thought. His head was pounding, the lights above him boring into his retinas. Because I'll rip your teeth out and carve my name into your arm. Maybe then he’d be remembered. The freak who attacked a fellow idol, a jealous psycho so desperate to be known he’d hurt and tear and dig his teeth in for it. Better than nothing, he supposed.

But he didn’t say that. He bit his tongue, tried to school his face into one of indifference rather than one that would show how affected he was from the comment, and said something else instead. “Do you want a medal? I don’t know who the fuck you are, either. And I doubt you and your own little group of no-names were much better than us.”

That was what seemed to crack him. The smile melted off of his face, the façade having slipped, and Yijun let a grin of his own spread over his lips wide enough to show his teeth. If that was all it took, then—well. He would’ve done it a lot earlier.

The stranger opened his mouth again, brow furrowed and likely ready to fire back, until a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Yunnie-yah! Where the Hell are you?”

Yijun stifled a snicker at the nickname, grinning wider when ‘Yunnie-yah’ only glared harder. A taller man came up from behind but stopped in his tracks at the sight of Yijun, hand almost immediately coming up to rest on the red-haired stranger’s shoulder.

“What’s up? Who’s your friend?”

He laughed again, louder this time. He couldn’t help it. Even ‘Yunnie’ rolled his eyes at the term.

“Far from a friend. Just—I don’t know.”

The taller stranger’s eyes narrowed, hand tightening slightly in its place. “Is there a problem?”

Yijun kept his eyes on the redhead, daring him to speak up. Go on. Snitch. Make a scene. You know you want to.

The redhead said nothing, scoffing and turning away. Despite this, his friend piped up anyway.

“You shouldn’t go around talking shit. It’s not a good look.”

His arms were itching again. His hands uncurled from where they’d been squeezed tightly shut, and he wiped the bleeding crescent moons clean on his sleeves, watched as the red stained the fabric. “You shouldn’t accuse people of things you don’t know they’ve done. That doesn’t paint you in a very good light, either.”

The taller one was quicker to anger than the redhead, it seemed. He started forward even if nothing Yijun said had been particularly provocative, gently pushing the shorter to stand behind him. His vision was suddenly full of dyed hair and irritated eyes, the conflicting smells of sweat and cologne clouding his senses until he was drowning in it all over again. This was how he was going to be remembered, then. A victim, beaten black and blue after a few misplaced words and a misunderstanding. Again—better than nothing. He’d probably get more money out of that.

Alas, the punch he was waiting for never came. A third voice arose instead. Weren’t they crowding the corridor, now? More shoes thudded down the hallway, splashing in the remnants of his anger, his desperation. Like kids on a rainy day, getting their feet wet but not caring until the cold seeped in.

“I sent you off to find him, not hang arou—what the fuck? What are you doing?”

It was getting boring, now. He was less angry, and more tired. The taller one was yanked away, and Yijun pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He felt like he was drifting again, lost to the raising voices of whatever the trio were going back-and-forth about. Snippets bled through the haze, drifting into one ear and out the other. Can’t you leave well enough alone? He started it. I don’t care. The last thing you need is another hiatus. Fuck you.

When the darkness from his closed eyes morphed into spirals and colours and static, he reopened them to find all three pairs of eyes trained on his figure. A glare, a sneer, a wary look.

“I’m really sorry about this, uh..” the newest arrival of the three stepped forward to apologise, bowing his head and trailing off as he waited for the Yijun to supply his name.

“Yijun.”

“Yijun-ssi. It won’t happen again.”

It could, for all he cared. He’d argue and fight and trade blows all day if it gave him something to do. The apology was paper-thin anyway, hardly counting for much. Still, he nodded along and pasted on a smile as sweet as he could manage.

“It’s alright, sunbae.”

Silence fell again. The tallest was the first to clear his throat and stand up straighter, giving him one last look before turning on his heel. He paused and looked back when he realised only the one who had arrived last was following him, but the redhead cut him off before he could say a word, and waved him off.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

They were back to their stalemate. The glare against the grin. The blood on Yijun’s sleeve had dried, and he could feel a blister coming on from the back of his too-big shoes.

“What’s up, Yunnie-yah?”

The sound of him gritting his teeth was audible. Yijun watched the muscles in his jaw tighten, amusement poorly hidden on his face.

“It’s Yunseo. Or nothing at all, if it’s coming from you.”

“Right.”

He hoped his disinterest was discernible, easily distinguished. From the answering look on the redhead’s face, it had come through just fine.

The quiet was back, until Yunnie—Yunseo—shattered it with a stilted cough, glare lessening in its potency, if only for a moment.

“I guess I’ll have to expect seeing you around.”

Nothing sounded worse, in Yijun’s opinion. The aircon buzzed somewhere above his head, and the distant chatter carried on.

“I hope not.”

The redhead scoffed. Yijun couldn't see what look he had on his face, because he’d turned and carried on walking on his original—long-forgotten, but original—path.

His makeup still felt cakey on his face, and the lights were still too bright. But, at the very least, he was a little less irritated. Pissing people off was something of an outlet, it seemed.

mentioned @syoul

#⠀⬦ ⠀˚⠀⠀ALL ABOUT ME⠀⠀⸻⠀⠀writing.#⠀⭔⠀˚⠀⠀HiGH ADEPTA⠀⠀⸻⠀⠀yijun.#fake kpop oc #fake kpop group #fake kpop bg #fictional kpop group #fictional idol group #fictional idol community

13 notes · View notes

yanderes-galore · 9 months

Note

Oooh I want to ask as well... yandere cronus ampora oneshot? I feel like some time after being rejected by the others he decides he's not gonna bother with traditional pursuing with the reader. He's gonna jump straight to the kidnapping! They're his whether they like it or not <3 (at least that's the way I see him acting hehehe)

Here we go everyone, I'm writing for "Homestuck's Worst Character Ever™". Hope you enjoy me writing him as a delusional dude who snatched you.

Used a Homestuck typing quirk generator for Cronus :) THANKFULLY that exists- Admittedly, I started this to mess around with the generator a bit. Sorry if it was too short or not the best :( I'm experimenting on both the quirk and how to write Cronus. Kinda wish I wrote him better but idk how yet, I'll take feedback.

I think I successfully depicted him as gross, however.

Last Straw

Yandere! Cronus Ampora ♒️Short

Pairing: Matesprit ❤️

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession at first sight, Delusional behavior, Kidnapping, Forced "affection", Possessive behavior, Clingy behavior, Forced "relationship", He gets a bit touchy while you sleep but it's brief, Swearing, Forced kissing.

Rejection used to burn him like the fires of a human cigarette (which he still doesn't understand why you would waste such a thing). It used to hurt him, he was subjected to such a pain for a long time. Now he got used to it.

Being rejected still had a dull pain to it yet now he just felt frustrated. He tries so hard to gain the attention of others. He really does try to relate to others.

It never works.

Being alone was a constant in his life. Even when he died and became a ghost, immortality didn't change the fact he was alone. He was forced to be rejected, even when dead.

It got on his nerves.

Oh, but then he met you!

He didn't care if you were also a ghost or some fellow human or troll passing through Dream Bubbles. Cronus quickly became determined to have you. Clearly, the traditional means of courting wasn't going to work.

When was Cronus ever traditional anyways...?

He needed to use a method that would work no matter what.

He didn't care if others didn't like the idea. He was already seen as garbage. So, really, there was no consequence to knocking you out and tying you in a room by a bed.

No one was going to bother him anyways.

Honestly, he isn't sure why he didn't do this sooner. To be a nice guy? Maybe he doesn't want to be nice anymore... not when it won him you.

You looked adorable when asleep. He just knew you were going to be perfect for him. He knew you'd make a great Matesprit... or if you hated him, he could make that work! A Kismesis could work, too-

Red romance, black romance, Cronus didn't care.

All he wanted was you and whatever attention he could squeeze out of you.

Cronus treated you like you were his last shot at ever finding love. He made the room he kept you in look perfect, born from memories that were no doubt yours. He watched you as you rested with what would seem like a lovingly gaze... if his eyes were not glazed over.

While you rest off the blow to the head, Cronus is gentle with prodding at you. He lightly grazes his hand over your skin and hums to himself. Although he explores a bit, he tells himself to not wander far over your body. There's still time to wait. He's been waiting forever for someone to come into his life. Now here you were...

All his.

When you wake up, Cronus greets you with a smile. He's happy, excited even. You have no choice but to simply be his!

"I vwas wvaiting for you to wvake up! We may not knowv each other much nowv, doll... but vwe hawve plenty of time! Trust me... vwe're meant to be, baby!"

He comes off strong and it's one hell of a thing to wake up to. Due to his constant feelings of rejection, delusion has settled in his mind. Far as he knows, you two will be together.

He'll make it so.

"Where am I?" You ask, voice raspy due to the lack of use. Cronus simply smiles, shuffling closer.

"Your nevw home, doll! I set it up based on hovw you like it. You see... I'wve been looking for someone like you for a long vwhile."

Cronus doesn't mind getting up close and personal. Even when you physically recoil away from his hold on your chin, his delusions block it out. He caresses your cheek in a loving manner while sitting beside you on a bed eerily similar to your own from your old home.

"It hurts to be alone... luckily, wve hawve each other! I'vwe alvways vwanted a Matesprit of my owvn. No one paid attention to me evwen vwhen I tried to connect vwith them..."

Cronus then puts both hands to your cheeks.

"Yet you'll be different, baby. I just knovw you and I vwill be something great. I'vwe evwen come up wvith songs to shovw our lovwe!"

You try to pull away from him but his grip is strong. Panic is written all over your face but Cronus is blind to it. All he sees is you... and the potential between you both.

"I don't know you! Who even are you!?"

"Shit, sorry, baby. I forgot I newver gawve my name. Cronus Ampora, that's my name. I happen to already knowv yours." Cronus winks and you feel yourself convulse in disgust.

"We just met... I can't do this! You can't make me love you like that!" You cry, Cronus shooshes you and pulls you into his chest.

"Sure you can, babe. I picked you for a good reason. You'll like it vwith me, I just knowv it. Relax... I vwon't hurt you."

"Let me go, don't touch me!"

You push against him, shaking when Cronus squeezes occasionally. He appears frustrated when you fight him and wrenches your chin up so you're eye to eyes with him. Those dead eyes stare into you... angry.

"We're Matesprits, you can't fight that wvith me. Unless you vwish for our lowve to be blacker, you can't change this." Cronus growls, ghosting his lips over yours. "Ewveryone else already hates being around me. I'm used to that. Yet you vwon't leavwe me like them."

He pushes you on the soft bed, using his body weight to hold you in place.

"We'll be Matesprits. You'll lowve me..."

Cronus leans closer, grinning.

"If not, baby... I'll make you lowve me."

The troll kisses you with a need that catches you off guard, ignoring your screams of protest and instead focusing on his fantasies of making you his.

#yandere homestuck #yandere cronus ampora #yandere homestuck x reader

44 notes · View notes

stabbysideblog · 2 months

Text

For you (I cannot) give you (up)

Ardent (Dream) bakes Sam a cake, if only anything could go right. If only his past wasn't the ever present ghost haunting him. If only he wasn't broken. Good thing Sam is there to put the pieces back together, right? [Happy Chip au]

Link to ao3 fic

Fic Under the cut!

“Hey, hey Ardent I said stop falling asleep.” His hand slips on the blood, his voice cracks. “Stop. Please” The first aid kit is empty, used up, today was supposed to be easy. Just needed to water the plants. “Wait don’t- don’t go I’m not ready this time.” Tears fall, nobody responds.

In the end it was just a fall. Your body didn’t even know it was falling until the knife had neatly settled into your lung. You made a cake. All you had to do was water the plants and you decided to make a cake. You missed his birthday again. No, that's not right. You ruined his birthday again.

You land on a white desert. Your knees hurt and blood drips onto the sand. Underneath you feel something cold and solid. You brush the sand away and he stares back at you. The cold eyes of his mask boring into your soul, slicing your stomach open and laying your organs bare. Your nerves burn in the heat, the blood runs faster a river with each heartbeat. You run. The wind blows the sand and he is reflected a thousand times. In the distance you see a figure. They point at you. You run. Clothes soaked in blood. You run. Everyone watches, no one helps. You run. He never leaves. You run. You run. You run.

The heat evaporates, your skin cools. You don’t know when you closed your eyes, couldn’t bear to see him any longer. You feel the comfort of the bed, the warm pain of Althea curled up next to you, has she always been that big? Your heart clenches and you call out.

“Sam?” Your body hurts, it was so long this time. You ran and ran and ran and no one could reach you, nobody wanted to.

“I’m right here, Ardent.” His hand rests over yours, it feels like a thousand needles, you savor it. “Can you move your feet for me?”

Your feet are dead. You know it. They died a thousand deaths ago. Fried nerves and snapped muscles. A hundred spasms tore your body apart. A hundred falls turned the pieces to dust. You reach into the burning nothing and feel. It feels like fire, each artificial nerve pure electricity burning you to hold onto. Your foot twitches. Sam exhales. Your heart flutters. “Good.” It’s quiet under his breath, not meant for you. You ignore it.

“I could hear you.” Your eyes close, too heavy. “I’m sorry.” Tears fall but he wipes them away, pressing a gentle kiss onto your forehead.

“Just. Rest. I’ll take care of everything. Just rest today. I can’t lose you again, not right now.” His hand disappears. You ache.

“Sam” you call out when you feel him lift Althea, a bolt of panic forcing a shiver.

“Yes my love?”

“Happy belated birthday.”

There’s a pause. You wonder if he’s left you. “I saw the cake, is that why you- we can discuss this later.” His voice shakes slightly, you know him so well you can imagine the line of his mouth, the wetness in his eyes. “Rest.” The door closes. You are alone.

You are alone.

“Ardent wake up, it’s a dr- it’s not real. Wake up, you're scaring Althea.” You snap awake, voice sore, were you screaming? Your thoughts are scrambled, each a struggle to grab. You reach for anything you can. An axe. No. Your face. Blood. The cell. Althea and Sam laying in it. Blood. Your hands. His hands. His face. His axe. He bubbles under your skin, it’s not Sam. That’s not Sam. The warden. Sick sick sick. Gunpowder under your mask. Your skin stretches and shifts. A shadow reaches out and you’re falling. Something crashes. Chains dig into your wrists. You scream. He screams back. You can’t breathe, move, hope. Everything melts into purple and black. You heave, when was the last time you ate? The black expands. “ARDENT.”

Suddenly focus. You look up at Sam who’s hunched over you eyes wide holding your wrists. Your hands unclench the locks of hair they were pulling. You’re on the floor next to the bed, when did that happen? You cling onto Sam sobs shaking your entire body. “Please don’t go. I’m not ready to be alone.”

His body relaxes, surrounding you and lifting you onto the bed. “I love you. I will always be here. I will never leave you.”

“And if I’m broken?”

“I will always fix you.”

“And if no tools fit?”

“I’ll make my own.”

“I love you.”

“I know Ardent. I know.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This is the first fic in a series of 15 fics I'm going to post in the next 2 months. It's part of my whump-a-thon. Feel free to join me this prompt was Punctured. This was an easy warm-up fic. I hope you're ready for more! And thanks to everyone who liked or commented on any of my fics you are my motivation to get back into writing.

#dreblr #dsmp #c!dream #*crawls back in to give you yummy angst*#happy chip au #whump-a-thon #my fic

6 notes · View notes

starsnheroes · 7 months

Note

❛ don’t go. please. ❜

IT IS WASTELANDS TIME BABY ! Not actually featuring Peter Parker, but the memory of Peter Parker !!

trigger warnings -> blood, death, murder, depression, alcoholism

Sunlight bleeds through the curtains, they are almost pinkish with how old they are, how the sun has drained them of color over many years. MANY YEARS. that always brought a smile to his face, lips chasing up his jaw. . . . his hand goes to drag along a bare back, his hand goes to. . . . REACHES FOR ⸻

Hand closes around a machete, just in his reach as he finds himself flat on the ground. GRIPS TIGHT TO THE WEAPON. (he should have held on tighter ⸻ TOO LATE, that was years ago). Aches and pain be damned, ❝ FUGGOFF! ❞ He growls into as he takes a swing, blade bites into ankle and he doesn't finish moving. FULL FORCE THROUGH FLESH AND BONE.

Blood gets in his mouth, which only enrages him more. FUCKING SHIT BALLS ON FIRE. He's getting on his feet when they fall from their own feet, yelps of pain and he coughs out the blood onto the ground. BOW ⸺ BOW ⸺ WHERE THE HELL IS IT?

Once it's located, he's reaching, REACHING ⸻

His hand makes contact with what it was looking for. Soft strands of hair, all frizzed up. Fluffy, brown locks that fingers card through languidly. A rumble is in his throat, interrupted when lips find purchase at his adam's apple. PETE ⸻

He may be old as well, arteritis in every bone or some shit. DOESN'T MATTER ⸻ He's got a nice bottle of WHISKEY that waste away most of the aches. The ex-blonde, silvering waterfall of hair thrown over his shoulder as THE BOW STRING IS DRAWN and than ONE, TWO, THREE ⸻ arrows go through a had, a throat, a stomach. That last one will bleed to death, and he's not in the mood for mercy or caring. LET IT HURT.

The problems are dead, or well, dying. The one little bitch is TRYING HIS PATIENCE, but the archer moves on. He was close, he knows he was close. He picks out what he had been looking, KEYS, from one of the corpses and the whining really was getting on his last nerve. ❝ Shuddup, t'is take me ta' your boss lady? ❞

An answer is not waited for because he's been on this road for months now, years even, and IT'S ONE MORE TO TICK OFF. Another head to roll, and HE WANTS THIS. He needs, he needs, he needs ⸻

Those lips keep pressing upwards, wet against his jaw line and cheeks. His hand drags back downwards, feeling his bare skin until his finder, down his spine and feeling every vertebrae there. Blue eyes meet dark eyes, YOU GOING TO KISS ME OR NOT, begs on his lips. An alarm goes off, and dry lips have to turn away. Wet lips pouting and he knows that look ⸻

When he finally gets there, looks upon the house at the top of the hill and end of the street. EVERYTHING IN HIM GOES COLD FIRE. Grip tightens and FINALLY, it's her time. It's her time. SHE HAS TO DIE. The world was hell, left to rot, and it deserved to burn. She deserved to burn, along with the world. Maybe in ash, it could all be reborn.

HE deserved to burn with it too.

A hand's going up to his face, cupping his jaw and turning his attention. They've been lazing in bed for over three hours, counting their blessings that the new baby was still sleeping and Mayday either still asleep or self entertaining. WE'RE SO LUCKY WITH THEM, he had mumbled and he's pulling away. HAS TO as his Avenger card beeps at him again. There's a look in Peter's eyes, happy and light. "DON'T GO. PLEASE." Rumbly voice than met with lips on his lips finally, and he wants to crawl back into bed. Stay there with him.

