#just want a bit of a fresh slate

[0odlesofd00dles]

A small heads up I'm moving away from this account and archiving it! <:) I had a lot of fun here, and hope anyone that stopped by had a good time seeing my silly lil doodles! yall have a lovely year nd day alright?

#just want a bit of a fresh slate #for the new year #so! new blog! >:)

[outsideratheart]

Trust These Hands (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: Still riding the high that is the champions league final! 

2-0 down at the end of the first half wasn’t how you expected the final to go. Barcelona couldn’t seem to find the back of the net no matter how many shots they take and Wolfsburg proved that they only need one chance to score. As you made your way towards the tunnel there are four people you wanted to talk to and that was your defence but Alexia walks towards you, stopping her warm up as she does so. You know she means well but when you feel her hand on your shoulder you shrug it off. You didn’t need comforting right now, you needed to know what that hell happened in the last 45 minutes.

“Are you fit?” You ask Lucy as she sits in her locker. You voice isn’t loud, in fact no one other than the players to either side of her can hear what you are saying.

“I—“ She hesitates so you crouch down enough that you are at her level “It’s my fault” it was a whisper, one which let’s you know she is disappointed with her performance.

“No Luce, it’s mine” you go the drinks cooler and get the both the defender and yourself a bottle of water, the team now aware of the conversation that is taking place between the two of you “Once her foot struck the ball it was on me. It is goalkeeper’s job to save the shot, it’s cruel but it’s the job”

“But Pajor got past me” 

“How about we both go out there with a fresh slate” 

The English defender nods her head in agreement and it gives you faith going into the second half. Unbeknownst to you Alexia watches and listens to the interaction. Since coming to the club you have unintentionally taken a captain’s role given your experience but she knows right now you needed to know it wasn’t your fault just as it wasn’t Lucys.

You almost felt lonely as you sit in your locker listen to Jona’s strategies for the second half. Being a goalkeeper was a tough job and it was one that most people never experienced. Barcelona needed to score in the second half, that much was obvious but those goals would mean nothing if  you didn’t stop Wolfsburg from putting the ball in the back of the net. 

“- If anyone can come back from this it is us” 

Alexia was now speaking and you had been too deep in your own head to realise. It wasn’t the mindset you needed to have so you quickly try to come up with a game plan, one which can give you a little bit of control going back out onto the pitch.

“Y/N” now she was in front of you and you didn’t even hear her coming. Something else you failed to pick up on is that you are the last two in the locker room.

Pity; that is the look in her eyes. Throughout the season there were some tough games. She remembers how you where when you got back from Germany after playing Bayern but even then you didn’t have the defeated posture you currently have.

“Mi corazón”

She knew how much you loved the nickname she gave you shortly after you asked her to officially be your girlfriend. The term of endearment warmed your heart but there was no place for that right now. You didn’t need a warm heart, you needed fire in your belly and ice in your mind. 

“I can’t do this, not with you” you pull on your gloves and make your way towards the door “Are you coming?” You ask her.

“But you just said—“ 

“I love you but I don’t need my girlfriend right now, I need my captain”

The two of you walk down the tunnel side by side with little to nothing been said. Alexia didn’t know what to say, well she did but it wouldn’t be of any use. You held the weight of the club on your shoulders in every game you play but today was different, today a champions league title was on the line and you refused to admit defeat when there was still 45 minutes left play.

Just before you step onto the pitch Alexia grabs your wrist and turns you to face her one last time.

“You are the best goalkeeper on that pitch” she was fully aware what her words meant. You weren’t just playing any team in Europe, you were playing Wolfsburg. The team that all but told you that you weren’t good enough to play for them and so far you were proving them right. 

“But” for a brief second you let Alexia see your vulnerability that came in the form of doubt.

“No” she now places her hands on your shoulders “you are Y/N Y/L/N. You are going to go out there and protect your goal. I trust these hands, the team trusts these hands and the fans trusts these hands. Do you?”

When you nod your head a smile tugs at alexia lips and almost by instinct as similar one appears on your face.

“Good now go show them what I see everyday” 

The two of your briefly hug just like any other team mates would before you run towards your goal which much to your dismay was right near the Wolfsburg fans. They cheer as you stand tall in your box. You’re not sure if it is out of respect for all you had given to their beloved club or if it was some kind of mind game. Either way you chose to ignore it.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Patri had scored twice within the space of two minutes and it took everything in you not the run the length of the field to celebrate with the team. Instead you saw a few Barcelona fans sitting behind your goal so you celebrate with them. The game was tied and you knew that you couldn’t afford to make any mistakes and neither could your back line. 