Now his memory, which has been getting funnier and funnier. The memory comes back up again, except now is this really a memory? As he gets his way past the exterior security, and as he has to go fast. Taskmasters would be on top of him if he took too long, which he could handle it or DIE; he wasn't done yet with everyone on his list. OTHERWISE, HE DIES AND THE PAIN WOULD BE OVER.

He sees him standing there, corner of his vision than in front of him. Peter Benjamin Parker, but preferably Peter Barton-Parker to him. HE'S LOOKING AT HIM. Sad eyes, frown on his lips and he's moving to stand in front of the doorway, to where he need to go. TO WHERE HE'D BE KILLING KARLA SOFEN.

"Don't go. Please."

This time, he is sad and twisted, broken voice. He could not handle this. NOT NOW. ⸻ GO AWAY, PETER. Karla has to die, he needed to kill her and you should hear what she's done with herself. IT'D BE BETTER. The world hurt, it needed to burn away all the, and maybe. . . . . He knows past his own lies, this wasn't justice. VEAGANCE ⸻ REVENGE KILLING.

"Don't go. Please."

Clint walks right into the ghost, FEELS LIKE COLD FIRE (how it kills him, how he wants him to be real and catch him in his arms). He swallows, tries and the lump gets caught in his throat. GOD HE NEEDED THAT WHISKEY NOW. Be quick about this, he can make for his stash and than skip to the next town. One more person down, the list gets shorter.

There's a limp form of a blonde woman, sitting in a chair, wasted way. TOO MUCH POWER. DYING BODY. Arrows shot through her skull, into her chest. "You can't kill me that easily, Clint. My body was already dead."

Clint coughs, LAUGHS CRUEL, and he's got the biggest sneer at the voice that comes through the house. Interior weapons engage, walls moving in, ❝ Awww hell, Karla, sweetheart ⸺ Don't you remember always sayin' I was smarter than I looked? ❞

HE CAME PREPARED. Karla Sofen and her systems were going to burn, with the world, with everyone in it, LIKE HE BURNED. He'd kill her, and all of them, and leave behind a trail, a mess of ash and blood. IT ALL HURT.

"Don't go. Please" ⸺ He wish he hadn't. "Don't go. Please" ⸻ TOO LATE.

#verse; clint barton; something in the orange tells me we're not done (crisispider)#ic; clint barton #asks; clint barton #crisispider #clint barton; crisispider #I'M JUST GONNA LAY HERE AND CRY AND DIE #WASTELANDS AU BABY !!#murder cw #death cw #suicidal idealation cw #ask to tag more #alcoholism cw #blood cw #injury cw #ships; crisispider; familiarity is knowing every line and crack even in the dark (spiderhawk)

14 notes · View notes

suicidal-bitch-countdown · 2 years

Text

Fucking bitch is still alive. Unfortunately.

And the fallout from the failed suicide has really been awful and made me deeply wish I didn't fuck it up.

More people making fun of and bullying me, accusations of staging my suicide (really?), my property vandalised, I now experience gag reflex in response to any pill that I see because I've taken about 100 according to doctors, which later made me throw up for hours, and most likely losing my job on attendance grounds (subject to appeal).

I haven't had the strength to do anything to myself because I'm too weak physically. And it's so easy to fuck it all up turns out.

Petrol burns your skin and nether regions in ways that I didn't expect, and instead of setting myself on fire I ran around frantically and tore off my dress in panic.

Tying up rope takes a while and you've really got to account for the height, because first tie was far too low (so my feet would touch the ground), and the second was too high, meaning I had to faff about with pulling a big tree root to be able to prop myself up, but everything turned out to be so time consuming, a pair of dog walkers ran into me and I then knew everything was over.

Seeing your Mum cry is horrible. Even when She's hurt you in the past, it was still sad. Although having to live with Her now, I've remembered why we're not compatible and get on each other's nerves. Nothing has changed and She's too stuck in Her ways. I know I won't be able to function for too long having been lured to live under the same roof again.

Reading this blog again though, ensured I realise that there's no way out of this. You must keep your word and promise. No ifs or buts, bitch. Even if my Love has let me down in some ways, I've let Her down more. I've now learned some crucial things that I didn't know before, of course when it's too late. And they make me feel so fucking guilty. My friend who gets annoyed whenever I defend Her needs to stop his jealousy-fuelled moaning. You're another person who tried to turn me against Her. You're the one who tried to convince me She wanted me dead (!), and this is one of the things that really hurt Her when I said it in anger. He insists what a bully She is, but have you ever considered the second side of the story? Lol no cause you're biased as heck, so just give it a rest.

Apparently if I was really suicidal I'd have neglected my job, so now I have and I'm sacked. Appeal was sort of on autopilot and peer pressure, but really that should be the final straw as to why I go and die. Why are you so fucking weak? What are you waiting for? When your money runs out?

Ironically I'm going on a booked non-refundable holiday on an island in days. Hopefully I find a lighthouse accessible to public or another good hazard to throw myself off from. I haven't tried jumping from heights as a method of harm before. Since tablets and hanging failed, maybe this won't…… Just need to make sure it doesn't close early like it was the case that turbulent Sunday…… And when I disappeared people thought I went home! Haha, now it goes to show nobody knows a damn thing about me. Absolutely nothing.

Remember what I've said before, if I fail, I will try it again. Better fucking do it right though to spare everyone more suffering, including me, and so I don't ultimately get locked up in an asylum, as that'd be fate worse than death. So the race against time is on. Remember it bitch. Remember of the relief you leaving will bring. Monster abusers like you deserve to burn in hell, and I'll make sure of it. The correct punishment for hurting my Love is death. So you ought to pay.

7 notes · View notes

jangofctts · 2 years

Text

Loyalty, Honor and a Bleeding Heart (mainly Thorin x (fem) Reader)

Rated: mature (no smut yet)

Word Count: 4kish

Warnings: none yet save for mature language, grumpy dwarves, an irritated Bilbo?? idk lmk if I miss anything for this first chapter kjkrjewh

a/n: second chap yay!!!! enjoy!

“Curse you and your inane zeal for foolish crusades!” Bilbo cries. You bite your bottom lip hard enough that it leaves behind an indent in the soft flesh and the lingering taste of iron.

It’s never a good thing when your relatives refer to you by the entirety of your name. It expresses every drop of wrath and malcontentedness that is somehow wedged between each letter and syllable within it—razor sharp and acidic.

Last time you were chastised in this manner, Auntie Belladonna bellowed so loud you were certain the entirety of Bag End shuddered under her wrath. The neighbors certainly heard the woman, and were rightly surprised upon seeing you unscathed the next day and not swaddled in cloth and left to be buried six feet under. Quite frankly, it scared you shitless—still terrifies you even if she’s long dead. Even now you can still recall her demonic screeching ringing in your ears, berating you within an inch of your life for cutting a hank of hair from poor Prudence Bracegirdle’s head.

You’ll defend yourself to the grave on that little squabble—Prudence can choke on rocks for all you care—her and her stupid brother—

Anyway—

Bilbo’s temperament erupted into a head following your generous offering of services to the Company. The parchment Thorin had handed you just barely skimmed your fingertips before it was plucked away with a dramatic flourish by none other than your dear cousin. The tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks were aflame, one tick away from steam billowing out of his ears like an unwatched teakettle.

Drat.

You were so close.

Bilbo’s keen eyes had skimmed the fine lettering, mumbled the words aloud to himself and began to pale. With a not so encouraging nihilistic joke from Bofur concerning dragon fire and perishing in a great blaze of glory, Bilbo promptly fainted.

After gathering him up, accompanied by Gandalf, you both carted him away to the library with a cup of his favorite tea. Bilbo came too, returning to his usual spry self and quickly launched into his own harping lecture.

“Really, Cricket!” Bilbo continues, his laugh tipping into maddened disbelief. “What on earth were you thinking? You are a Baggins—“

Bilbo’s voice wobbles and pats his chest to keep his sanity. “Of Bag End!”

You rub your thumb over the handle of your own mug, dragging your nail over the bumps that remain from the unmelted glaze. You focus on the curls of steam rising out of the cup instead of Bilbo, reluctant to address your distraught cousin. What’s it to him anyway? You’d think he’d be glad to be finally rid of you.

“I’m not though, am I?” You mutter indignantly. “Not really.”

Bilbo’s lips purse, a cloud of hurt billowing behind his eyes. Damn. You’ve touched a nerve. “There’s no use splitting hairs, Cricket. The decision remains the same—you can’t just go running off into the blue!”

You part your lips to argue—

“Oh, quiet you,” Bilbo snaps. “You’ve said enough this evening. We needn’t hear more of it.”

Beaten into silence, you roughly place your mug onto the coffee table with a jarring thwunk. Tea sloshes over the sides and seeps into the rich mahogany wood. Bilbo mutters something on the lack of a coaster and takes a stiff sip of his own tea. You hope it burns his tongue.

“Now, Bilbo,” Gandalf chimes in by the window, the wrinkled profile of his kind face shrouded in both shadow and pipeweed smoke. “The girl—“

Bilbo cuts in with an irritated snort. He rubs the side of his temple as if trying to dispel an oncoming headache. “Just—just let me sit quietly for a moment, Gandalf.”

Gandalf’s unruly brows lower. He scoffs disapprovingly. “You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo’s face sours.

You hide your smug satisfaction by crossing your arms and settling further into the cushy chair. You have no desire to be scolded by Gandalf either.

The wizard stands from his chair and plants himself beside your cousin. Compared to the armchair, Gandalf’s size is comical. “Tell me, when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you?”

A plethora of reasons and catty retorts appeared in Bilbo’s head, you could practically see them twisting and begging to leap forth. Yet that was one of the stark differences between you—Bilbo kept those thoughts safely guarded under lock and key.

“I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of elves in the woods. Who would stay out late, come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies," Gandalf regales fondly. “A young hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire.”

There’s a pregnant pause as Bilbo sighs and stares into the contents of his cup.

“The world is not in your books and maps.” Gandalf’s withered hand gestures to the inky blackness that lies beyond the window. “It's out there.”

Bilbo dips his head and wags his index finger at no one in particular. “Neither of us belong in the Wilds. We belong here—in the Shire. We are Baggins of Bag-End, need I remind you both a second time!"

You groan and run a hand through your hair. You appreciate the wizard’s words of encouragement, but once Bilbo had dug the heels of his feet into something, you’d have better luck moving a mountain.

“You are also a Took,” Gandalf says knowingly. He wanders to the depiction of your distant uncle and gestures to it with his pipe. “Did you know that your great-great-great-great-uncle Bullroarer Took was so large, he could ride a real horse?

Biblo exasperatedly bobs his head. “Yes.”

“Yes, well, he could. In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the Goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard, it knocked the Goblin king's head clean off—and it sailed 100 yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus, the battle was won. And the game of golf invented at the same time.” The wizard concludes with a gentle grin.

Your cousin spares you a glance and cocks his brow. You shrug. You’d never heard that bit of the story either. “I do believe you made that up.”

Gandalf chuckles. “Well, all good stories deserve embellishment.” He trains his sparkling eyes on Bilbo. “You’ll both have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.”

The muscles jump in Bilbo’s jaw. “Can you promise that we will come back?”

Your teeth worry at your bottom lip. Adventures never entailed certainty regarding anything—you knew that. Your own life could be put on the line for the sake of some quest and an exiled king you owe nothing to—yet the thought of your mortality is no deterrent. Better to live grandly and without regrets than to die here, perishing with the knowledge that you could have done more. Lived a fuller life that went beyond the simplicity and the silly quarrels over flowerbeds and doilies.

“No,” The wizard admitted. “And if you do...you will not be the same.”

Your cousin grimaces. He gently places his cup onto a coaster and stands to his full height. His soft hands clench into fists at his sides and relax in time with his deep sigh. “That’s what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, we can't sign this. You've got the wrong two hobbits.”

“We?” You question, irked that he lumped you into his own cowardice. “Speak for yourself. I’m still going, Bilbo.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gandalf slip away. You can't blame him—you don’t fancy being here either. Tapped against your will between a hard place and Bilbo’s reluctancy. Your cousin sucks in a long breath and lets out a deep, weary sigh.

Exhaustion weighs heavy on his frame. You can tell by the way his shoulders slump forward and how he rocks his weight to the balls of his feet to relieve the soreness that collects in his heels. For a moment you consider listening to his pleas, if only to amend some of those dark circles that have appeared beneath his eyes. “It’s late, Cricket. I don’t want to argue about this any longer.”

“I’m not asking you to,” you press. “I told you what I intend to do and there’s no use in stopping me.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “You’re being foolish. Did you listen to a word Gandalf said?”

You roll your eyes and push the back of your head into the springy cushion of the armchair. “Death doesn’t frighten me.”

“Well, it should.”

You grunt and dig your nails into the armrest. Can’t he see? In such a land that places food nearly above all else, you have been left to starve.You were born restless, with sharp taking teeth better suited for wild dogs. He shouldn’t have left you ravenous for blood alone to graze among the roses. It was never enough.

Your voice cracks as the words tumble out. “Bilbo…I—I don’t belong here.”

Your cousin scoffs and wanders to your side. “Nonsense—you fit in just fine.”

You roll your head to the left, giving him a halfhearted glare. “You and I both know that’s not true.”

Bilbo has the decency not to lie this time around. He sighs and rubs at his forearms. “Just because others have called you a match, it does not mean you should strike yourself upon this world,” he says with sadness lacing his tone. “You are not a warrior, my dear. Nor are you a diplomat. You have nothing but your determination and silly dreams, and even those will run thin. Stop finding burning buildings and charging headfirst into them.”

Easier said than done.

“At least I’m brave.”

“You are reckless.”

Anger flares beneath your sternum. You roughly stand, nearly toe to toe with Bilbo. “Life is more than just cowardice and stupid plates and books that only you care about!”

“Not for us,” Bilbo sharply states. “Hobbits have no business in adventures that take them halfway across the world. Think of all the luncheons and tea parties we’ll miss!”

You want to scream at the top of your lungs. Uhg! Damn him!

Sucking a breath through clenched teeth, you twist your frustrations into a sentence. “I’m leaving and you can’t stop me.”

Bilbo’s mouth pinches into a thin line. “You take one step out that door tomorrow morning…”

“And you’ll what?” You sneer. “Tell the entirety of Hobbiton how undisciplined I am? Oh, how scary!”

You’ve thrown him for a loop—a few spare seconds where Bilbo fails to find a rebuttal. “Eru, save me!” He throws up his hands and then points an accusing finger at you. The digit shakes with anger and pushes his voice up a quavering octave. “If you leave—don’t bother coming back!”

“Fine!” You hiss. “I won’t.”

“Fine.”

You both glare at each other as a charged silence fills the room. This whole debacle is childish and plainly idiotic, bordering comical. Though neither of you give—Bilbo huffs, grumbles that he’s off to bed and turns on his heel to leave.

“I hope you have terrible dreams,” you call after him.

“Mind the archway, lest your inflated head catches on it,” he jabs in return.

Whatever—

Left to fume alone in the library, you scan the room for the contract. It lays pathetically over a couple of displaced maps and books and when your fingers pinch around the delicate parchment, it unrolls to its full length. At the bottom, there’s clear blank space right below Thorin’s signature for your own name. You clench your teeth and snatch up a nearby ink pot and quill. You scratch your signature into the parchment.

Bilbo’s threats are hollow—you know that. Despite this, a kernel of doubt worms its way underneath your ribcage. Maybe this had been the last straw—one last shove that pushed the scales against you. Familial love can only be tested so far, you figure.

You inhale and exhale and stare at the finely printed words you hold. The better half of you knows you should apologize to your cousin and admit that yes, you are wholly unprepared for such a quest. Yet the other part, the one billowing and burning with the hot coals of I told you so’s and proving everyone wrong weighs heavier than steel against your spine.

Just as you lower the parchment to place it back onto the table, a conversation of hushed voices carry through the house.

“It appears we have lost both our burglars,” an older voice dejectedly sighs. You recognize it as Balin's. “Probably for the best. The odds were always against us…After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy makers. Hardly the stuff of legend.”

You mean to reveal yourself before it’s considered eavesdropping, but the sombre timbre of Throin’s voice makes you falter.

“There are a few warriors amongst us,” he responds.

“Old warriors.”

“I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills, for when I called upon them, they answered.” Armies? Did it really take that many to defeat a dragon? “Loyalty, honor, a willing heart. I can ask no more than that.”

With a passionate spiel like that, you can almost find it in yourself to forgive him for his earlier asinine comments.

“You don’t have to do this. You have a choice!” Balin carefully argues. “You’ve done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains. A life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”

Thorin makes a disapproving sound. “From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

“Then we are with you, laddie,” Balin sighs. “We will see it done.”

Setting aside your own selfish reasons, you pity them. You can’t even imagine the utter desperation the Company must feel in asking for help beyond their kin. Hope placed in the hands of creatures no bigger than a human child. You look at the contract and sigh—you’re going to help them—it’s the right thing to do.

“You haven’t lost your burglar.”

The pair swing their heads in your direction. Balin’s warm eyes sparkle upon seeing you while Thorin’s brows raise in surprise. “Ah, Cricket. I hadn’t a clue you were there. Come—“

You wander closer at Balin’s request. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop—“

“Yet you did so anyway,” Thorin comments with a raised brow. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and eyes you with suspicion. “What is it you want?”

Biting back your cheek, you offer them both your contract. “I’ve signed it. I’m coming with you.”

“Your uncle approves of this?” Thorin questions as Balin takes the contact into his own gloved hands to look over it. Two steps ahead of the blatant lie you are about to offer, Thorin cuts in. “Naught ten minutes past did we overhear your petty squabbling.”

Hypocrite, you bitterly think. “Stay out of my business, and I’ll offer you the same curtesy, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Balin snickers, passing it off as a cough the moment Thorin shoots him a look. “All seems to be in order.”

You hold out your hand to take the parchment, yet Balin dips his chin and focuses a hardened stare upon you. “Are you sure about this, lass? ’Tis no easy journey we are about to face. Not even for ancient warriors such as us.”

“Thank you for your concern, Balin,” you say with a soft smile. “I know what I’m getting myself into.”

Balin searches your face for a few more moments, nods and offers your the parchment. You take it. “Then here you are, my lady. Welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Balin grunts with the strain of leaving his seat, accepting the helping hand you offer him. He pats the top of your palm in thanks. “I’ll see you both on the morrow—make sure to wake me before dawn, else I may never rise.”

The older dwarf waddles away on stiff legs, leaving you to fend for yourself. Not too keen on spending more time than you need to with Thorin, you make a beeline for your room. Thorin is quicker.