With every pass of the ball, the minutes pass by and despite both teams greatest efforts the game remains 2-2. Extra time was more or less the same. Both teams were getting tired and even though shots were taken no player was able to find the back of the net. 30 minutes later the referee blows her whistle; the final was going to penalties. In your eyes it was no longer Barcelona vs Wolfsburg, it was you versus Merle Frohms. 

You weren’t nervous. Being nervous came for one of two reasons: either you were unprepared or because you were doubting yourself. Neither of those two things applied to you right now in this moment. You knew this team like the back of your hand and you had spent hours over the years helping them perfect their penalties. 

Alexia leaves the group to do the coin toss to determine which side of the pitch the shootout will take place and which team will take the first penalty. You and a few of the other players watch the captains hoping to see what the decision will be. When you see Svenja turn her attention to you it is obvious that she is trying to get a read on you to see which decision you would prefer, deep down she already knows the answer.

“We want to go second” the Wolfsburg captain tells the referee.

Now it was up to Alexia to decide which end. She knows which she would prefer as one is closer to the Barcelona fans but still she turns to you. She is asking which side you want to play at. You tilt your head to the left side of the pitch, the one that Alexia too wanted to play at.

Shootouts were lonely for goalkeepers. Each team had split into to groups: those on the pitch near the halfway line and those on the bench that watch in anticipation with the staff knowing the final is out of their hands. 

You stood to the side by yourself as you watch Pina step up to take the first penalty. It was a lot of pressure for the young forward but she hit the side netting with ease. As Sveindis Jonsdottir took the ball from the referee you tried your best to see if anything about her body language gave her away. You didn’t know the forward that well given that she signed for the club when you were injured. She is right footed so you dive to the left, it was a well known tactic but the ball just slips past your fingers. 

Frido scored her penalty and you didn’t doubt her for a second. The moment you saw her step up you almost felt bad for Frohms, she didn’t stand a chance. Ewa Pajor was next for Wolfsburg and you could see the nerves radiating off her. You knew exactly where she was going but at the last minute she slices the ball, instead of it going in the bottom corner it goes to the top but your quick reflexes allow you to leap into the air and tip the ball of the top of the goal. 

Barcelona now had the upper hand, it just had to stay that way and they would be crowned champions.

Patri is up next and you know where she is going because she had a similar placement to Pina, only her target was the other side of the goal. The speed in which she takes the penalty leaves Frohms frozen in her spot but the ball hits the post and goes wide. Patri looks at you and mouths  I’m sorry. You use your index finger and tilt you chin up, a way of telling her to do the same. Now it was the captain’s turn. Svenja was someone you knew very well and you knew that she had multiple shots in her arsenal. In that moment you try your best to remember the average placement of her shots but it is no use. Although you dive the right way, her shot hits the back of the net.

It is a small shock when you see Mapi step up to the spot next. You thought Barca would go attackers first given that they take the most shots on a daily basis but you trusted Mapi to score and she did. Obi steps up for Wolfsburg and unlike her team mates thus far she keeps ahold of the ball and looks you directly in your eye. You and her had a bond and you hated that you were now facing off against each other but you had a job to do and so did she. She always shoots left and you knew that she wouldn’t risk going against what she knows or at least that’s what you think. She shoots down the middle but my some miracle the ball hits your foot before hitting the cross bar. Obi had missed.

The whole stadium erupted at what was one of the best penalty saves they have seen. As you walk back towards the side you encourage the crowd to make some noise. It was now 3 penalties scored to 2 in favour of Barcelona with only one round left. 

Alexia was the fifth penalty taker. She was Barcelona’s penalty taker. As she steps up to the penalty spot she looks to you. She was nervous, it wasn’t a common sight and suddenly the confidence you felt only seconds ago faded. You nod your head and she does the same.

With the crowd silent, Alexia readies herself. If she scores then Barcelona win. 

She misses.

And now you felt the pressure and what’s worse is you knew who was taking Wolfsburg’s last penalty. It was your best friend, Alexandra Popp.

It all came down to this. If Alex scores then Wolfsburg wins but if you save it then Barcelona win. 

Popp walked at a snails pace and it allowed you to gather your thoughts. You needed to disassociate the shot with the result. It needed to be you and her. The crowd needed to be blocked out and you had to ignore your team mates watching from the half way line. 