A large hand catches around your elbow—your heart leaps between your teeth. “Unhand me—”

He does so without protest, yet boxes you into the wall. “You should take more care in listening to your cousin and reconsider this quest.”

You glare up at him and plant your hands over your hips. Irritation flares, hot and bright inside your chest. “I don’t care what Bilbo has to say, and quite frankly—I don’t care for you either.”

His midnight blue eyes darken with their own strain of prickliness. “He means well.”

“What do you know of my family?” You hiss, squaring your shoulders and regaining a step Thorin had stolen. “Nothing.”

Thorin looms over you, toe to toe with no end in sight of simply letting this be. Why has this night become such an uphill battle with your arms tied behind your back? His voice is a low growl that reverberates through each of your bones. “I’m trying to offer you a way out, foolish girl.”

“I don’t want your mercy.”

Thorin’s jaw clenches. Perhaps if you were of a lesser stock his glowering would have some sort of effect, but nothing comes of it. Annoyed and more than ready to slam your head into a pillow and scream, you shove your contract into the light armor covering his chest and push. He grunts and catches the parchment before it can flutter to the floor and stumbles to the side. It’s more than enough room for you to slip by him and escape.

His stare burns into the back of your head, following you until you disappear from sight. Even with multiple walls between you, you can still feel the remnants. With the resounding slam of your bedroom door, you close your eyes and slide to the floor. Free from the rains and into the tumultuous sea, it would appear. The burdens of your impulsivity come crashing down, one by one and you’re left to pluck them off the ground with nothing but your fingers.

Fuck.

What have you gotten yourself into?

#the hobbit reader insert #the hobbit #lord of the rings #lotr #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin oakenshield x you #thorins company #Thorin's company x reader #the company x reader #bilbo baggins #gandalf #thorin oakenshield #fili x reader #kili x reader #fili #kili

161 notes · View notes

aetherarf · 3 years

Note

Hi hello i saw your requests are open!! And i dont know if this is allowed but can you do genshin boys caught cheating and they played it off and later on they started to regret what they did and when they found the reader, the reader is now happy or disappeared or idk ITS UP TO YOU TO DEICIDE HEHEHEHE IM SORRY I LOVE READING ANGST SM SO ITS OKAY IF YOU WONT TAKE IT !! YOUR WORKS ARE REALLY GREAT BTW!!! (more than great i mean *chefs kiss*)

Yes I've finally gotten to this one! I hope it's angsty enough for you 😘

[[ WARNING: CHEATING, NON-LETHAL INJURY, ALCOHOL ]]

[[ Summary: Kaeya, Childe, and Diluc end up cheating on their partner... They get caught, not by their partner, but someone else. As the days pass, they begin to regret it... only for their little secret to get back to their lover...

Note, Kaeya's is longest/wordiest cuz I didn't realize I should probably be a bit more brief... Kaeya favouritism lol.

Overall Word Count: 3'602 [rip me]

Kaeya Word Count: 1'841

Childe Word Count: 950

Diluc Word Count: 811 ]]

Kaeya

Distantly, he remembers an old saying from Crepus, in response to his question-- "Why do people drink so much?"

"Well... Alcohol doesn't solve anything, but it can make you forget questions you'd rather not think about."

He understood that as he got older. Why stress, and think about things he could not control? ... Well, maybe he should deal with them, but that's easier said than done when his entire life was on the line. Every night, in the tavern, he drank to forget. Not that he'd admit that to anyone.

And, somehow, he had forgotten more than he'd like to admit. On his lap, a beautiful woman, and he was tugged to a back closet of the Angel's Share. She tasted sweet, like wine and sugar. If it wasn't for an intruder, ( despite the fact that he was the one intruding into staff-only area ) he likely would have had a far better time, to completely lose himself in his inebriation.

"K-Kaeya!" Uh oh, as his vision focused, he could see Diluc's unmistakable silhouette, with that fluffy red hair and broad shoulders. "You," he pointed to the woman, "Out." The woman, not wanting to envoke the wrath of Sir Ragnvindr, running out immediately. But, Diluc didn't let Kaeya out, not that he was fighting to get out. Instead, he walked closer.

"What have you done?" he asked, voice low and full of rage. However, Kaeya could only smile,

"What do you mean, Master Ragnvindr?" He asked, all sly.

"You cheater," he snapped, "You do know that wasn't your partner? The one you swore yourself to? They were just looking for you, you know." He was nearly yelling, forcing his voice low...

And that, that idea, the realization of everything hit him harder than even the biggest bomb's that Klee had ever made. He... did.

"Look," The world was no longer warm an fuzzy, just a little shift away from his normal reality, everything crashing down. The thoughts that haunted him when you slept so peacefully in his arms, when he would see the knights laughing and smiling together, the ever-haunting knowledge that he was alone amongst them...

The way only you did not have that odd look in your eye, of wonder upon seeing something unique, or of something alien that terrified... You only looked at him as what he wished to be seen-a person.

And here he went, fucking it all up.

"Look," he said again, tears in his eye, "You, you can't tell anyone," He all but snapped at Diluc, who's eyes widened in shock, "I-I wouldn't tell if you did it, you have to do the same for me," he promised, desperately trying to think of what to do...

"Kaeya, this isn't about me, this is about you and-and them," Diluc didn't even need to say the name, "You're better than this, I won't tell, but only if you do."

Kaeya's brows furrowed, he wasn't used to feeling so... betrayed. Normally, it was expected, but this... but this was different! Wasn't it...?

"It has nothing to do with you, I... I can deal with it on my own, 'Luc." He insisted, straightening out his back. He was only a tiny bit taller than Diluc, but he wanted to hold it over him, to prove he wasn't going to let him use him over his... his mistake.

"Kaeya," his voice was... softer. Kaeya didn't want to hear this voice, this consoling voice. Not after everything, not... not like this!

"Fuck off, Diluc," he snapped, pushing him to the wall as he stormed out, "You made it clear you want nothing to do with me, don't try now. Not like this," he demanded, seeing Diluc look at him, eyes wide... shocked.

"Fine. Get out and don't come back." Diluc hissed, voice much lower, his eyes glazed over. Kaeya almost wanted to yell at him, to keep fighting... But, no, no, he didn't. He couldn't do that here, not when he was too desperate to figure out what to do, leaving through the front of Angel's Share, slamming the door behind him.

And he ran. He didn't know why, he wasn't headed home, but he just... he felt like he was running from his mistakes, the wind biting at his face, until he finally skidded into an alleyway, his back against the wall, his hand put up to his mouth, biting at the base of his thumb to stifle the sobs that wanted to burst from his chest. It hurt, oh, it hurt, but it felt... right, it felt like he should hurt, his teeth clasping harder onto his hand, tears rolling from his eye as he roughly breathed through his nostrils, his brain desperately trying to figure out what to do, what to say, what to think... But it all only ended up in a jumbled mess, of black and red and tears and crying.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but by the time he stopped biting his hand, it felt... hot, for some reason, and as he looked at his hand...

Red. Bite marks. His teeth had sunk in so deep, his skin was broken and reddened and bloody. He couldn't even feel the pain, like when the burning fire had turned to grey, dead embers... he felt nothing, his own bodily sensations distant in an odd way.

He doesn't even know why, but upon seeing his blood ooze from his flesh, he swing his fist towards the brick, hearing it clatter against it. He stared at his hand, pulling off his glove to stare, dazed, at his busted knuckles.

Holding his fist close to his chest, he finally walked home.

If I don't tell them, he thought, I can live with it. I've lived with worse. I live with worse.

He didn't want to.

But he did that-he cheated. He cheated on the one person that could make everything feel okay, like he never hurt anyone, like he wasn't from a distant corrupt land, like he wasn't the monster he was told to be.

Should he say it? Tell directly?

...

It wouldn't matter if he told immediately or in a week. He-he trusted you'd understand, he could... He could figure it out. He just, his brain was both sinking and floating, drunk yet sober, he wasn't in his own body right about now. He was somewhere gone, and he couldn't be making any decisions.

Shambling his way home, he opened the front door... And hesitated, listening. Looking. You weren't in eyeshot or earshot, so... He could wrap up his hand before he gave everything away, or at least, his temper tantrum of sorts. He rummaged around before finding that small first aide kit, cleaning the wounds of his own cause, and bandaged up his hand... for a second, he tensed, hearing your footsteps, but he opted to finish wrapping it before you could see.

"Kaeyaaa..." You whined, "You didn't come to bed..." You walked over, hugging him from the side, resting your head on him. How sweet you were, how cuddly... As though nothing happened.

"I'll come to bed in a minute," he said, "I just need to finish this real quick."

You peeked over to look at whatever he was messing with, and woke up in an instant, reaching over to his hand as he was tucking the end of the bandage away, so it wouldn't unravel so easily. "What happened?" You asked, tenderly holding his injured hand with both of yours.

"Nothing to be worried about," he reassured, trying to hide how his voice shook, "Just wanted to patch it up."

With one hand, you gently stroked his, and then lifted it to your mouth to give a loving kiss atop it. "Are you okay to come to bed?" You asked, still tired from the late hour.

"Of course," he wanted to kiss you, badly, but he refrained. You shouldn't, Kaeya, your mouth is dirty.

The two of you walked to bed, he undressing just enough to comfortably lie down...

Feeling how you snuggled up to him, sighing in such comfort now that he was home, and how you soon became a weight upon him as you sunk back into sleep...

However, he did not sleep that night. Or the next, or the next... Or the next.

Days, truly, passed. He did not sleep, he was not sleeping, Jean even scolded him for blacking out more than once, stunned when one second he was standing, and the next he was on the ground, no memory of having fallen, with the knights consoling him.

He started staying later, he had not gone back to the Angel's Share. Many mornings, he was not there when you woke. You knew he was busy, but... this was horrific.

Eventually, two weeks have passed. He steeled his nerves, and he was going to talk to you about it. He didn't want to live like this, with this guilt and agony upon the things he could not fix--but he could fix this. He could-he could make this better.

But, as he walked into your shared home... an eerie silence. As he looked around, it felt like... a lot was missing.

Everything that was missing, from simple objects placed about to pictures on the walls, were all yours. Of you.

Save for a single picture frame, with shattered glass, and a picture of him and you, smiling. It was one of the more coherent pictures the two of you had made.

Beside it, a note.

Dear Kaeya,

A woman came to me recently, telling me of you. Of how you kissed her, and nearly slept with her at the Angel's Share. She was unaware of the fact that you had a partner, and had finally found and confided in me about this.

I don't know what made you cheat on me like this, but worse still you've been avoiding me, and you wouldn't even tell me. If I knew... then we could have talked about it, we could have gotten counseling. We could have fixed this--fixed us. But you were gone.

I don't want to hear you say it, say that you don't love me or you don't want to be with me, so I left. I'm not in Mondstadt, I've gone to live with someone I can actually trust. Please don't look for me, I need time. Your lack of communication was enough to tell me you don't care enough to fix this.

Sincerely, Your former beloved.

Tears truckled down onto the paper, and he nearly crushed it in a single fist... But, no, he couldn't, he couldn't destroy the last connection he had to you, no matter how badly he wanted to rip out his eye, so he never had to look at it ever again. He collapsed the floor, the letter, and the framed picture falling to the ground, a broken, loud laughter rung through the house as tears fells down his face, maniacal in nature...

He wanted to be alone, and gone, for a long... long time.

Childe

Childe didn't understand the meaning of 'exclusive' as well. He loved you, dearly, but to him, love was a thing to be given more freely. Maybe it was just a lack of communication, or maybe he completely misunderstood your words, but with an old friend he slept with time and time again...

When Scaramouche saw him sending off his friend with a goodbye kiss, it being a casual commoditiy in his mind, only then did he get utterly chewed out for this.

"Are you a fucking idiot?" Scaramouche snarled at him, "You're not even shameful about this, you cheater." He snapped, as though he was truly angry for you, instead of just a generally very angry person. Childe shrugged.

"I wouldn't mind if they slept with someone else," he said casually, "Doesn't mean they love me any less, you know?"

Scaramouche tried to response, but he was simply flabberghasted. "Most people don't think that way, you airheaded moron."

Childe just laughed, brushing off the shorter harbinger, before walking off without a care.

But... in the end, the words got to him.

Maybe you didn't think that way? You two had spoken of marriage, a very possible reality that he was looking forward to... But, maybe there was a... culture clash, maybe? A clash of upbringings?

He found himself wondering these things at night, when you were snuggled up to him, unaware of the whirlwind of fear in his mind.

Silently, he resolved to simply stop--It would keep you happy, a little secret he didn't mind keeping. Maybe in many, many years, he'd mention it, but... he thought that was okay. That could be the last time he'd ever do something like that...

But, as he came home... You were sitting, waiting for him.

"Please, come sit down, Ajax," that morose tone, it made his heart ache... so he obeyed without question. You looked at him, face puffy and eyes red... "Tell me the truth," you asked, his heart sinking, "Did you cheat on me?"

He froze, but... "Y-yes, but-"

"I don't need an explanation," you admitted, a small, broken smile on your face, "I knew I wasn't loveable enough."

"Wait, no, no, that's not it at all-"

"No," you interrupted, "I don't need an explanation. I'll be out by tonight," you looked down at your lap, his heart shattering into even smaller pieces,

"Babe... please, please, let me explain, I'll never do it again-"

You stood,

"If you'd do it once, you'd do it again. Don't talk to me," you hesitated, "If you want me to be happy, don't look for me ever again."

He was trying to reach for you... but, he couldn't make himself grab you, not when you so delicately shied away...

Eventually, he gave up. No amount of fighting would stop you, and... and he... he couldn't keep seeing your pain as you cried for him to just leave you alone.

Was this love? The pain of another, the terror not of considering spending the rest of your life with them, but the terror of not spending the rest of your life with them?

Before he knew it, he was staring at a mirror, shards of glass in his fist, more than a few holes in the wall and a broken door, the shattered mirror distorting his expression...

Upon walking through the house, he saw that there was... it felt so empty, without your delicate touch and presence making it a place he lovingly called home.

"No," he whispered, hoping... were you here? Did you see... whatever he blacked out and did, the tantrum he did not remember? Did he, oh gods above, oh gods, he didn't hurt you, did he?

...

But he never got an opportunity to find out.

By the time he had sobered up from his tantrum... you were gone. Only a note, left behind, Don't look for me.

Because, you both knew, if he really wanted to find you, he could. He could capture you, trap you... hurt you.

But he didn't want any of that, as much as it hurt to have you away... to make you hate him anymore than you already did was enough to drive a man to near insanity.

Even after you had been gone, he would sit, whenever he was not forced to work, to fulfil his duties to the Tsaritsa... he would wait. He would cook your favourite dishes, read the books you liked, go to the places you enjoyed...

Only after weeks of this, did it hit him that you truly were never coming home. He knew that, but... but, somehow, his heart, his emotions hadn't caught up.

For a second time, he had destroyed your shared, no... his home.

It just wasn't home without you.

Unable to endure the idea of still being here, of a place where he had held you so many times, kissed you, loved you, and suddenly you were all but gone... He tried to do anything to avoid it, to avoid that demon that desperately tried to crawl out of him, threatening to burst from his chest.

Even the other Harbingers had noticed this, how... awful he had been, how he had lost himself. Even Scaramouche, the one most openly said to be the easiest to hate amongst them all, with an uncanny talent to bring even the most pacificistic souls to pure rage, had done well to stay his tongue, never kind, never sweet, but he would give him the isolation he craved, only speaking as much was necessary.

He didn't know what to do with himself, but whenever that happened... he'd just throw himself to the maws of death and, unluckily, crawl his way back out.

Diluc

Everything felt hot and fuzzy and...

Red.

Was red a feeling? His face was red, his body burned, and he could scarcely breathe, he definitely had accidentally drunk some alcohol, but for once, the effects of inebriation hit him. However, while he couldn't understand why people would devote their lives to this sensation, he could appreciate reality being distant, when he knew if he wasn't drunk, he would have spit up the wine and some extra blood, making it an even richer red color.

A warm feeling around his dick, he saw a pretty, if not distorted, face. It didn't take long for him to explode with sensation, his eyes shot wide... and a kiss pressed to his lips.

He almost chased that pretty face, only to see it disappear, he falling to his knees, rasping for air. Moments later, he felt hands on his shoulder's, shaking him. He shot his head up, seeing Kaeya looking at him in fear, and distantly, he heard his name...

"Diluc. Diluc. Diluc! Say something!"

Diluc stared at him, and opened his mouth to speak, but he only ended up jerking his head down, coughing into his elbow, seeing blood on his black coat... Kaeya noticed, too, frozen in shock.

"What happened?" he asked, his eye wide in shock.

"I..." Diluc rasped out, and his eyes widened in shock.

He realized what he had done.

He. He slept with someone who was most definitely not the one he had sworn himself to. Some-some random woman who was likely enchanted by the prospect of a rich man.

"Diluc!" Kaeya shouted, afraid, "What happened?"

Diluc shoved himself up, his hand on Kaeya's shoulder, already rushing to run out and all the way back to the Winery-but not before Kaeya grabbed him, stopping him, strength near equally matched.

"'Luc, I'm not letting you go anywhere until you-"

"I did," Diluc was still gasping for air, "I did something terrible." He admitted, with no small amount of pain.

"What did you do?" Kaeya asked, "Don't run, don't run, you're going to choke on your own blood-"

"No!" Diluc shouted, throwing Kaeya off his arm, running on pure adrenaline, even as his face was beet red, and his vision blurred.

But he needed to confess his sins, immediately, he needed to... now, now, now!

He heard Kaeya shout, but in the end, as he had to stop just to rasp for air again, the burn of alcohol still in his throat, he heard no shouting, nothing but the sound of his thundering heartbeats in his own ears.

Finally, he got to the Winery. You saw him, shocked, seeing his red face and how distressed he was, his hair nothing short of a fluffy mess.

"Diluc," you run over, he leaning on you, just to not collapse from the lack of air, "Diluc, what's wrong?"

"I-I..." He shuttered out, sucking in a breath, "I cheated on you."

You were reeling, "You-What?"

"I-I accidentally drank wine. I was drunk, I can't..." He was still heaving, "I can't breathe... I don't... I don't know what happened, but... She... a woman, she..."

He couldn't finish, but he didn't need to.

"You cheated on me and the first thing you did was come home and brag about it?" You asked, equal parts anguish and anger,

"No," he rasped, his knees buckling as the world tried to disappear on him, "I can't..." his hand went to his throat, "Wait..."

He didn't know what happened, but he only saw flashes after that--Your tears, his bloodied hands, you leaving.

And he was alone, on the ground, barely able to breathe, to think... to do anything.

You left him.

You were gone.

And, somehow, he wasn't mad at all. Having breathed long enough to move again, he stood... and he found the half-empty bottle of wine left on the table, the wine you adored so.

He grabbed the bottle and drank straight from it, feeling his throat and tongue swell, it crashing to the ground as he fell, unable to rasp even the slightest breaths,

I deserve this, he thought, I deserve this. This is all I deserve.

...

...?

For some reason, despite his better wishes, he woke up. He lay in bed, a cool, wet cloth over his forehead... his flesh burned, and his tongue was still swollen, he unable to wiggle it in his mouth. His breathing, still, was labored, but it seemed that he was still breathing, despite everything.

He watched as Adelinde cautiously walked over, looking down at his face, "... Master Diluc, are you alright?"

No, he wasn't, but he could not even sob and cry, for he could not breathe enough to do so.

A cruel twist of fate, but he was not deserving to cry, he was the one who hurt you. You did nothing but love him.

He didn't deserve anything right now.

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #kaeya #diluc #childe #genshin kaeya #genshin diluc #genshin childe #kaeya x reader #diluc x reader #childe x reader #bark writes #// also dw anon i've written way more messed up stuff than this #// :)#// also idk why ppl cheat beyond the thrill of it and i wanted to make it more interesting than that #// chlide was the closest to that idea #// i got some shitty news + people who didnt stop bringing it up so this took way more time than i'd like to admit

1K notes · View notes

onyxoverride · 3 years

Text

Hopeless - Mikasa Ackerman x Reader

◙warnings: female reader. mutual pining. a sprinkle of sexuality struggles. fingering, eating pussy, face sitting. fluffy, wholesome. SMUT.

◙word count: 3.9k

◙summary: You like Mikasa but you’re struggling a bit to come to that realization, and now you struggle to confess. But confessing goes really well.

You didn't mean for it to go like this. You feel hopeless. It started with curious touches in the shower after grueling missions and massages after training, gentle caresses whenever she looked worried. You didn't even realize it started to be more until Jean started teasing you about liking her. You were confused but now you had to confront something about yourself that you never have before.

But if it's true… it makes sense. You never really showed much interest in the boys of the village and whenever one tried to flirt with you, you'd clap your hand on their back and compliment them, completely oblivious of their affections. And whenever girls would set flower crowns on your head it would make your heart flutter, and your best friend as a kid that let hands wander in the barn before dinner. You tucked it away deep within yourself. The memories and the mental struggles of trying to figure it out. Who has the time when you are trying to become a scout and kill titans and avoid being killed by said titans?

Did her sharing food with you and no one else mean something? Did her waiting to go to the showers with you mean anything? What about when you two trained with each other to the point of exhaustion, laying beside each other out of breath with the evening air trying its best to cool your heated skin. Yes, you worried for her yes, you cared but was it romantic?

You dig hard into your brain trying out different scenarios in your head trying to figure it out.

People go on dates, get food, and sometimes coffee, but you've done that with her before. Her favorite coffee is a lavender latte because she doesn't like the bitterness as much as you'd think, and lavender reminds her of Eren's mother, and she likes the apples from the stall closest to the alley by the inn because they're the juiciest and the vendor is the nicest old lady.

Well, people who date also hold hands, and you've done that before too, dragging her through the city on a momentary day off or after missions when things got particularly gorey even on missions riding in a carriage to your destination you'd grasp your hand around hers and squeeze to let her know that you are there and you are there for her.

She cared for you too. You know it, now, comparing what she did with everyone else to how she treats you. How she teased Sasha but gave you her leftover bread, how whenever Jean and Eren brawl she puts some sort of barrier between you and them just in case, even though she knows you know how to handle yourself. The little glances of confirmation that you are eating, you’re still there. When she helped you in the shower after hurting your leg on that one mission. The tension in the air was thick but it wasn’t exclusively sexual, intimate and intense as she helped you wash off the day’s grime and massage the soap around your shoulders and thighs. Circling soap around your thighs and hips and when she would help you stand she would ignore your shy demeanor for the sake of your comfort. Maybe that’s when you should have confronted this part of you but you’ve refused and pushed it away all this time why not some more? You’ve knocked it down every time it peaks its glaring head.

And then the dreams came.

What you've seen in the shower pieces itself together in unholy ways while you sleep. You still can feel her hands on your body from when she helped you. The interesting positions you would end up in while training with her fueled the dreams as well. The muscles she dutifully keeps up with straining for you, her calloused hands on your body, her grey eyes peeking at you from between your legs. Other Nights you would be on top of her, making her bite at her lips trying to keep her moans at bay. Almost every morning you can't look at her when you wake up because it's still so vivid. She'd paint mosaics in your skin with her tongue and you feel like you finally understand what those worshippers of the walls feel because you would do anything for her, worship her, keep all her secrets and demand her safety. You've had dreams like this before, one with Annie when you were training that terrified you more than Annie herself. Or those times when you stayed in an inn above a bar and the owner's daughter with brunette hair would flirt with you every chance she got.

But dreams of this intensity, this frequency? Never. It's disturbing your daily life and you are hopeless. Hopelessly head over heels with a woman you can only read into so much. She is not an open book but you've seen a few pages and it's enough to have you hooked on the series. This time you can't push it down, or away into the deepest wrinkles of your brain. Your attraction for her is branded into your temporal lobe burning through your skull and it's this close to being shown on your forehead. Now the food she shares, the concern she shows, you fear you're reading too deep into her actions. After she asks Eren if he's okay then it's you and no one else. Every time you speak with her it feels like the sun has hit your skin even when it's nighttime. Everybody else sees it, everybody else knows vaguely what is going on, except Eren and Mikasa it seems. Eren because he's too thick in the head to even understand what's going on between you and Mikasa and Mikasa because… well you don't know. Maybe she's gained Erens obliviousness over the years or maybe she just doesn't get whatever the fuck romance is or consists of or maybe she does get it but doesn't let on that she does. Jean had to get over his crush on Mikasa because at least he can see how she cared for you, which you feel bad for because he probably has a higher chance than you. There are nights where the trouble realizations you've pushed away come back to crush you during the deep hours of the night when you're supposed to be asleep. You are glad you can cry quietly those nights but sometimes you can't and that's when Sasha spares you words to curl at your side as you sob into her shoulder. You don't speak of it the next morning, neither of you do, and you blame the irritation of the white of your eyes on bad sleep and sometimes allergies if you're lucky.

When it comes for the time of one of the riskiest missions, worry stringing through the air and through everyone's veins, seeping into dreams of the following nights, your struggling sexuality starts to simmer down with the rise of realization that your friends and Mikasa have chances of not coming back alive. But you're realistic, you aren't as powerful as Mikasa and she's almost at the skill level of Levi. You might die never telling her, or confronting yourself, and you think that might be your only regret if you drop dead right in this moment. A night before the mission and Jean nudges you with a solemn expression. You already know what he's alluding to, so you just nod at him. You don't want to talk about it or speak it aloud in general. He just thinks you are hopeless at this point. If you talk about it aloud it feels like you would just jinx yourself and you convince yourself that's partially the reason why you haven't said anything yet.

You see her with her short cut hair, looking so firm but so worried. Probably for Eren, and everybody, and the possible results of said mission. The overbearing threat of death doesn't make for bright moods.

So you don't do it. You don't confess. You abandon your mental script for now of what you were going to say. You needed a spark to get the fire going. To gain the courage to pour your heart out and how can you get this spark in such damp air?

Jean and Sasha give you a pitiful look before they get on their horses because they just know. Again, you're hopeless. The air around you and Mikasa is painfully consistent, the same as before and you look like you haven't slept in years. Levi has already scolded you for looking like shit, you don't need them on your ass as well so they don't say anything.

You are glad the mission is coming to an exhausting end. Your closest friends aren't hurt besides sore muscles and scratches and most importantly, Mikasa is in good shape. It's amazing what near-death experiences can do, and finally, the spark you were waiting for has been found, you've found the flint and steel to create it. Now, to actually figure out where to start that fire.

Turns out your chance is the day after you get back from the previous mission. A celebration dying down in the dining hall, your friends stumbling around like happy drunks as they should. You aren't drunk but the drinks you have had throughout the night make your chest heat up and your only thought is "now or never." Mikasa, sitting outside, alone and strikingly sober, looks like a stone statue carved by the gods with her sleeves rolled of her button-up rolled to her elbows. It's chilly outside but comfortable on your warm skin and part of you fears to disturb her, as if you're disturbing an artist's focus on their painting or a baker with their bread and you would ruin the process.

But the continuous chant of "now or never" continues like a hymn and you can't ignore it, or push it down. Sitting next to her isn't the nerve-wracking part, it's when you look into her eyes and now most of your pre-made script is thrown out the window and your heart is stuck in your throat. There are already tears swimming at your eye line but you've waited long enough to do this, you've sat in your own puddle of woes long enough.

She regards you with a hum and a twitch of her thin eyebrow because she can see the glossiness in your eyes. You're a soldier goddamnit but this seems scarier than fighting titans or other humans.

"I need-" You choke for a moment but continue, "I need to tell you something and I need you to listen." At least the beginning of your mental script has come in handy but the middle becomes muddled in your emotion-filled brain. She's nodding and scooting closer which encourages you to at least keep speaking, "if this doesn't apply pretend I never said anything okay?" It is rhetorical and much more of a demand than a question but she nods with a simple "okay," as you continue.

"Do you have room in your heart to love me?" Why did you have to phrase it like that? There were so many more options you could have chosen from but you said this one. It makes her sound so cold-hearted, but at least you won't make her choose, if she has room in her heart to love you, you just hope you can fill it. She looks at you with your quivering lip, hands clenching the table harshly to keep you grounded.

Mikasa is deliberating in her head. She knew to an extent how far her affections stretch for you, further than where Eren stands for sure. She didn't need to debate her own attractions as you have, it became very simple. She likes who she likes, it doesn't matter what they look like, as long as she deems them good and starts to think of them romantically. Ever since seeing you in training, and fighting along your side against titans, seeing you care for your peers so sweetly, she's held a special place in her heart for you. She's heard you cry at night and it pulled at her heart, tempted her to slide into your bed and hold you, but Sasha did that instead. Mikasa has felt a bit hopeless this whole time but now- She's been biting at her lip this whole time and the light taste of iron pulls her back to reality because she needs to answer before your tears fall. Something quick, simple, and to the point-

"I do love you," her own lip shakes a bit. Admittedly, she's surprised that so much emotion is pulled between the two of you. She would daydream about you two laying in the grass, casually confessing and falling into each other so easily like you always have, during fighting or strategy planning. She rests her hand to the side of your face, thumb wiping the stray tears as you let out a relieved sob. Pulling you to her, resting her hand on the back of your head, and shoving your face into her neck, you accept willingly. Mikasa doesn't know how to comfort, but she hopes you can feel her trying. It looks like you've been struggling because this obviously isn't just the remnants of alcohol in your system and she wishes she could have helped you earlier. Wishes she did crawl into your bunk when you cried. She can't help but shed some tears, out of sympathy, out of a relief that maybe now you don't need to hurt anymore, and now she can actually participate in your affections for her instead of pining like she usually does.

Your tears sting your lips but it's nothing compared to the emotional euphoria you are feeling. A feeling you only could describe as FINALLY. She pulls you to her face, pressing her lips into yours and you never imagined your first kiss with Mikasa would be a teary one. She tastes like iron from her bitten lips and you are sure the tears sticking to your own sting. Your teeth clank together a few times, letting out a few breathless chuckles. Both of you barely have experience in this field, but you fall into the paces of caressing each other easily. Maybe you two shouldn't be touching each other like this, right now after you've confessed. You're still outside, anybody could see but she's dragging you to her room which seems only a few paces away. There really isn't time to think, you're still riding this emotional euphoric wave and so is she. Maybe if she took a moment to think and not just take you to her bed right away then she would stop but Mikasa doesn't actually want to think logically right now. She has pined silently long enough, maybe she deserves to give into this. These temptations with the little voice nagging at the back of her mind that "wouldn't she look so good bent over the table right now? What about you pulling her to sit between your thighs to-"

You two bump into a tipsy Sasha on the way but the look in Mikasa's eye makes her shut her mouth and get out of the way quickly. You can hear her scurry off and yell-whisper something to someone but that doesn't quite matter right now because the woman you've been craving since the start is pulling you to her bottom bunk bed to sit on top of her. That script you've forgotten definitely did not include this, but you aren't complaining.

She's grasping at your hips, groping at whatever she can to keep you close and you're doing your own damage. Digging your fingertips into her muscles and chest, rolling your hips into her thigh that rubs just the right spot along the seam of your pants. You aren't exactly being soft but based on her little moans and grunts in between your kisses you think that she probably likes your roughness. Though you do like her in a white button-up she looks better without it, granted she feels exposed but making it even is easy when you're so willing to be stripped by her. You can't help but wish you could touch her chest a little longer because her cheeks only darken more and more every time you tweak her nipples and suck dark maroon marks into her chest, her reactions are priceless. She's pulled you to her, chest to chest to suck at your neck, biting against your skin leaving a kiss after each nip that makes your skin hot. Eventually, she pushes you back to fall into the bed and yanks your pants off as quick as she could manage leaving your thighs to frame her shoulders, knees almost to your chest. It's highly humiliating, she's staring at you from between your legs, and the eye contact from earlier when you were confessing that you thought was nerve-wracking compares nothing to the look she's giving you now, glancing between your eyes and your cunt.

She's devouring you, liking stripes along your folds as you roll your hips into her mouth. The echoing of footsteps along wood makes you freeze and bite the back of your hand to your mouth to stay quiet but Mikasa doesn't stop. Her actions make your thighs clench around her head and she's gripping your thighs while she eats you out mercilessly. You're glad the footsteps leave, or at least you hope they have but your attention is solely on Mikasa and her fingers are working their way into you, twisting at all the right spots. You're both clumsy and inexperienced but everything just feels good, simply wonderful, both of you completely content with each other in this moment as you try to grip at her smooth hair. A climax slowly approaching like a steady march along your belly with her tongue flicking along your clit-

Regrettably, she pulls back, your slick covering her lips and chin, even her nose. She leans over you, brings your lips together once more and she tastes like you, so embarrassingly slick and almost flavorless but so undeniably you. Her fingers are still working inside you and her palm is rubbing against your clit messily, not as precise and erotic as her tongue but it still makes you clench around her nonetheless. It leaves you gasping, "Where-" another slick kiss, "where did you learn this-" one more. She pulls back to sit on her calves and sends you an almost smile, "I'm a woman too," as if that could satisfy the question but she continues, "touching myself to the thought of you gives me at least a bit of experience." Oh. Oh. She said that so bluntly and you bet she did it on purpose just to fluster you and it's succeeding.

But seriously, her fingers are making your eyes roll back in your head and she's hitting the most sensitive patches in your cunt that make your mind go fuzzy so you can't focus at all. She eats your moans and sweet little half pleas she's cut off with kisses and by the time your climax finally reaches you, you accidentally bite her lip as your walls clench around her fingers sporadically. Her lips were already raw with her nervous tick but with you biting, it feels different and entirely refreshing. There are tears clinging to your eyelashes left from your orgasm and she sits back to watch your chest heave and suck your cum off her fingers loudly.

Mikasa really is a devil, but who are you to not give in to her, to try to make her feel good as well? There's still adrenaline from your climax running through your veins so you'll use what's left to get her off, it's the least you could do. Part of it is entirely self-indulgent though, to watch her fall apart from your hands.

"Sit on my face," it shocks her a bit but she won't deny that this is something she wants to indulge herself in, so she sets her thighs on each side of your head with her hand braced against the bottom of the bunk above her. She has to tilt her head a bit awkwardly but she's a bit more focused on how you're spreading her wet cunt out and lapping at her clit to care. It's horribly loud because her cunts been drenched since she started kissing you. Her hands grasping at your sides to keep steady, muscles flexing and thighs shivering it all feels like too much. She curled her fingers like this, and maybe it's a universal trick because she tightens and gasps. Not loud, Mikasa never is but the soft mewls she lets out are worth the work, grinding down into your mouth. Flattening your tongue against her and your wrist is twisted in a weird way to keep thrusting into her, continuously curling, and she's so close to falling apart above you. Her hand grips the board of the bunk above her so hard it cracks and she falls apart on your tongue with a gasping groan and one last roll of her hips.

The realization that you're her arms, that she loves you back hovers over you again and it makes the night so much sweeter. But you both really need a shower and your eyes are already drooping, begging for some sleep.

When the rest of the girls finally make their way back to their beds they have to do a triple take of Mikasa's bed because both of you are intertwined with each other under the sheets, dead asleep with her hair still slightly damp from the shower. As much as Sasha wants to coo at you two she can't help but remember the scary look in Mikasa's eyes when they crashed earlier, so she lets the feeling of happiness for her friends wash over her silently. By the next morning, both of you are late for breakfast, and Jean is starting at the two of you as you both eat.

"So… you two finally find out you were in love with each other this whole time?" Mikasa flushes up to her ears and you freeze up like a deer in headlights. Silence.. until Sasha leans over and whispers all too loud, "They fucked. You could smell it in the room," and a spoon makes contact with her forehead almost making her blackout. Jean goes completely red and Eren stutters out incomprehensible sentences mostly involving "what's going on? What they're dating? You liked her? Mikasa why didn't you tell me-" No one feels like updating him so they just let him ramble. Connie is a bit red too, "so yall are actually dating?" It makes your heart beat faster than you expected. You love your friends you know they wouldn’t be ignorant or mean but still, the worry pulls in the back of your head.

Well, you two really didn't talk about dating after you confessed, and- well that part of the dynamic didn't really cross your mind until now. Mikasa grips your thigh under the table, "She's my girlfriend," she says so loud and clear you could hear it across the dining hall, laced with a bit of possessiveness. Just barely you can hear Levi scoff out a "They're hopeless."

You guess you are, but at least you are hopeless with her. And after all this time, your struggles are put to rest deep in the back of your mind to stay for good.

𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔨 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔯𝔢𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 <3

//: 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

1K notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Note

“I’m not telling you again.”

If you’re still doing the sentence prompts?

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, minor whumpee (OC is 17), captivity, referenced dehydration and starvation, forced turning, wishing for death, religion

1905, somewhere outside New York City

"Come here, little one."

The boy presses himself back against the cold stone wall behind him. There's a cuff around one ankle, dull iron, and a chain that scrapes the floor when he moves. He swallows, shaking his head rapidly from side to side. Dirty hair falls dull over eyes that sparkle vibrant green in the near-total darkness.

He can't see her.

But she can see him.

"No." His voice is a whimper, a nearly-animal whine, pure fear. "Please, please, please no, not, not, not tonight, not... not tonight, please."

She sighs, chuckling fondly, and pulls a match across her palm to light the lamp that hangs on a hook down here. The wick catches flame, and now he sees the pale, pale skin, the deep red lips. The predator's gleam in glinting dark eyes.