What you didn’t expect was for Alexia to have her back turned. She couldn’t bring herself to watch the final shot. Was it because she blamed herself or because she didn’t have faith in you to save Popp’s shot. 

“Alexia” Frido taps the captain on her shoulder “Y/N is looking at you, you need to face her. You need to trust her”

Just as the swede said Alexia turned around to see you looking directly at her. 

“Trust those hands” The brunette whispers.

She sees you clap your hands hard and wonders if you somehow heard her.

“I trust my hands” Without realising it you had replied to Alexia even though the both of you were none the wiser.

Top corners. It was risky but Popp loved top corners for Penalties. You knew this and she knew you knew this. 

Left or right.

It was a decision you had to make in split second.

Left or right.

Popp took her shot with pin point accuracy. 

You could hear a pin drop in the stadium as they watched ball fly through the air almost as if it was in slow motion. You reaction isn’t the best and it makes your job that much harder but you use every ounce of strength you had to launch yourself to the top left corner. The ball hits your gloves and goes wide.

You had spent the shoot out near the fans so they are the ones you run too, not your team. It was also a way to take the celebration away from your former club. You may have just won the champions league but you didn’t want to rub salt in the wound.

Within what feels like seconds you are surround by the rest of the team. All them of the patting you on the back, hyping you up, them all knowing that you have just won them the champions league.

“I could kiss you but I think someone else might want to” Mapi wraps her arms tightly around your neck.

Behind her you could see Alexia celebrating with some of the staff. It was obvious that she was keeping her distance from you but you wouldn’t allow it. 

Once you are let go by Mapi you make a bee line towards your girlfriend. 

“Do I not even get a smile?” You poke her cheeks playfully which immediately causes Alexia to smile.

“I missed” There it was.

“We won”

“I missed” she repeated herself and you could tell it was an apology.

“I saved. We won. We are Champions. We can obsess over it later, I promise”

She doesn’t reply straight away. Alexia looks at you, not caring that she is staring or that she is making is blatantly obvious.

“We are champions”

“Yeah we are”

The two of you join in with the dancing around and singing before the team is called over to collect their medals and lift the trophy. What does comes as a shock is that when Alexia is walking over with the trophy she signals you to move forward so that you can lift it together. At first you refuse, you weren’t a captain, it wasn’t your place but then she stands in her place with a look on her face that tells you she won’t take a no for an answer. You more than happily admit defeat and alongside your captain and girlfriend you lift the trophy, basking in the sound of the cheering fans.

“Look after this for me” you hand Alexia your medal after the celebration have died down ever so slightly.

“Why?” The Catalonian takes it from you and places it around her neck. She watches as you walk towards your former team mates.

Alexia knew this game was personal for you. It was your chance to show Wolfsburg that they made a mistake in letting you go but she also knew how much you loved your former team mates and how difficult it was leaving them. 

You sit down next to Popp, holding her tightly as you let her cry into your shoulder. Only ten months ago the two of you were in the same position on the pitch at Wembley comforting each other and now one of you had just been crowned champion whilst the other had just had their dream destroyed. 

Alexia watches as you console you friends. The night prior the two of you couldn’t sleep so you went for a walk and you ended up at Philips Stadion. She asked how you felt about going up against your former club. You told her that you found the thought of celebrating their loss hard and that when you won you would take some time to be with them because they were like your family. Alexia understood and agreed to make sure your team mates gave you space to do so on the one condition that you come back to her. It was an promise you found easy to make.

She remembers her words when she sees Aitana running towards you with a flag in her hand. The captain tells her team mate to give you space and after arguing at first the girl does as she’s told but she keeps the flag for when she come back to the team.

“I knew her coming here would be good” Caro tells her captain.

“She proved today why she has the right to be considered one of if not the best goalkeepers in the world” 

“Right because your admiration is only for when she’s wearing the #1 shirt” 

“You know it’s not” Alexia didn’t like talking about her relationship, neither of you did but Caroline knew more than most. She is one of your closest friends and in being that it also mean that she was the person Alexia went to when she wanted to know something about you.

“I do and I saw you stop Aitana from going over but I think it’s time you did” Caro points in your direction. You were no longer talking to any of your friends, instead you had been collared by your former manager Tommy Stroot.