She crooks a long, sharpened fingernail . He can see the hem of her dress, lace-edged, the skirt that sweeps up to curve her hips, the narrowed waist, the high neck. He's stared at illustrations of the Gibson girl put up in shop windows in stores that sell to richer women than he's ever known. She's an echo right down to the soft, upswept hair.

Like a man with an expensive coat hiding a knife, he thinks, that he means to slaughter you with. She's a monster who looks like an angel.

"I'm not telling you again. I'm hungry," She says, and gives a little pout. "I want you to feed me."

He pulls his arms in close, shaking his head again. Tears already threaten. He's so tired, all the time. There is never time enough to heal from one bite before the next and the next and the next-

"Come now, little pet. It's just one last time." Her voice is gentle, but he knows they lie. They all lie to get their fangs in you.

"What, what, what d'you mean?" The boy has a thick country Irish accent, still. Fresh off the boat, they call him when he tries to speak to the boys his age in his tenement. Half of them have accents like his, or thicker.

Not that he'll see any of them ever again.

Not since his parents-

Not since-

He chokes on a sob he can't quite hold back, turning at the waist to rub his fingers over the rough, cool stone. It helps. The motion, the texture, it helps. It calms him down, a little.

Everything here is wrong.

He misses home. He misses the green hills that were never so full of dirt ground in as the city streets are. He misses the air that didn't smell like offal day and night. He misses a world where it was all less overwhelming. He misses a world where his parents were alive to help him understand it.

"Oh, you're sad tonight," The monster wearing a woman's face says, taking the lamp off the hook and carrying it closer. The shadows dance off her cheekbones, they seem to give her a sneer rather than her soft smile. "Let Malorie be of aid to you. Tell me what you need, sweet boy."

"Can, can, can I have a-a drink? Miss?" His voice is hoarse from thirst, and he's parched. It has rained for two weeks and he's drunk the rainwater that leaks in through the walls, plus the few sips they give him each day. Food is a bit of moldy bread, cheese, maybe a thin soup. It isn't enough.

They don't seem to notice, or care.

But then food or water is something they left behind, isn't it?

"Hm." She steps forward, closer to him. Her eyes flash in the dark, reflect the bit of light, and he cringes back from her fangs as she smiles down at him. She moves to crouch before him, and sets the lamp down on the floor beside her. "Is it thirst that drives you, little one?"

"Please." His lips are chapped and cracked. He tastes blood, sometimes, and spits pink-tinged spit to blend with the soil beneath him. He tries to look pitiful - it's not hard to succeed. "Please. I'm, I'm so so so so... so thirsty, ma'am, just a cup, please-"

She looks down, unfastening the line of tiny pearl buttons on one sleeve, then rolling back the fabric to expose her wrist. A stray curl of dark hair falls down to brush her perfect cheekbone.

"Ma'am?" He can't understand what she's doing - none of them had ever started to undress in front of him before. "A drink, ma'am? Please?"

She looks up, and her eyes gleam like a cat's in the dark. Her teeth are very very white. He can see the venom shimmering on her fangs.

"A drink you want, you beautiful boy," She says, and he stares with uncomprehending horror as she moves her wrist towards her own mouth. "And a drink you shall have."

She tears her own wrist open with her teeth.

He gasps and tries to get up to run, but he's weak and dizzy and when she yanks at the chain that binds his ankle to the wall he goes down hard and lands with a thump, the breath knocked out of him.

While he wheezes air into lungs that won't take it, she pushes him onto his back and forces her wrist against his mouth, her other hand pinching his nose shut.

He cries out in horrified disgust against her cold skin and the thick brackish fluid that flows over his tongue. She stares down at him, avid, with huge eyes.

"Drink, sweet boy," She murmurs. "Quench your thirst."

He must drink or suffocate, and his body chooses for him. He swallows even as he gags, and swallows again, and she lets go of his nose so he can frantically pull in air, tears streaming to pool in the shells of his ears and soak into his grimy, dirty hair.

She is a blur through his terror, but her smile is written in stone in the yard beside a church.

"My turn," She says, and when she buries her fangs into his neck, the boy screams again.

And then goes limp as the venom takes hold, and the vampire begins to purr, her fingers gripped like claws into his shoulders.

There is no pain.

Only the fear.

I'm going to die, he thinks, and stares up into the darkness that wipes out even the lamplight. It seems like it's growing, within him and without.

His mouth is full of blood. It tastes better than it did when first she made him drink. The heaving of his stomach stops. He starts to swallow willingly, even eagerly. Nothing has ever quenched his thirst quite like this. It doesn't taste at all like he'd thought.

I'm going to die.

He wants to go home.

He wants more to drink.

He's so hungry.

He wants more blood.

When she pulls her wrist away, he whines and tries to grab at it, to pull it back. She laughs, swatting playfully at him.

"Not yet," She chides, wagging a finger. She licks her open wound and it closes. She laps at the remaining blood and he tries to sit up, to get some too, only for her to push him down again.

Then... pain.

Agony hits, a bright stripe straight up his spine, and he arches away from the ground, throwing his head back and screaming loud enough to bounce off all the walls. It recedes, and then comes again, through his stomach this time. The throb moves to his hips, thighs, into his calves and all the way to his toes.

He curls into a ball on his side, but the pain keeps growing. It takes over. He can't feel the floor he lays on, only the constant spark of nerves blaring alarm. He feels like he is being crushed under a rock, burned by the hottest fire, stabbed with a hundred knives.

"Wh, what, what's happening-... t'me?!" He coughs, and then sobs as the action hurts more than anything else ever has in his life.

"You're dying." She picks at her fingernails, already bored.

He turns to look up at her as she stands, licking her chops like a cat. Tears run down his face, and every time he blinks the air seems pink-tinged. "What...?"

"That's your body shutting down. You know, you're very fortunate." She wipes a droplet of the boy's own blood from the corner of her mouth and then sucks her finger clean. "Very few people get to be born twice. I'll see you tomorrow night. I would prefer if you didn't call me your mother."

Before he can even begin to form a question, she turns to walk away, hanging the lamp up on its hook as she goes, blowing out the flame.

The pain ripples again, he is broken like a brittle shell against the shore. His very bones feel as though they're tearing apart inside him.

He's going to die here.

And he won't stay dead. His parents will wait in Heaven for a demon son who will never be allowed to step foot into Paradise.

He gulps in air, lungs burning, and tries to remember the prayer through his panic. "Our Father, wh-who art in Heaven, hallowed be be be Thy Name-"

His throat blisters even saying the words, and when he tries to cross himself, his hand shakes too much, his joints crack and shatter. He can feel it, he can hear it. They crack and reform, break and bend.

He screams.

He screams until his throat is raw, until it bleeds, until his heart stops beating and blood runs from eyes and ears and from under his nails.

He whispers every prayer he's ever known when he can. He begs for salvation, he begs to be spared eternal bloodlust, he pleads for something other than damnation. He prays he'll see his parents in death and not become a monster like this.

His prayers are swallowed whole by darkness.

He dies, but he does not die for long.

Tag list: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

#whump #vampirism #vampire whumpee #vampire chris au #horror writing #horror fiction #vampire fiction #blood drinking #immortal whumper #sadistic whumper #captivity #bitten #chained up #horror story #vampire whump #vampires #monster whumper #chris the strawberry blond romantic #referenced starvation

190 notes · View notes

theringers · 3 years

Text

watch me burn - pierre gasly

illicit affairs, part seven

summary: “oh baby, I've been thinking about it, you know that I've been dreaming about it” watch me burn / michele morrone

a/n: hi:) still a few more parts to go but i went a few chapters without smut and this was needed so enjoy:) also if u listen to the title song while u read its a whole new experience lmfao

warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, semi public sex

2 months ago, to the day

Your eyes met his piercing blue eyes in the garage once again. It had been a month since you slept with Pierre and you haven’t stopped thinking about it. The way he stared at you as he fucked you was the exact same way he was glaring at you across the paddock. Needy and desperate.

You shook yourself back into focus and listened as Max’s strategist reiterated today’s race strategy but you couldn’t help daydreaming about what that man could do in bed.

You drowned out the conversation about tyres and looked over to Alpha Tauri at the perfect time. Pierre had his bottom lip between his teeth while he examined his car. He ran his hand slowly over the chassis seductively like he knew you were watching. His fingers grazed the metal in painstakingly slow circles. After he removed his hand from the car was when he caught your eyes. He gave you a smirk, not even a smile, and turned away. It was good to know that you weren’t the only one thinking about what happened.

The race started and you were in the garage, cheering on Max. He had started second on the grid but due to a first lap incident, he was fifth. He was not going to be happy after the race. He can tolerate if he fucks up but having other people interfere with his race is something he takes particularly hard.

Pierre’s car came up behind Max’s around a corner and got too close for comfort. Max jerked his steering wheel too much as he tried to turn, sending Pierre’s car straight into the barriers.

You stood up out of your seat and gasped. Everyone in the garage was relieved to see Max still racing and no one seemed to be concerned about Pierre. You took off your Red Bull Racing branded headphones and slammed them on the table before rushing over to the Alpha Tauri garage.

Anna was seated in her chair, looking worried, but not enough for you. She should be close to tears like you were.

“Have you heard anything from him?” You asked and Anna looked up, almost annoyed.

“He’s conscious,” his race engineer said, “but hurting.” You heard the groan come through followed by a bunch of curse words. He apologized profusely for his move but it was all Max’s fault.

You watched on Alpha Tauri’s monitors as the race was red flagged and decided to head back to Red Bull’s garage. “Let me know when you hear something,” you said to Anna. She nodded and looked back down to her phone. Fucking bitch. Her attitude made you not even feel bad about sleeping with her husband. She didn’t deserve him.

Max walked back to the garage looking like a life size bobble head with his heavy helmet swinging around. “Is Pierre okay?” He asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“He’s conscious. He took a nasty hit.”

“I know, I feel bad. I didn’t mean to, the steering wheel just got away from me. I saw him crash in my rear view mirror.”

You were visibly shaken and Max always knew the right things to say when you weren’t feeling okay.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Max said, rubbing your back.

You nodded in agreement. “I know he will. I’m going to check on him at the medical center once the race starts again.”

Max smiled at you. “That would be good. Make sure you tell him I’m sorry.”

An engineer put his hand on Max’s shoulder and shoved a spreadsheet full of data in his face. He shrugged his shoulders and walked with the engineer to the monitors.

It wasn’t long before the race got underway again. Max made it up to third, podium position, but there were still at least 30 laps left. You started the trek through the paddock and over to the medical center. You were just a bit too late as you saw Pierre walking out down the ramp. He smiled when he saw you approach him.

“How ya feeling champ?” You asked him.

“I’m a bit sore thanks to your husband.”

Your face fell. “He sends his apologies. I promise he was actually remorseful.”

“Max? Remorseful? What did you do to him?”

You laughed. Max did have a temper and tended to be extra competitive but he had formed a special bond with Pierre these last few years. They weren’t friends by any means but they helped each other out whenever possible. This was one of the times that it wasn’t possible.

“He does genuinely feel bad, Pierre.”

“I know he does, it was a racing incident. I saw the footage.” He limped slightly through the paddock and winced when he put pressure on his left leg. “I think I should go lay down for a bit.” He took another step and lost his balance. You grabbed his arm and held him, making sure he stayed steady.

“This is it right here,” he pointed to his motor home.

“Do you want me to help you up there? I don’t want you to fall.” You said with a soft smile on your face. How could he resist your offer of help?

“Sure,” he limped over to the door and you aided him up a few stairs. “Shouldn’t you be watching the rest of the race? Last I checked, Max was doing really well.”

He sat down on the luxe white leather couch in exhaustion and you sat at the table across from him. “He wanted to make sure you’re okay. He’ll be fine.” You looked around the motorhome, observing your surroundings to seem busy. “So Anna’s nice…” you said, followed by a laugh. You had known Anna for a few months now. Their wedding was right before the season started and you really hadn’t known her much before then either. She tended to keep to herself and you wanted to respect that.

“She can be a bit…”

“Yeah, I know. I went to check on you after the crash and she looked like she wanted me dead.”

“In her defense, she caught me checking out your ass this morning. She was not very happy with me after that.”

You leaned forward to give him a light smack. “Pierre!” You shook your head in disappointment. “What did she think of the way you were practically fingering your car this morning?”

He played fake shy. “Oh, you saw that?”

“You make my heart beat crazy fast.” You admitted, putting your hand to your chest. “That didn’t help.”

“Well, as long as you enjoyed yourself.”

Enjoy yourself you did. He was in his same fireproofs from earlier and you were sure he didn’t know how turned on they made you. They were pulled down to his waist, the sleeves hanging low off his hips. His white undershirt was tight to his body, putting his abs on full display. His legs were spread wide, inviting you in. Was it hot in there? Was the air conditioning on?

He ran his hands over his abdomen and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. He groaned, sounding like he was in pain, frustrated, and horny at the same time.

Why did he have to be so unbelievably irresistible to you? When you were around him it was almost impossible to contain yourself. There was a magnetic force dragging you to him constantly. You moved yourself to sit next to him, earning his attention and popping his head up.

“You look really hot right now,” you giggled to yourself. He made you feel like a teenager experiencing her first love. The nerves were through the roof.

“Well, I feel hot.” He looked around the walls of the motorhome. “Where the hell is the air conditioning and who turned it off?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god it’s not just me.” He looked over at you examined your face. He placed his hand on your red cheeks. “You’re flushed.”

When he touched you, a chill ran through your body. Your body felt on fire and he had the power to send a freezing cold chill through it all.

“My cheeks get really red when I get nervous.” You blushed even more having to admit that. It was your least favorite characteristic of yourself. Everyone always knew flat out when you were nervous.

“I can’t tell if it makes you look cute, like I want to hug you, or if I want to fuck you.” His hand still rested on your cheek as he looked back and forth between your eyes and lips. “You look so god damn innocent. Like I could totally ruin you with just a few minutes alone.” His thumb ran over your lower lip and you instinctively stuck your tongue out to meet his thumb. He took the opportunity to put his thumb in your mouth and you suctioned around it, keeping eye contact with him. “Y/n,” he breathlessly begged, “please.”

His lips crashed to yours, feeling warm and secure the moment they touched. His hands held your neck and you moaned into his mouth, forgetting what it felt like to be touched by him.

He hoisted you onto his lap, wincing a bit when you grazed his knee. His hands fit perfectly in the curves of your waist as he pulled you closer to him, grinding your hips. “Don’t do this to me,” he said into your neck.

“Why not?” You said cheekily.

“We don’t have much time.” You almost forgot that there was a race going on right now.

“I can be quick.” You hopped off of him and locked the motorhome door as he undressed out of his fireproofs. He looked so good in his white suit but he looked even better naked. You slipped off your underwear and hoisted your sundress up to your waist before going back to his lap.

He guided your body on top of his, settling you down as you took all of him in, deep. “Shit. A condom.” You said, after the bare feeling of him inside of you set in. God did it feel good but it wasn’t right.

“I don’t think I have any in here.” He said. “I promise I’ll pull out. I need you so bad.” He lightly bit your nipple through your sundress.

“I will kill you if you’re lying to me.” You started to move your hips and moaned at the sensation. He felt so good filling you up all the way.

He took your ass in his hands and started to bounce you up and down on his cock. “That’s it baby, just like that.” He said, admiring your movements. “Fuck me like a good girl.”

Your head fell forward, the feeling running through your body getting almost unbearable to handle.

“Jesus, Pierre, you feel so good.” You pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail and arched your back, feeling like all eyes were on you in the best way possible.

He watched you in awe as you rode his cock without a care in the world. “Your pussy is so tight baby. So tight for me.” A breathy moan escaped his lips and his face looked like he was in pure bliss. There’s nowhere else he would rather be.

“Shit, shit, I’m gonna come.” He said, panicking. You rushed to get off of him as you saw the liquid pool on his abs.

“Did you…?”

“I don’t think I got any inside of you.”

You took a deep breath to collect your thoughts. God, you hoped not.

next part

#f1 imagine #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 blurb #smut prompts #f1 fanfic #max verstappen imagine #pierre gasly smut #max verstappen smut #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly fic #pierre gasly fanfic #pierre gasly fanficfion #max verstappen fanfiction #pg #mv

201 notes · View notes

merakiui · 3 years

Text

Frostbite

yandere!childe x (gender neutral) reader art credit - GNSN_FA on twt cw: yandere, blood, minor gore (lacerations), unhealthy behaviors/relationship, mentions of death/hypothermia, fighting

It’s borderline animalistic, the way you cling to warmth and life like a starved, neglected hound. Your fingers stiffen in a vain attempt to flex—to successfully grasp your sword like a true warrior. The furs that were once draped over your body are ragged, torn to shreds from a dangerous battle between the elements and him. There’s no mistaking the excitement that lights his every nerve like bulbs hanging from a Christmas tree, coated in the maddening swell of potent bloodlust. If surrender was an option, you would have done it long ago.

Even then, you’re certain he wouldn’t give you such a benevolent chance no matter how hard you were to beg and plead.

Your breath materializes like a phantom in front of your face, a cruel reminder that you’re still breathing in a battered body. Your fingernails are chipped, blood running down the tips from an icy struggle, but you refuse to succumb to the cold. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in his electrified stare.

“What’s the matter, comrade?” There’s a wry smile pulling his chapped lips apart, showcasing flawless teeth aligned in a perfect face. Despite the brutal wear of this current fight, he’s still handsome. And that makes you sick. “I thought you said you’ve gotten stronger. If I wanted a real battle, I would’ve challenged one of my subordinates and that’s nowhere near as fun as this!”

Keeled over in the snow, your lungs burning with each rattled inhale, you struggle to meet his eyes. The deathly chill of the Snezhnayan climate claws at your exhausted form like the porcelain fingers of a skeleton. You might as well surrender to the freezing temperatures. After all, the frostbite is far kinder than the fighting machine looming over you, the toe of his boot nudging your trembling self.

“I... I am strong,” you manage to say before the dangerous wind pierces your throat like a dagger. Like the icicle Childe’s wielding, a happily convenient reaction between Hydro and Cryo elements. You cough and crimson paints the snow. “Strong. I’m strong.”

“Then get up.” There isn’t any warmth in his tone. Cold like ice and devoid of his former playfulness. Under all of that nonchalance, a fierce, chiseled warrior lies in comfortable wait. When his eyes trace your hunched form and he spots the blood that dribbles past your lips, practically freezing as soon as it makes contact with the frigid air, those dull hues widen. Surely he’s hit a weak spot, a vital organ or something close to a fatal blow. He wonders for a brief moment if you’re afraid of death. “You’ll freeze if you don’t move.”

A flash catches your attention and then there is the flow of suffocating water. Sharpened blades of ice surround you on all sides, nearly scraping your arms, so you force yourself onto unsteady legs. Internally, you’re searching for a way out—for a way to give up before you bite off more than you can chew. This sparring match wasn’t your request, but you had been a fool to accept, having been so certain of your strength and wit. But you aren’t accustomed to Snezhnaya, whereas Childe has spent years of his life here: training, learning, and fighting until he was worthy of the Tsaritsa’s praise.

With sloppy movements, you cut through the ice as if it’s butter, eternally grateful for the sharpness of your trusty sword. You can’t tell when this fight will end, but you hope an opening with present itself. As soon as it does, you’re running as far as your frozen legs will take you. Like a feral beast who fights desperately against the unfair hands of the Grim Reaper, you stumble forwards, slashing blindly at your target. He’s thoroughly amused with your struggle, having seen this sort of desperation many times before on the battlefield.

It’s a depressing thing, knowing you’ll be destined for failure and yet you still push onwards. As if that will turn the tide of this battle in your favor. Childe almost admires your persistence, but it isn’t all that special. He’s seen it all before but not quite in the way you portray it. Your despair is far more delectable than that of any low-ranking Fatui soldier. Childe could bask in this for eternity and he’d never grow bored. To have you by his side as his punching bag—it excites him just a little too much.

Naturally, the more he spars with you, the more he’ll grow accustomed to your attack and defense patterns. A strategy is only worthwhile if it rakes in victory. No matter the cost. No matter how many fall and grovel, begging for their pitiful lives. In a way, his moral compass is rather skewed. He supposes that makes him a bad person, but he’s never been one for the hero role.

Childe taps your shoulder and you whirl, slicing upwards with your sword. The blade cuts the air, not the torso of the man who jumps back with such deadly precision. The expression he’s wearing haunts you: a wicked smile, pupils blown wide with the thrill of life and death, and a blooming bruise from where you managed to hit him in your earlier scuffle. In any form, he looks good, be it blue and purple, red and pale, or even frozen stiff by the very ice that reacts to his Hydro abilities. You can’t stand your weak heart, as you’re well aware of the face he’ll bear tomorrow. Friendly and disarming, a total opposite to the grinning madman twirling water-turned-ice blades like they’re circus batons.

Like always, you’ll return his kindness because you’re a fool. Because you like the soft, wholesome Childe that cares lovingly for his family—the side he’s displayed in rare instances that glimmer beyond the gilded portrait of a battle-hardened soldier.

You fall hard on your back, landing in the thick snow with a wheeze. There is no warmth on the battlefield. Only pain, suffering, and the certainty of death. You push yourself to get up, but your muscles won’t move, too heavy and sore. You know you’re strong—you’ve faced many opponents before and you’ve lived to boast of your successes. You can beat Childe. You have to if you intend to avoid fights with him in the future.

“Well, this is upsetting.” He’s frowning now, idly tapping the crystalized water while he circles you like a sharp-toothed predator. “Didn’t expect this to end so quickly.”

Liar. You already know I can’t beat you, you want to say, but the words escape you. Not yet, anyways.

A sneer splits your dry lips and blood trickles down your chin like a woeful river. You don’t need a mirror to witness the damage.

“Teucer won’t like this,” you say, staring up at Childe with dead eyes, hoping to prod at his weak spots. If the mention of his brother affects him, Childe doesn’t let it show.

“He doesn’t have to know,” he retorts, brushing aside such a possibility with ease.

Right. Because you expect me to put myself back together like a toy. Of course, almighty Childe, the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya.

“Well.” You pause to exhale and pain shoots through your side. Through your bleary gaze, you can see a deep laceration. Blood stains what’s left of your attire, and you move your rigid hands over the wound to prevent anymore blood loss. “Congrats. You won.”

“You’re giving up?” Bewilderment flashes across his face for an instant before it melts away into an emotion you can’t place. Anger? Sadness? Is he unhappy with this win?

“What does it look like? I can’t possibly fight with these injuries.”

It hurts to speak and you wish he would just stop. If he could accept the outcome of this battle, this wouldn’t be such a problem. You’d be able to patch and heal yourself up before your condition gets any worse. With the chill seeping into your open cut, harshly kissing slick, wet blood, you doubt you’ll make it inside before passing out. Vaguely, you recall the unfamiliar stages of hypothermia. At worst, if you stay out in this fatal weather, pinned like an entomologist’s butterfly under Childe’s monstrous gaze, you’ll freeze to death. At best, you’ll escape, build a fire, and warm up to the best of your ability. Weighing your options, you’d rather lose a finger or a toe as opposed to your life.

“You can fight.” His blade is at your throat, the pointed tip niggling into your jugular. It’s more of a threat than a warning, a means to spur you into action. “You’ll never get stronger if you’re always running away, comrade.”

Your life has some value; Childe just can’t see that. In his eyes, a fight should be seen through to the very end, even if it’s marred in death and destruction. Yet here you are, choosing to abandon your pride. That must have some strength in itself, right? You hate his face, his childish nature, and the fact that his everything is making you reconsider. You’re doomed to fail if you continue to push your frostbitten body past its natural limits.

“I...” The blade slices along your throat, a mere surface wound. You can’t feel the sting or the sticky blood that spills out like flowing tears, having become as numb as a fish-eyed animal near extinction. “Childe—“

You don’t want to hurt him and he knows this. It twists his insides like a knife in flesh, turning and turning until organs pop and leak into soupy conflict. The blade leaves your throat and another harsh wind blows between the two of you, glacial and prickling. He distances himself, tracking your form in case you happen to move. You’ve stopped shivering at this point, lying flat on your back and staring up at the dark sky. Snowflakes cling to your lashes like the hands of death, pulling you closer to an invisible grave.

“You can fight.” Is that desperation in his voice? You almost laugh at the idea. He’s not a desperate man; he doesn’t need to be when he has it all. “Get up, comrade.”

“I think...I’ll stay here,” you whisper, your heartbeat irregularly slow. You’ve never counted the beats before, but now it makes for a fun distraction. “Good job, Childe. You’ve definitely...”

Gotten stronger.

You possess strength, just not the type Childe wants to experience firsthand. He has no use for a lonely, unseeing corpse. And when your eyelids flutter, closing upon a face that reflects frozen death, he releases a sigh. His blade falls at once, landing in the snow with a thump, and he bends down to gather your fallen frame in his arms. Somehow, whenever he spars with you—whenever he’s within touching distance—he feels alive. As if you’ve breathed meaning into his frostbitten soul, warming the cold beast that lurks and pounces at the sight and smell of fresh bloodshed.

If he’s learned anything, it’s that there’s always going to be room for improvement. You just need to train more, and he’d be over the moon to fight you until it’s your blade slicing through his skin. In the meantime, though, he’ll have to kiss color and life back into your monochrome world of death and despair.

As the greatest toy salesman in all of Snezhnaya, it’s only fair if he repairs the damages done to his favorite toy. Break, repair, and repeat. A cycle befitting a messy relationship and an even messier slew of choices. Rinse and repeat, like waves licking up a carcass bound to the shore.

Come morning, you’ll be shiny and new, ready to sit by his side for another leisurely ice-fishing outing. Childe isn’t known as the greatest toy salesman for nothing, and you’re just barely scraping by with each battle scar and bandage—courtesy of such an illustrious, experimental toy salesman.

#genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #genshin impact childe #genshin impact tartaglia #yandere childe #yandere tartaglia #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #yandere childe x reader #yandere tartaglia x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin impact ajax #yandere genshin impact ajax #ajax x reader #yandere ajax x reader

925 notes · View notes

bloodycassian · 3 years

Text

Reader x Azriel - Search and rescue. Reader helps Rhys and Cassian find Azriel after he is captured.

Rhy's wall of power hit you hard enough to strain your wings. The wind whipping at your now exposed face made your eyes sting as you struggled to regain your shield. Cassian and Azriel were falling as well - Rhys the only figure above fighting off the swarming arrows that threatened you. You tried yelling for Azriel to get back up there, knowing he could winnow past Rhys' shield holding you and Cassian at bay. But he kept falling, his wings unmoving. Cassian had already recovered and was attempting to rush back up to Rhy's side. Horror crept into your stomach, a cold hand clamping down in the pit of your very soul. You dove, as fast as you could. Your wings screamed at the protesting wind but you cut through the air. you could hear the conflict above as Cassian began shouting at his brother, but you had tunnel vision on Azriel's falling figure as he grew closer. The trees below did as well. Tears from the wind and the horror in front of you as Azriel came closer and closer to death reaching up to him. Your tunnel vision started to grow black- shading the winged figure from head to toe. Forcing you to blink. You waited to hear the sound of his gasp and the sick thud of impact against the foliage or the ground. But he was gone. Opening your eyes you no longer saw Azriel, or any sign that he had even touched the trees below. There was only the damp brown color of the forest floor. You flared your wings as hard as you could, banking and pulling yourself from the narrow freefall you had sent yourself into. "Az?!" You shouted, the roaring in your ears making your voice sound dull. You turned, glancing up briefly at the red and dark shadowy flashes above from the swarm of flying beasts sent from enemies. "Azriel!" You called out, worry like a rock in your stomach. Your chest ached. There was a soft groan and the sound of twigs snapping. You followed it, then scented the damp earthy smell. Then the blood. You rushed to his side. His mouth leaked black blood. You recoiled instantly. His eyes weren't the same, weren't those cold caring hazel. "Az?" Your voice trembled. The eyes went gray, then sharpened like a snake's eyes. You scrambled backwards when he jolted, spitting blood. You felt the blood run from your face when he stood, his arm bent. His wings... his once beautiful wings were a dull brown, tattered and worn. You wanted to scream. Wanted to run from him. Then he bared his teeth, his face turning from the familiar spymaster you knew into a monster from the Prison itself. He lunged for you. Teeth clicking, he held no weapon. You fought weakly against him, pushing and rolling him off of you. Tears streamed down your face, you could feel them hot against the cold wind. They dried quickly. Another deflected attack, and he was snarling. No words came from that half shifted face, only brutal animalistic noise. You choked back sobs as you drew your sword. You held it in a guarding position, hoping it would make the creature think twice before attacking again. "W-where's Azriel?" You managed to get out through chattering teeth. The shock was wearing off. All that coursed through you now was pure adrenaline. The beast let out a long growl, then struck against your blade. It landed a hit to your stomach and shin, then began attempting to claw at your neck. You reached for the dagger in your belt, keeping the beast at bay as much as you could. Then you let go, letting it fall straight into you and your waiting knife. + Cassian landed with enough force to shutter the trees around you and the body. Azriels body. Dark looming colors began coloring the area around you, wrapping you in a rage kissed night. Then Rhys appeared in front of you. His brother following behind. Cassian's teeth bared at the sight of you. You were utterly frozen. The body that lay behind you was not your friends. Rhys' mental claws dug deep and hot into your mind before you could say anything. You didn't scream, you couldn't. Cassian went to the monster's side, then confusion pulled at his eyes. His face went pale. "What is this?" He ground out. His voice seemed on the brink of shakiness. Rhys' power trembled in your mind and in the air around. You only blinked, slowly. Letting the tears fall. "I-" You managed to get through, then the sobs wracked your body. "It's not him." You managed to get out. A crack of thunder above, and Rhy's chest was heaving. Face pale, Cassian lowered himself in front of you, looking you dead in the eye. It made your gut clench to see him so... breakable. So fragile looking. "Tell me everything." He said softly, those eyes burning with an otherworldly blaze. + Rhys winnowed the body back to the cells of the Hewn city, appointing Kier and his best medical examiners to learn everything they could about the shifter. And to be weary, in case it awoke again. He never fully left your mind, even after you had let him see the scene from your memory play out. It annoyed you, but you understood. You searched for Azriel in the basic, most obvious places first. The hopeful places. The house, the Illyrian camps, The docks and markets. Never making too much contact with the Fae there. Never asking too many questions. You felt like Azriel could do a hell of a lot better of a job if he was searching for you. Sorrow hit your gut when you took to the skies with Cassian and Rhys again. They looked to each other, then Cas nodded. He flew high, and fast. Leaving Rhys staring at you with eyes cold enough to make you look away. "Close your eyes." He said, not a question or request. A silent demand ringing through. Your will broke to him, and you followed his instructions. His presence wasn't as harsh as earlier, but it was more focused. The darkness of his essence was caressing over different areas, inspecting. Questioning. Then, he was gone. Receding like a wave on the shoreline. When you opened your eyes he was smiling. Only slightly, but he wasn't as pale anymore. Hope filled those starlit eyes. "Call out to him. With your mind. Cast yourself out of your body and find him." He instructed when Cassian had found the most serene lake you'd ever seen. "I'm not a Daemati Rhys." you said, running a hand through your hair. Nerves pricked at your stomach, making it flip. They both stared at you anxiously, expectantly. You sighed and closed your eyes, trying your best to hear him, to think of the likely places he was. Rhy's darkness glanced against your mind, and you recoiled. He sighed and sat next to you. You could hear his wings tuck in behind him, the soft sound of his hands clasping together. "Not like you're..talking to him. Try to imagine him, feel for his being. To the core of him and feel the pull." His words were soft, testing. He seemed to hold his breath as you considered the words. Then you let your mind wander. The sounds of the lake, of Cassian's breathing, of Rhys' wringing hands fading into the background. Azriel. The cool smirk that played on his lips when he was amused. The dark fire that set in his eyes when he was in battle. The bone shuddering weight of guilt he held over things that weren't his fault. The misty shadows that stalked him like a pack of wolves. You gasped when the pull nearly knocked the breath from you. "There." You whipped around, pointing the direction you felt him. You didn't open your eyes, fearing you'd lose the connection. He was pulling, with all his might he was pulling at you. Still strong despite the weakness you felt lingering behind that brute strength he carried. "He's hurt." Your voice trembled. You faintly heard Cassian's growl and the sound of wings. Azriel's presence was surprisingly warm, along with a stark coolness that made the heat of him shine even brighter. His tendrils of connection were flecked with dark sparks that made it wholly him. His essence wrapped your mind, drinking you in. Sapping the energy from your mind. The last thing you remembered was a soft whisper of tenderness in his wake. "We need you up, I'm sorry." Rhys pressed a firm hand to your shoulder. You were flying, high above the ocean from the wind current. Your head swam. You squirmed in his arms, twisting until he let you go. Your wings snapped out reluctantly. You winced at the soreness. Rhys was shaking his head when you returned to the same altitude as them. Cassian said nothing, his face stark. You rubbed your face, feeling utterly drained still. The cold air forced you more and more awake with each moment. "He's alive. We just need you to feel for him again." Rhys said over the wind. Cassian glanced over to you, his hair whipping in the wind. His jaw was set, but his eyes couldn't hold back that tortured look he had. You weakly raised a mental hand, tentatively out to that new stretch of bridge that opened to Az's cool desert of wind and ghosts. He seemed to wrap those sparkling shadows around your fingers, a small, hesitant tug in the direction you were flying. "A bit east. On land." You said quietly. You focused on him, on that soft silk that petted your fingers, as if he was tracing you with his mind. "An island. He's alone now...I think." You said, nodding. His mentality seemed too relaxed to be with anyone. "You think-" Cassian huffed, shaking his head. Rhys shot him a cold look but said nothing, letting you lead the way to where their brother was kept. You followed that bond to a cliffside looking over the ocean far below. Precarious, and dangerously elegant. The shadows fluttered over your mind at the sight of it. You smiled to yourself. "He's here." You said softly, trying to keep your voice from breaking. The castle seemed completely empty. If it wasnt for those encouraging tugs whenever you turned a corner that led the right way, you would have left the abandoned place alone. The wet sounds of the dripping dungeon made your bones chill. The temperature dropped and dropped with each step down. Cassian cursed softly to himself once you finally reached the bottom together. Rhys had every guard knocked down in a second. The fire they huddled around didnt sputter. He was clean and efficient. "Find him." He ordered, eyes wide in the low firelight. You nodded and closed your eyes. The tug was closer, but weaker. Your heart picked up. Letting your gut lead you, you went to the cell. Your eyes stung with tears at the sight of him. Cassian ripped the iron door free of its hinges and you followed inside behind him. Rhys was already there, inspecting his brothers wounds. Cassian broke the end of the ash arrow out of Az's wing and went for his water. Azriel drank greedily while Rhys held him up. His dull eyes flashed to you, then they fluttered. A small smile lit his pale face. "Mine. You found me." He managed before passing out. The other two Illyrians stared at you in surprise. Your eyes didnt leave the shadow singer's face. "I-" you stammered, head whirring with the words he spoke. "Azriel-" You reached to touch him but Cassian caught your wrist. "He needs a healer." He said softly, straight to the point. You nodded, and he let your hand go. Your fingers trembled. They carried him together back up flight after flight of stairs. You couldnt stop staring at how his face seemed to pinch in pain with every step. Your heart pounded with a protective urge with every step.

#reader insert #acotar fic #azriel #azriel x reader

124 notes · View notes

mandoinevarro · 4 years

Text

WILL BUY STOLEN GOODS FOR LOWER PRICE

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 1

Words: 8.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: shooting, non-descriptive death, SMUT, fingering, mentions of masturbation, AND masturbation now that I remember, penetration, creampie! just general filth, gambling?

a/n: SO literally nobody asked for this, but I decided to turn NO REFUNDS into the prologue of a short series (you don’t really need to read NO REFUNDS, it’s only for context.) Anywayyys heavy feelings, heavy plot, heavy smut. Have fun.

……………

Maker, you need to start cheating. That way you wouldn’t be in the middle of a staring contest with your cards, like you can change their colorful drawings and numbers if you only glare hard enough. You’ve never been particularly good at sabacc, but a little luck wouldn’t hurt, especially since this is the third round in a row you lose. Duma deals the last couple of cards across the coal black table and stacks the deck, signaling the start of the game.

Well, you suppose it doesn’t really matter; you doubt your sabacc buddies have better hands. These days, everyone in Nevarro is short on luck. Luck and food and water. Others are less pessimistic: As soon as Greef Karga glances at his hand he leans back on the carcass of a cantina booth and slaps his belly. “Ha!” he bellows, “by the end of this round, you filthy gutter womp rats will have to borrow from your womp rat mothers to pay me.”

“Quit bluffing, Karga. We know you don’t have shit,” Cara mutters. She picks up her cards and pulls a face like she bit on lemon, but still the veteran goes all in, pushes forward a couple of stabilizing coils, an identity beacon you could’ve sold at a decent price some months ago and—maker—even a pouch of nova crystal dust. Nobody here is stupid enough to gamble with food, but you’re surprised that even nova has lost its worth and been demoted to casino chip status. “This place smells like shit.”

“Bad bluff, piss-poor trash talk too,” you taunt. “Looks like all that time doing business with Imperials smoothed your brain, Karga.”