Stroot was one of the reasons for your transfer. He was adamant that Frohms was the best option for the team and his lack of trust in your ability was the first time you felt under valued at the club. The way you spoke about him and what he told you led to Alexia gaining a strong dislike for the man. 

“Maybe we should have kept you around. You —“

You counted to ten and then ten again as your former manger spoke. You had no loyalty to the man and now was your chance to speak your truth but before you could you were beaten to it.

“You should have” Alexia comes out of nowhere. She stands by your side. Her hand with a firm grip on your waist “You made the biggest mistake of your career and it led to one of the best transfers Barcelona could and will every make. This woman right here just won us the champions league” Alexia uses the opportunity to place the medal back around your neck “You failed to see what she is capable of. I, along with everyone in Barcelona, should thank you. Because of your arrogance and blindness we got Y/N Y/L/N. If you still had her then you might have one of these. Now if you listen closely you will hear that the fans are singing for her and she would hate to let them down, wouldn’t you?”

“I really would” you place your arm around Alexia’s shoulder  “I wish I could say it’s been pleasure Tommy but it really hasn’t” 

You and Alexia make your way back to the team. Not caring what Tommy Stroot was saying.

“What was that about?” You nudge her playfully.

“You told me what he said about you, how he made you feel and I wasn’t going to let him get away with that” 

Alexia’s protective side wasn’t a rare sight. You had seen is a few times over the past few months but it never came out this publicly and her anger has never been directed towards the manager of one of Europe’s biggest clubs.

“You are not only one of the best players in the world, you are are one of the most amazing human beings and you just saved three penalties in a shoot out to determine the champions league. I will never make you feel the way he did. You will always know your worth with me and when you are unsure, I’ll show you”

Your girlfriend had this soft side which very few people got to see but every time you saw it it made you fall more in love with her.

“You’ll show me huh?” 

Her eyes darkened and you knew she picked up on what you were insinuating.

“I will. Just you wait until we get back to Barcelona, then we can really celebrate” you leaned forward so she could whisper in your ear.

She was teasing and she saw the way you chest moved that your breathing had quickened but you could play this game just as good as she could.

“What if I don’t want to wait that long?” 

Alexia pulled back and you noticed her eyes had darken. A smirk grew on your face knowing that you had won this little back and forth. 

Just as she is about to respond you are called our by the younger players. 

“Time to celebrate Alexia. We can’t wait all night now can we”

You run over to where Jana and Bruna are jumping around as they take in the atmosphere. You happily join in and the joy only increases as Alexia joins in. The celebrations continue in the locker room, on the coach and then on the plane but the best part of the celebrations happen once you and Alexia get back to her apartment.

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas one shot #woso x reader #woso one shot #woso imagine #barcelona femeni x reader #Barcelona femeni one shot #barcelona femeni imagine #espwnt x reader #espwnt one shot #espwnt imagine

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

Do You Want Me, Cyar'ika [happy]

Dark!Din Djarin x Jedi!Female Reader

Warnings: HEY THIS IS DARK WATCH OUT, stalking, manhandling, slight choking if you kind of squint, dubcon (reader is willing, but is def under the influence of the darksaber), smut, hand job, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of permanent scarring of the reader

Word Count: 6,717

Summary: Din Djarin is a man who lost everything. His home, his son, his Creed. But at the end of the day, he still had you. He still had you, and he was determined to keep you. Part One: Ni Ceta, Cyar'ika Part Two: I Love You, Cyar'ika

[a/n: THIS IS THE HAPPY ENDING TO THIS TRILOGY. My suggestion is to read the version you really want first b/c the beginning half is the exact same. It's only the end that differs.]

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"sometimes, you just need a fresh start. a new beginning. a clean slate. just get rid of everything going wrong and make it go right." -the importance of starting over

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The echoing of your footsteps bounced off the walls and the quick pace seemed to match the racing of your heart. No looking back. You needed to get to the tarmac. Din was supposed to be in the war room with Bo Katan and the others in his council discussing something or another. This morning he had told you that he wouldn’t be able to meet you for lunch until a bit later in the afternoon. Half an hour after he had told you this, you grabbed your stuff and started running. 

You had the right idea months ago when you first tried to leave. This was going to be your last chance. If he caught you this time you don’t know that you’d ever get the chance to run away again. Memories of that beskar chain and anklet hung heavy in your mind as you picked up your pace. A terrifying thought occurred to you. Would he stop there? How far would Din go to keep you by his side? You truly believed, deep down, that Din wouldn’t hurt you, but… were you just being delusional? At some point, he’d consider the line to be crossed.