“Ex-Imperials,” he corrects. The ex-Guild leader slides a few more credits to the center of his ex-cantina’s table. “We live in a jolly Republic now, didn’t you hear? You’ve been liberated.”

“Fuck ‘em.” Duma turns her head, spits on the melted floor. “Can’t eat liberation, can I?” She throws a few more worthless credits onto the growing pile of nothing. At least, for now, it’s nothing. Credits and ship parts and every other type of currency haven’t meant anything but props in Nevarro for five months, when the siege began. That whole mess with troopers and Greef and Cara was bound to bring some repercussions—aside from making Karga’s cantina look like a volcano erupted inside. For five months, Imperial forces have surrounded the planet, and for five months, food and resources haven’t been allowed inside. They won’t let up, rumor has it, until they find the culprit: one particular Mandalorian with a valuable asset. They think he’s still hiding somewhere in the planet, but you know better. You watched the Razor Crest’s fly off-orbit and leave everything behind. Everything and everyone.

“This place smells like shit,” Cara repeats.

“Not shit,” replies Duma, “ash.” She picks up a card from the deck with long fingers. “You never did explain how that Mandalorian managed to torch this place.”

Cara’s sabacc face melts. Her fingers tighten and bend her cards as she exchanges a complicit look with Greef. “Never said it was Mando.”

“Who else? I was there in the first shootout. That hunter was fierce.” Duma dons a wolfish smile, because this is how she always wins: She plays with people, not cards. In fact, she abandons her hand face-down on the table and—oh no—gives you a once-over. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” You almost want to show her your garbage hand so she doesn’t bother trying to throw you off your inexistent game.

“Swung by the store a couple of times,” you answer as casually as you can manage and pretend the most interesting book is written on your cards. “But we weren’t exactly chummy, if that’s what you’re asking.” Creeping warmth attacks your face and there’s no stopping it. Shit.

“Funny, could swear I saw him leaving your store more than a couple of times.” You feel Duma’s eyes piercing into your forehead. “Pretty late at night, too.”

“Is that so?” Cara pipes with a lopsided grin.

“I thought you two were…friends,” Duma adds.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “you thought wrong.” Friends don’t leave friends to their luck in the middle of a fucking siege. It’s the same prickly thought that’s plagued you since you watched the Mandalorian take off triumphantly. It’s a stupid feeling. He was under no obligation to take you with him. You didn’t lie to Duma, you two weren’t friends. You couldn’t even call what you had a fling, even those require some degree of making-love-below-the-stars, quoting-passages-of-Naboo-Nights-to-each-other romance. Flings are shooting stars. No, your…thing, whatever it was, did not belong to the heavens. It was earthy. Human. It was counting credits and arguing about fuel prices or old modulators. It had weight—too much, apparently, to escape gravitational pull and fly away with him on the Crest. It was doomed to planets, both feet planted on the ground.

Still, you remember times when earthy was good. There was never anything airy or celestial in the way he’d take you. The shoved clothes, the harsh grunts, the rough hands, the pleasure, it was all palpable and primitive; earthy was dirty. Your furtive encounters had beating heart of their own, and there was always hard evidence left behind in case either of you ever needed a reminder: marks on the skin, ripped clothes, stained bedsheets. The bruises he left always took too long to heal, as if his touch enhanced your mortality, made you more human. Stars, those moments are what you miss the most. Five months is a long time to be neglected of touch—six, actually: five months since the siege, six since he last came to you. Earthy expires.

It’s not like there’s nobody in the planet willing to help you soothe your needs; quite the opposite, actually. Lately, it seems like handjobs are the new Nevarran handshake. Just last week you caught Cara feeling up some pretty market girl in an alley. You saw her, she saw you, you rolled your eyes, she grinned and got back to work. You were almost offended. Everybody’s screwing their time through the siege, while you’re left with nothing but reruns of filthy memories with the Mandalorian. You just know nobody but Mando will do. You replay your moments with him like a sad, mental porno on the nights you spend trying to get yourself off. Trying and failing, like having to put out a fire by spitting on it, because the only person in the galaxy with a hose is too busy playing hero lightyears away.

“Last round. Place your bets,” Karga announces and pushes a few more trinkets forward. Cara follows, and you pat around your pockets for something to lose. It’s all just rusted metal anyways. Only…shit, the last three games drained you. And Duma reads it on your face like you’ve got “BROKE” written all over your forehead.

“All out, huh?” She reaches down the table for her bag and drops a beskar pauldron on the table with a thud. A Mandalorian pauldron.

Cara purses her lips and balls a fist, but Greef shoots her a warning look. As if cantina brawls could make this place look worse.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t take anything that day,” Duma continues, shaking her head. “Regret it?”

“I’ll regret it,” you answer and go fish, as if a new card—the right card—could fix a life’s worth of bad luck, “when you learn how to chew beskar.” That earns you a signature “Ha!” from Karga and a cocked eyebrow from Duma. She can arch her eyebrows all she wants, but that much is also true. You don’t regret leaving the Mandalorian covert empty-handed.

You were the first on scene that day. After the smoke cleared, the remaining imps left to lick their wounds, and the Crest flew away, you went to check on Karga’s child, his pride and joy. You were met with a gruesome scene. The cantina, Nevarro’s most sacred landmark, had been reduced to its black skeleton, third-degree burns all over, gone. It sounds dramatic, but the cantina used to be the closest thing to a place of worship on this planet. God Booze was dead.

You kicked around the bar’s guts, until you found a gaping mouth on a wall, leading down, down, down into Nevarro’s entrails. Finding purgatory would’ve surprised you less than what you stumbled upon: an underground tunnel, an abandoned covert, and a sinister, unguarded pile of Mandalorian armor. Stars, it would’ve been so easy. You could’ve hoarded the spoils and stashed them away for better days. That amount of beskar could’ve bought you a one-way ticket out of this dumpster and an early retirement. But when you lifted a helmet, it stared back. It was blue and definitely not his, but Mando was all you could think of while you studied the helmet’s unique curves and creases. You heard his exasperated sighs when you got on his nerves, his moans when you’d touch him. And you just couldn’t do it. You sat back and watched as this skughole’s scavengers crept into the tunnels to pillage. Easy as that, everyone in Nevarro but you and Cara now has a beskar toy or two. Soon enough, this planet will house the wealthiest corpses in the galaxy if the siege is not lifted before reserves run out.

Karga clears his throat. “Well, ladies first. Let’s see those cards.”

Duma ignores him. “You know,” she tells you, “I’ve more beskar than I know what to do with. I’ll trade you a vembrance for a couple of ration packs.”

“And what am I supposed to do with a Mandalorian vembrance, play dress up?”

“The cards,” Greef urges.

“You’ll be rich.”

You snort. “The rich don’t starve.”

“Give me a break, we both know you’ve got portions to spare.”

Elbows on the table, you lean forward and closer to Duma. She sniffs weakness like a Corellian hound, and if you falter she’ll sink her fangs. “I’m not interested in your fucking loot.”

“Cause it’s stolen? You never had a problem with that before.” She mimics your move and leans closer. Karga fiddles with a coinage of calamari flan, like you’re both Canto Bight slot machines and he’s trying to decide where to put his money. “What, did you grow morals all of a sudden? Or maybe, you’re too worried of what your Mandalorian friend would think.” You flinch. She smirks. “Oh my, what would the disgraced hunter, code-breaker, cult member say—”

The tiny noise of Karga’s coinage clinking on the table is not enough to distract you from the verbal beating Duma is laying on you. But his voice—like he got the air knocked out of him—is enough to grab your attention when he murmurs, “Ask him yourself.”

Cara, Duma, and you turn to Greef Karga, who stares saucer-eyed at the window. All three of your heads move simultaneously, guided by the line of his eyesight. Outside the window, on the deserted street, stands a trooper barking orders. It’s one of those in all-black armor, the extra trigger-happy ones with a side of god complex because they think the change of color magically makes their aim less shitty. His blaster is drawn (surprise, surprise), and on the receiving end of its barrel…

Maker’s fucking mercy.

You don’t even see the blaster shot, only smoke snaking out of a hole on the shiny breastplate. The trooper plummets to the ground like his puppeteer cut off his strings: no last steps, no resistance. Now, anyone else would’ve walked away from what’s clearly worm food without a second look, but one does not become the best bounty hunter in the parsec by taking chances. A mountain of unpainted beskar looms over the corpse and kicks the blaster off the imp’s limp hand. The Mandalorian sheathes his own weapon—that blaster you’ve tweaked and polished so many times you know it as the palm of your hand—and scans the perimeter for danger.

You don’t tell your legs to move, but they don’t need the command. You find yourself trailing behind Cara, Duma, and Greef, rushing for the door. Outside, all four of you stumble and stop on your tracks to blink stupidly at the Mandalorian, the way children stare wide-eyed at soldiers on military parades. But this warrior stands grander than any Republic or Imperial officer you’ve ever seen. He’s clad head to toe in silver beskar—except for one armorless thigh that makes his other leg look even bulkier. His old armor, the one you used to shine and buff, is gone. This one you’ve only seen from afar, on that day he crashed the imps’ safehouse, and later when the battle broke out. You know it’s him, but in this new getup it’s easy to doubt. Maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he won’t recognize you.

The Mandalorian studies each of you one by one, his hand near the blaster in case he spots any enemy faces. The hand twitches when he sees Duma—she doesn’t have the cleanest reputation around here—but she’s shocked and unarmed, so his arm relaxes. To Greef and Cara he gives short nods that they return.

And then you. He actually takes a step back when he spots you, like you pushed him square on the chest. The helmet lingers on you and tilts, shamelessly rakes over every feature like he’s memorizing you. You hold your breath. It reminds you of the day you met, that weight on your chest from knowing you’ve been seen. That’s how you know it really is Mando: Whenever he stares at you, you feel it in your bones.

You realize the moment’s dragged out for too long when Karga clears his throat. The spell breaks.

You and Mando look bashfully away from each other. You squint up at the clouds, your hands stiff on your waist in a forced, generic, looks like rain! pose. He turns to his boss (ex-boss? enemy? You never asked for an update on Mando’s most recent status in the Guild) and mutters a short, “Karga.” To Cara he’s warmer, offers a comradely clasp of hands and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again.”

“You too,” Cara drawls, as she stares suspiciously between you and Mando. You squint harder at the clouds. “Didn’t expect you back during a siege, though.”

“I have to…” he spies a furtive glance at Duma and lowers his voice, “I’ve something to do here.”

Duma rolls her eyes and clasps her bag across her chest. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll leave you girls to catch up on the hot goss.” She strides into the cantina (probably to bag the bets, the asshole), and goes back outside.

She points at the window of a crumbling building. “Careful with snitches.”

You glance back to the window. Nothing. Jerk. Duma’s not above a made you look moment, apparently. You turn back to her but she’s already disappearing into an alley.

Cara waits until she’s gone to grab the Mandalorian by the arm. “Mando, where’s the…” she glances at you and hesitates. You fold your arms and raise your eyebrows at the veteran. If she expects you to leave graciously like Duma she’s got another thing coming. You’re actually very, very interested on the Mandalorian’s hot goss. Especially it comes with an explanation as to why he left you stranded here. Even though he doesn’t owe you one. Technically. “Y’know,” she finally says and drops her hand. “The asset.”

“On the ship. I need to get back.”

“You, my friend, need to lay low,” Greef says with a raised index. “Every imp in Nevarro will be looking for you. Maker—” he spreads his arms “—they already are! And someone must have heard the blaster shot. You have ten minutes or so until an Imperial squadron gets here. The, uh, asset will be fine.”

“The asset,” Cara exclaims, “is a ch—is…is delicate. He can’t just leave it on the Crest!”

Mando interrupts their game of taboo. “Cara,” he starts, “you go to the ship and check on…the asset. Please. I landed where I did last time. I…I’ll lay low in the covert.”

“About that,” Greef mumbles. He looks at Cara for support, but she steps back and raises both hands: You say it. Greef sighs. “They…they found the tunnels, Mando.”

The helmet crooks slowly to study Karga. “Who’s they?”

“Everyone. Half of Nevarro is living down there, you…you can’t go back.”

Silence.

You imagine all four of you go through the same checklist: Even if Cara didn’t already have a top-secret assignment with whatever the asset is, she doesn’t have a place of her own yet. Every week, she crashes on one of her sweethearts’ couches. On their beds, more likely. There’s no way Karga is letting him near his house, not after what happened at the cantina. That leaves…

“Stay with me,” you blurt before you can really think it through.

≈

The cramped storage room you call a home sits a story above your store. It’s four walls and only the essentials: a bed, an armchair, a table, a stove, and the only detached room is the refresher. It’s enough for you. But the Mandalorian looks like he squeezed into a dollhouse when you usher him inside and close the door behind you. He stands in the middle of the room, all fighter’s bulk and grandiose armor, like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he moves. As if he’s never been here before, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The apartment may be small, but it’s so filled with memories you could turn it into a museum of your dirty escapades with him. And if you look to your right, you’ll see the armchair where he sat while I went down on him on a stormy night.

“So,” you say and lean against the front door, “business or pleasure?”

He moves to stand to the side of the window opposite the front door and his glove moves the old washed out curtain to the side to peer into the street. The sun is setting, and the last streaks of light paint the beskar with warped yellow-orange streaks that stay as still as an undisturbed pond. So this is how he wants the evening to go: quietly and with a reasonable amount of distance between you. Disappointment knots in your stomach.

“Business.”

You open your mouth to cut into the silence, but you’re all out of words. Maybe you’ve lost your touch. It used to be so easy to tease him, but now…a heaviness seems to weigh down on his shoulders, some heightened sense of duty. But also determination: He stands taller now, prouder, like he woke up one day and knew exactly what he needed to do and why. Whatever that purpose is, you’re pretty sure it doesn’t involve you. You’re a detour, and not even the fun kind, judging by the space between you. Maker, this man used to pounce on you. Has the siege really battered you up that much?

“Been busy?” The sudden question startles you. He’s never been one to break the ice, that was usually your job.

“Sure.” Nope, not at all. “Store and all.” You closed the store three months ago. Turns out nobody buys equipment for their ships when they can’t fly past the atmosphere. “Plus, somebody needs to keep Karga distracted from his mourning. You owe him a cantina.”

“He told I did that?”

“Just a guess.” You move a couple of steps forward, like you’re approaching a nervous lothcat. When he doesn’t move away, you sit on the armchair, a little closer to him. “You like that flamethrower too much.”

“That what you four were doing in there?” The helmet moves to the side so he can spy deeper down the street. Always careful. “Assessing my damage?”

“No, just sabacc. Different kind of damage.” He’s making small talk. The Mandalorian, whom you’ve overheard have conversations solely based on grunts and sighs, is chatting with you. He’s not just answering out of politeness, he’s prompting you to go on, to keep running your mouth. That’s something he said once between thrusts, perched over you right on this floor: Keep running your mouth, see what happens. The memory warms your neck. Maker, not the point. The point is, before, he always said you had a smart mouth. Sometimes he’d chastise you for it, other times he’d encourage it. And you used to have the suspicion (or, let’s face it: fantasy) that he actually liked it. That somewhere hidden, beyond his pride and honor’s jurisdiction, he enjoyed the teasing and the banter, the challenge of having to deal with you. Better yet: More than once it crossed your mind that he got off on it, too. It’s been a long time, but some of that might remain. Maybe you’ll take his advice: keep running your mouth, see what happens.

You sit straighter, arch your back a bit just in case he’s watching. “You interrupted a round with your little stunt.”

“Yeah?” The helmet doesn’t move, but his hand runs up the curtain, considering. “Sorry. I bet you were winning.”

That makes you smile. It’s a dig at you. Far and wide across Nevarro, your uncanny ability to lose every single game of sabacc you play baffles locals and foragers alike. Yes, you know you suck, but the game amuses you anyways. You like the trash talk, the double-guessing, the bluff-calling. So much so that you forget to actually play. But what’s important is he’s teasing you, and that’s more than charted territory with him, a match you have a shot at winning. Okay. Game on.

“I was, actually.”

He huffs. “Don’t believe you.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re here on business.” Pause for effect. You can almost see a question mark form in a cloud above the helmet. You lean forward and lick your lips, lower your voice. “I think you missed me.”

You’re used to the helmet’s features remaining impassive, so you don’t look for clues on there anymore. Mando’s hands are more telling. You want to believe you actually see his fingers twitch and clutch the curtain a little tighter, that he takes too long to answer. That’s what trying to read him is all about—blind-guessing and wishful thinking.

“Don’t know about that. Six months and two weeks without your cons, I’m almost rich.”

Down to the week, huh? “Okay, if you want to make it about money we’ll bet on it. Twenty credits says you missed me.”

“Last time I was here you weren’t a compulsive gambler. Store’s doing that bad?”

“Last time you were here,” you coo, “there was a lot less talking involved.” You stare into the visor, and pray he can’t see the desperate hope in your eyes.

Your prayers are answered. In a way. Mando ignores you, doesn’t even look at you. You hear your clumsy attempt at seduction buzz around him like a one-winged bee, crash into the unmoving, unmoved Mandalorian, and fall to the floor in a pointed-lined spiral. You’re so embarrassed you want to step on it. Well, that settles it. Six months is apparently enough for a Mandalorian to lose interest.

“And store’s doing fine,” you lie to try and sway the conversation away from that lame innuendo that missed its mark. He really just wants to talk, then. No big deal. It’s fine. “Nobody gambles for money anyways.”

“Then why?”

You shrug. “Why do you hunt?” He’s never told you, but you saw him chase down a bounty once. He was ruthless, sweating adrenaline and with far too much stamina to only be chasing a bag of credits. “For the risk. The thrill.”

He lets your words float for a second. “You get a thrill out of losing?”

You roll your eyes. “I only lose cause everybody knows my bluff.” That is, except you. “You need to know someone to know their bluff. Greef and the others already know me too well. You, on the other hand.” You smile. “If you and I played, I’d get to keep so much of your stuff you’d think I’m half Jawa.”

And, only then, he seems to tense. That stupid throwaway line is what makes his spine grow visibly rigid and his hand drop from the curtain to his belt, where the leather of his glove creaks with how tightly he clutches the buckle. White and blue streetlights that reflect on his armor glide around like it’s water instead of beskar, and they’re your only indication that he’s shifted slightly. Slowly, so slowly you expect his neck to creak like a door, the Mandalorian turns away from the window to look at you. He holds there quietly, and you feel ants running down your back…stars, you’re nervous. For the first time in a while, he makes you genuinely anxious.

“You’re saying I don’t know you?” he rasps under the helmet. No, not really, but if it gets a reaction out of him…

“All I’m saying,” you start, summoning all your strength to keep your voice from faltering, “is you’ve been gone too long.” You try to make it sound a bit playful, but the words come out tasting bitter when you remember the sharp little edge that’s been digging on your side. He left you here, it whispers, he left you here and didn’t bother looking back. But a heavy boot suddenly drops forward and you’re forced to stop nursing your grudge to try and predict what Mando’s next move will be.

With every step he takes, you’re instinctively swallowed deeper into your armchair, until he’s looming over you. Stars above, the sheer size of him is enough to block out most of the artificial light coming in, and you’re left to squint in the blue twilight. Maker, you don’t remember him this big, this intimidating. Five months ago you would’ve smirked and opened your legs wide. C’mon, I don’t bite unless you ask, you would’ve teased, but now…now you think maybe you are the one who doesn’t know him anymore.

But some things never change, and having him so near still makes your thighs press together. If anything, this new foreignness, the inherent threat of a bounty hunter in your home that never quite poked the right nerve before now pulls on your most sensitive areas. It propels your heartbeat on a sprint. His arm moves, and—oh, you want him to touch you.

Visor trained on you, Mando points to the floor instead. “You hide your credits here.” To illustrate (or just to rub it in that he knows) his boot presses down on the loose tile and shifts from side to side. The sharp sound it makes irritates you less than knowing he found the fox clever hiding spot you used to pat yourself on the back for. “You don’t keep them in the store because it’s too easy to break into. The security panel downstairs is broken, but the one up here works fine.”

You can almost hear his proud smirk under the helmet. There’s a reserved side to him, sure, but bastard can be arrogant when he wants to. And no, you have no idea how he found the spot, but you’re not about to admit it.

“Congrats, boy scout. You can spot a busted panel and you have flat feet. Want a badge?” Your irritation brings back some of your old snark, but you still flinch when he moves closer and his legs brush against your knees.

“You also keep expensive parts inside the stuffing of this—” he takes a tiny step forward and frames your knees with his legs “—armchair.” Your blood freezes at his words, but it abruptly runs hot as the city’s lava river when you realize how close he stands now. His legs press against the armchair and there’s nowhere to go. You’re cornered.

A leather glove moves close and you hold your breath, before you realize he’s only toying with the tips of your hair. But his fingers dig deeper, tangle on thicker strands and, without warning, give a short but firm tug. It’s a tiny pull, but maker’s mercy, you feel your core pulse. And then, before you can regain some lucidity, his fingers dip lower, where the tips trace a slow line down your nape. He draws featherlight circles on that spot between your neck and your shoulder that he knows makes your toes curl, and—stars, it’s just been too long—you whimper.

“Still so sensitive here,” he whispers.

Once, this shielded man knew his way around your body like it belonged to him. You thought that part of him was lost, that he forgot, that he’d truly been gone too long. Those fears dissipate when his palm curls around the back of your neck to hold your gaze on him, while the thumb of his other hand brushes your lips. You know the drill—you open your mouth and give the orange tip some kitten licks. Mando huffs: You can do better than that. Maker, it should be a red flag, how quickly you comply. That urgent need to please him that had never, ever felt so crucial. An O forms in your lips before you can stop them, and his thumb pushes down on your tongue deep and deeper. You should play hard, make him earn it, bite him. But his finger starts to retreat and you panic—no, he can’t change his mind, not now. You seal your lips, trap him inside your mouth and suck. But his grip on the back of your neck grows beskar stiff, and he forcefully removes his finger…only to glide the spit over your lips. Just like that first time.

The visor looms closer to your face, and you catch a ruptured sigh, the pleasured kind that these four walls know so well. If Mando wasn’t holding you down, your chest would balloon with satisfaction and you’d float. His thumb trails down your throat, wetting its path and no doubt feeling the vibration when you chuckle. He cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

“You owe me twenty credits,” you explain, your breath clouding the helmet’s surface. “You did miss me.”

Mando crouches lower, where his helmet brushes your nose, and gropes the tops of your thighs with those wide palms you’ve been dreaming about for weeks.

“Yeah? You like bets?” You’ve never heard his voice so coarse, scratchy like week-long stubble. Did he change the settings of his modulator? Or is it just rash, pent-up need? “Then thirty credits says you’re fucking soaked.” His fingers butterfly higher up your thighs, almost at the apex. Your legs jerk.

“That’s cheating,” you gasp.

He takes one glove off and settles the covered hand on your hip, while the other disappears between your legs until—stars—he cups your core through your pants. You mewl and he hums when he feels the hot, damp fabric.

“I still win.” He presses the heel of his palm right into your clit and grinds it back and forth. Oh, if you thought you were wet before. The pressure, the friction, him—it all scalds you from head to toe like a fever, but you chase it, greedily push your hips into his palm. His fingers flatten along your slit and grope you tighter. “Gonna pay me? Doesn’t have to be credits.” He pushes viciously into you with that wide, hard palm, preening at the little gasps that escape you. Whimpering, you let your eyes fall shut and focus on something sprouting in your belly. Stars, you’re close—how the fuck are you so close already? It must be all the repressed desire, all that time. Fuck, you’re close—

The Mandalorian halts. You’re eyes flash open to see him straighten and step back, take his other glove off to stuff it snug between his belt and his hip, and remain still as a building. Still catching your breath, you study him head to toe, scanning for a sign of what went wrong. He’s clutching his belt, his stance is too smug. This isn’t him fighting temptation, he’s toying with you. Maker help him, you’re going to kill him. Some corner in your brain reasons that it’s kinda fair, as payback for all the times you messed with him. But in the forefront of your mind pulses the climax he just denied you, cast aside and angry.

Before you know what you’re doing, you push yourself off the armchair. “You—”

Mando beats you to it. A hand on your shoulder and a vembrance across your chest, he lunges forward and slams your back against a wall. He hovers over you, tightly pressed against your body. A fleshy, hard bulge covered by his pants throbs against your belly. Of course. You forgot how much he likes it when you look like prey; how much he enjoys the hunt, whether he admits it or not. The hand on your shoulder trails down to cup your breast. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shaky exhale.

“You need it bad,” he breathes as his fingers massage your chest. The movement shifts the fabric of your tunic, brushing it against your nipple. You roll your hips to try and stimulate him, to show you’re not the only one worked up. His erection twitches and you smile.

“You—mmm—you’re projecting.” You grind again to prove your point, but he catches on to what you’re implying and retaliates by shoving his hand inside your cleavage. Stars, you have to punch down the moan surges up your throat when he pinches your nipple.

“You missed this,” Mando hisses, and whether he’s trying to convince you or himself, you don’t know. What you do know is he’s plotting to settle this stupid inkling of a bet in his favor. He wants you to admit you missed him so he doesn’t have to. You know, because it’s exactly what you are trying to do.

You sneak your hand down his torso, aiming for the hem of his pants—but before you can get even with him, he crushes his hips against yours and traps your palm between them. And he’s not done—he wedges his thigh between your legs and rubs it up and down, drags your clit just right. Your mouth gapes in a silent moan as white hot pleasure lights up your spine. You want to get away from it but, maker, his forearm is still stiff against your chest. Even when you grab the vembrance with your free hand it doesn’t budge. You’re trapped between him and the wall.

“Can take care of m-myself just fine,” you croak as a last attempt to hold on to your dignity. “At least when I’m alone I don’t have to fake any orgasms.”

Yeah, it’s a low blow. A dirty fucking lie too, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all. Good news is it gets you a reaction—he immediately stops moving, as if your words punched him off balance. Bad news is you hit a nerve—his breathing becomes harsh like a bull’s, so much so that you expect clouds of smoke to come out from under the helmet. The Mandalorian creeps closer to your face and his forearm digs deeper into your chest. There’s a promise of danger in the dark visor that makes your pulse race, and a primitive instinct blasts emergency sirens. Maker, this won’t end well for you.

Just as you’re about to backtrack and whisper you didn’t mean it, Mando lets go of you—only for a split second, before he grasps your shoulders and turns you around to push your front into the wall. You jerk back on instinct, but he flattens a palm between your shoulder blades and squishes you right back against it.

The helmet rests right next to your ear when Mando growls, “You expect me to believe that?” His hands drop to your hips as he replaces the pressure on your back with his chest. His body weight holds you in place, and he rocks the hard outline of his erection along your ass. “That I don’t make you cum, you little fucking—” You curl your back as much as his body allows so he can stroke himself tighter against you. He groans and kneads your cheeks, moves the flesh in tandem with his thrusts. “I shouldn’t let you tonight, t-teach you a lesson.”

The mere suggestion feels devastating enough to let a pathetic whine tumble from your lips. Before, you could’ve turned this into a game, held out a little longer just to watch him break first. But you’re too pent up, too desperate, too sick of waiting. Your fingers hook on the hem of your trousers and push them down. Mid-movement, he traps both of your wrists in one hand and keeps them pressed against your lower back, while the other one gets your pants the rest of the way down, underwear too. You barely have enough time to step out of them before his free hand reaches between the apex of your thighs. You’re sticky, leaking around his fingers, and pushing back against his crotch like you’ll drop dead if he doesn’t fuck you.

“Fucking wet, fuck…” he mutters. His fingers follow the heat and your pussy clenches around nothing. Stars, if he just moved higher, a little higher where you’re hot and soaked and throbbing for him. But he takes his sweet time, molds the inside of your thighs like clay, pulls the flesh, squishes it together, until you’re writhing against him and leaking down your leg. Your vision blurs. “Can—can I…?” He lets his index finish the sentence, teasing at the edges of your outer lips.

Even with the side of your face against the wall, you manage to nod. “Yeah,” you breathe.

Two fingers slide around your folds and you gasp. Mando moves slowly, collecting your arousal and coating his fingers. Your breath catches when the tips finally push into your entrance—only a fraction before they slide back out, so the rest of his palm can cup along your cunt and drag more slick behind it. He’s strategically avoiding your clit, though, and with both arms behind your back and at his mercy, you can’t reach for it yourself. Fuck, you…you only need to hold on a bit more, he’ll get bored of his game soon enough. That’s it, just a little longer. You waited six months, no way he’s making you beg after a few minutes of teasing.

The Mandalorian eventually pulls his fingers away from your thighs and curses under his breath. You hear the familiar rustling of fabric and a divine zip that fills your eyes with tears of relief. Fucking finally. You brace yourself and relax your pelvic floor in preparation, but it’s barely necessary—you’re so ready for it. Your cunt is open and weeping, he can just slide it in. All this time, with nothing substantial inside you, your lower muscles pump and twist painfully with demanding want. Even with his size and in this position, you’re so turned on he might even be able to bottom out. Fuck, he doesn’t have to move much, a few good pumps and he’ll have you cumming, easy. Stars, what’s taking so damn long—

A modulated, battered moan and a wet noise make you turn your head over your shoulder and look for the source. The low light makes it difficult to make out shapes, but there’s no mistaking what you find below you. Hand wrapped solid around his cock, Mando is jerking himself off. With your cum as lubricant. While he treats you like a piece of furniture he’s only gripping for support. A chemical cocktail of lust mixed with fury spikes your blood.

“Is…wh-what are…what the fuck do you think y-you’re…”

“Say it,” he spits between his teeth, “say you f-fucking need me.”

No, no fucking way. As much as the words burn on your tongue and your clit tugs and begs, you’re not saying it. He left, not you. You waited for him. You turn your head as far back as your neck allows without snapping a ligament and look straight into the visor. And pointedly curl your lips inside your mouth, sealed.

Your act of rebellion lasts a good ten seconds.

“You’re so fucking difficult,” he snarls. He stops tugging on his cock, and for a moment you hope he might indulge you, push into you and stop the masochist torment you’ve talked yourselves into. But when it comes to Mando and you, it’s never that easy. Still not releasing your wrists, he grabs the base of his cock, glistening with your stolen juices, and rubs it up and down the swell of your uncovered ass. You gasp, let your lips part and your gaze fall to where he’s rubbing up against you and refusing to push inside.

He's not going to last long. Swollen and a strangled purple, the head of his cock dribbles warm precum and smears it on your lower back. The veins on his length throb against your ass, and stars, they’d feel so much better inside you. The Mandalorian’s grunts and groans ring more frustrated than lost in pleasure; it’s not enough for him either. He’s torturing you and himself just to prove a point, while you refuse to speak the magic words just to keep your pride. Desperate tears threaten to spill, but you shut your eyes to push them back. Either of you could put an end to it, right now. Maker, it’s on the tip of your tongue: I need you. Spit it out, end it. I need you, Mando, I need you, do whatever you want with me. It doesn’t matter that you abandoned me in this shithole, that you discarded me like faulty equipment, that you didn’t even have the decency to tell me—

The thrusting stops. When you open your eyes, you find the visor fixed on you, cocked slightly to the side, like there’s writing on your face. Mando’s grip on your wrist softens, his frustrated panting slows. Maybe he sees the unshed tears, or maybe your face really is that transparent, because he takes pity on you. Gentle palms on your shoulders, he turns you around to face him.

Night has fallen. Fragments of fluorescent light pour inside through your worn out curtains and give the helmet a fuzzy silver halo. The rest of the armor is shiny black, smudges of light here and there. His head moves around the features of your face, one by one, taking its time. Showdown’s over. He’s not playing a game anymore, not trying to get you to break, he’s just…studying you. Staring his fill of you farewell-style, even though he just came back. It hits you that you don’t know how long he’s staying this time. You open your mouth to ask, but stop yourself in time. If he leaves, he leaves. He doesn’t owe you any explanations.

But when he curls an arm around your waist and holds you against the wall and his cold breastplate, it doesn’t feel like goodbye. It feels like old times—pre-siege, pre-battle, pre-everything—when he confidently grabs your left thigh, sinks his fingers into the plump flesh, and hooks it on his lower back. You drape your arms around his shoulders and hold him closer. You’ve always liked the bulk of him against you, it makes everything feel more real. Buried on the crook of your neck, you hear him sigh when he lets go of your thigh and blindly searches your cunt. With your leg around his back you’re completely open for him, so it takes him no time to find your bud. He presses against it and rubs it in slow but tight circles that make your legs cramp.

You push down on him, demanding more. He groans and complies, inserts one finger and continues rubbing on your clit with his thumb. Maker, this has no right to be so good. He’s doing pretty much the same you’ve done to yourself these past months, but with Mando there are never any ghost sensations, no what ifs. It’s all here and now, and you swear you feel the pleasure of his fingers picking up speed in every corner of your body. He has you moaning and rocking your hips, dripping down his hand, and when he starts rubbing you harder and tighter, you finally whine a tiny, “Please.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t need to ask what you want, but he moves his helmet to look at you square in the face, check if you mean it. You stare droopy-eyed into the visor and nod: yesyesyesyes. Mando groans and grips you tighter. Maker, he’s right, you need it—need the bruises, need his cock, need all of him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand leaves you to grab his cock and guide it to your entrance. He moves it around your lips and brushes his tip against your clit as he looks for your hole in the dark. It doesn’t take long for the head to poke right outside where it needs to go. “Fuck, I don’t—don’t think I can hold back, don’t want to hurt you—”

“Stars, please,” you whine, “I want it rough.” You want it more than rough. After six months, you want it fucking depraved, but neither of you is going to last long enough to make it elaborate. Maker, you don’t care. Right now, you don’t care for risky positions or clever techniques, you want him.

He groans and pushes inside—only the head, still testing, but your walls immediately grip him tightly to hinder any attempts to move away. That’s not what you should’ve been worried about. Fingers tight around your waist, Mando pulls you down as he pushes up. Stars. The brutal thrust reaches the end of you and then some more. Fuckfuckfuck. The dull bam of your skull hitting the wall is suddenly drowned by a slicker, filthier sound coming from between your legs. His length begins to pull out, your pussy complains the whole way, and you can almost hear the Mandalorian gritting his teeth through the sweet torture of feeling you squeeze around him…and thrust back up—harder. He likes the pace and sticks to it—fast, rough, deep, repeat—while you make sounds like you’re choking on air. Stars, it has been long. Long enough to partially forget his size, his fucking girth, currently filling you to the brim and punching high little sounds from your throat.

“Mmmando,” you sob.

Mando groans in response, snakes a hand down to your clit and rubs with the same wild abandon as his pounding. Maker, your memory was never this fucking good. No matter how many details you recalled, there’s nothing compared to the real, human meat of his cock pulsing urgently inside you, hitting your cervix, making you whine. Nothing like his fingers around your waist, or knowing there’ll be bruises tomorrow. The pleasure has teeth, carries a painful bite, but it’s exactly what you need. That tangible grit in his thrusts and his fingers is the missing piece. Your muscles start cramping, you pull him tighter against you—Maker, right there, you can feel it. It reaches your head and makes you dizzy, sheds light on some hidden, shameful words.

“Mando, I…”

“I—fuck—I n-needed this,” he grunts and brings his hand down to feel where his cock is inching out of you, like he has to double check it’s actually happening. Thrust. “Used—used to d-dream about you.” Thrust. Three fingers now push into your clit and draw frantic shapes. You clench your jaw, feel the hot tide in your belly rise faster. Thrust. “Wake up so f-fucking hard—cum in my pants.” Thrust—thrust—thrust.

Maybe it’s his words, maybe the rough pace, but something holds a flame to the dynamite building inside you and it explodes. Maker, your head’s going to burst. You moan long and deep into the spot Mando’s ear might be. Your legs shake, your arms cramp. Months’ worth of frustration gush hot and wet around him, as he babbles encouragement: There you go, just like that, make it fucking good. Your walls are still fluttering, your ears are still ringing, you haven’t even ridden out the last of your climax when his hips pick up the pace.

“Let me—let me cum inside,” the warrior pants, “let me f-fill this cunt…I—I haven’t since—fuck, I didn’t—”

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please, Mando, cum, cum inside—”

There’s no space left between you, but Mando finds a way to squish you tighter against him as he pounds into you for a few last moments, until you hear a strangled grunt, and a half-forgotten warmth pools inside you. The extra lubrication drives his last thrust as deep as your body allows. A few more lazy thrusts inside you, short and stunted as you take his load inside you, before he stops. A warm string trails down your leg, and—stars, he’s leaking out. How much did he cum that it didn’t fit inside you? Fuck.

You take turns panting, whimpering, listening to each other’s heartbeats slow to a semi-normal pace. The Mandalorian moves away from the crook of your neck to meet your glossy eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you think will. You can almost hear his mouth opening, words boiling and rising in bubbles up his throat—

Zium!

It’s your imagination. It’s your ears ringing from that orgasm, your mind making stuff up. But. You could swear you saw a red flash glade right past your cheek. And from the way Mando’s helmet cocks to the side, you know he saw it too. You turn your heads in unison, to see smoke coming out of a hole a breath away from your ear. It takes both of you too long to put two and two together, and—before he can pull out—more of those red flashes are raining down on you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 2 let’s goooooooo

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #star wars smut

2K notes · View notes