The tarmac was mostly empty. The few Mandalorians that were in the area gave you curious looks, but nobody dared stop you. That was a side effect of being ‘owned’ by the Mand’alor and though you found it disturbing previously it was truly working in your favor now. Everybody on this rock, save for a few people like Bo Katan, were too terrified of Din to even look in your direction for longer than a few seconds. As you sprinted to the closest ship you knew how to pilot, the Mandalorians began to disperse. You had a suffocating suspicion that they were in the process of calling Din.

You made it further than you had last time. You were on the ship, ramp closing behind you, and you clambered into the cockpit and got things running. As the ship slowly began to rise, you saw him. Din stood at the edge of the tarmac with his hands on his hips. The wind tunneling through the ship’s exhaust and down onto the ground below caused Din’s thick cape and hair to whip around. Even from this distance, you could feel Din’s gaze burning straight through you. The look on his face was haunting⏤ a mix of devastation and unbridled rage. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Even after the ship was in the atmosphere and Din was far out of view, you stared down at Mandalore in pain. Your chest ached as your heart already begun to miss the man you were running from.

Before allowing yourself to wallow, you input the coordinates to Tatooine and let the ship slip into hyperdrive. The second those all too familiar lines of blurred space cast a blue glow in the cockpit, you pulled your knees up into your chest to bury your face there. If somebody were to ask you the exact reason why tears streamed down your face you would not be able to give them an answer.

You just knew, everything was wrong.

You agonized over who to send a message to. As you drew ever near to Tatooine, doubts began to plague your mind. Should you reach out to Boba and Fennec? They were obvious choices because they cared about Din and they knew how to hold their own in a fight. However, you had a nagging fear at the back of your mind that would not silence. It blared like a ghostly siren. Din was not himself right now, and though you knew without a doubt that he would not hurt you, could the same be said for Boba and Fennec? Especially if they stood in the way of Din getting to you?

You hated that you were unsure of that.

You hated that a part of you honestly thought Din might hurt his friends or worse.

There was no changing course though. The best solution you had was to get in touch with Luke Skywalker. He might have answers about this. Even if he didn’t, having him and Ahsoka by your side would help. Three Jedi surely could get that cursed saber away from Din. Granted, there was no assurance that separating the saber from the love of your life would actually work, but it was all you had. It was the last bit of hope you could cling to. 

Upon your arrival to Tatooine, you immediately slunk away to a crowded cantina. You were not a fool. You knew Din was not just going to let you wander away and you knew he was one of the deadliest bounty hunters in the galaxy. He was very good at what he did⏤ especially when passionate about the mission. That didn’t leave you very much time to get the information you needed. 

You sent out a decoded distress message to the number Skywalker had left you when he took Grogu. He left it strictly for emergencies and this obviously classified as one. After it was out in the universe, all you could do was wait. So you saddled up to the bar, sat on a stool, and ordered a drink. It was all you could think to do. This was the first time in ages that you were in a space not clouded by Din’s presence. You hadn’t realized until now how suffocating it had been.

Being with Din, watching his slow descent, you had gotten accustomed to that cloud of darkness that hung over his head. To the point where you didn’t notice it worsening and worsening. It felt as if your body had acclimated to living under the ocean. Your body grew used to the crushing depths. Your lungs shriveled from the lack of oxygen. Your eyes grew blind from the absence of light. Now? Sitting at this dingy, dirty bar, it was as if someone had forced you up from the ocean floor and dragged you quickly up to the surface. It was jarring. The fresh air was painful as it filled your lungs, your eyes burned from the disappearance of darkness, and suddenly it was freedom that felt wrong. 

A sudden beeping made you glance down at the communicator. Eyes wide, you answered it, “Hello? Luke Skywalker?” Your name was spoken over the line in concern. “Thank the Maker. I⏤ Din and I are in trouble.”

“What has happened?”

“It’s…” You took in a slow breath and began to walk him through what was going on. You started with the moment he took Grogu and described every single downward step the two of you had taken with the saber in his possession. When you finished, your throat felt thick with emotion. “I got away, but he’ll be after me soon. I know it. Luke, I… I don’t know what to do. I just know I need help, and I’m too afraid to go to anybody other than you.”

“You were right to reach out to me.” Luke sighed. “This needs to be handled by us. No need to risk anyone else.”

The thought flickered through your head without warning. You were okay with putting Luke Skywalker and Ahsoka in danger. It came quickly and you swatted it away just as fast, but it felt like poison. Obviously, Boba and Fennec meant more to you than Luke and Ahsoka. You were closer to the first two. However, it still didn’t make risking the lives of the latter two okay. The fact that the belief attempted to nestle in your head reminded you of the dark saber. Your hand wrapped around your own lightsaber⏤ seeking comfort in the energy it radiated.

“You believe he’ll follow you, correct?” Luke questioned.

“Absolutely.” You answered without an ounce of hesitation.

Luke hummed on the other end of the line in thought. “I will send you coordinates. Come to us. The Mandalorian will follow and we will handle this from there. You just need to get here. Can you do that?”

“Yeah.” You nodded your head, trying to convince yourself. “I can. I’ll leave as soon as you send me those coordinates.”

“Of course. Call us again if you have trouble.”

“Thank you.”

The call ended and you threw back the remainder of the drink before rushing for the door. It would take fifteen minutes to get to the tarmac and you assumed you’d get the coordinates by then to use. The crowded Tatooine streets made you anxious. Shoulders clipped into yours as people rushed past you in the opposite direction. It felt like there were eyes burning into your skin, but every scan of the crowd told you it had to just be your paranoia. 

Your communicator beeped again and a quick glance down revealed the coordinates you’d be heading to. Good. You quickened your pace to turn a corner to the last leg of the path that would take you to the public tarmac when you spotted him. A flash of glinting silver under the hot Tatooine suns. Your feet came to a screeching halt, and for a moment the two of you stood stock still. Din was down the road. Closer to the tarmac’s entrance than to you. His hands rested on his hips, and he was helmetless. Even from this distance the darkness swimming in his brown eyes sent a chill down your spine. He had been a sight to behold in his full armor, a faceless figure of intimidation. However, you knew now that it was worse without the helmet. Actually seeing those burning eyes, rather than just feel them, made your stomach flip.

The crowd ebbed and flowed, a small group passing between the two of you, and when they passed fully Din was gone. You couldn’t see him. Without a second more of hesitation, you spun on your heel and sprinted in the opposite direction of where he had been standing. The public tarmac was a bust. You’d never be able to successfully route yourself back around, but you still needed a ship.

Peli’s shop. As soon as it came to mind, you altered course to head in that direction. You prayed that Peli wasn’t home. Hopefully she’d be out losing credits to a group of jawas in sabbac or conning some poor sap at the market. Your chest burned in the effort it took to keep your quick pace, your heart pounded painfully, and you could still feel Din’s eyes on you. Every time you glanced over your shoulder or down alleys there was no sign of silver, but you knew⏤ you just knew⏤ that he was hot on your heels somehow. 

You finally reached Peli’s shop and the garage was closed which meant she was not home, but you remembered the way in through the back. Peli had shown it to you and Din ages ago. Even if she didn’t have a client’s ship sitting in the bay, you could steal her land speeder and come up with a different plan from there. Once in, your eyes landed on a small ship parked in the main bay and your lips curled up into a relieved smile. Find the FOB, get the ship open and started. You rushed to Peli’s office and cursed the wrecked state it was in. Her baseline was chaotic and it showed in her organization choices. You dug through the mess until you found a FOB that seemed to match the ship waiting for you.

Victorious, you sprinted out of the office back down to the bay, but the second your feet stepped into the open area something hard slammed into you. The air was knocked from your lungs as you landed on the ground. Din’s features stared down at you as his body straddled yours. One of his gloved hands pinned down your dominant hand while the other clamped down on your throat⏤ not enough to restrict air, but just enough to convey his warning. You could see your fearful eyes reflected in the beskar covering him as he towered over you. Din’s face didn’t look angry or worried. He didn’t look scared or confused. Din looked cold. Emotionless. Somehow that was worse.

“Din⏤”

“Don’t.” Din said sharply. The fingers on your neck flexed once. “Don’t speak, cyar’ika.”

More suffocating than his demeanor and broad figure was the poisonous energy seeping out of the saber hung on his belt. You were drowning in it, struggling to keep your head above it’s dark waters, and Din was pushing you beneath the waves. He held you under. Din was a man drowning and in your attempt to rescue him he was dragging you to the depths as well. 

“How could you do this to me?” Din asked. His voice cracked⏤ the only sign of his pain. “Cyar’ika, you…” Din swallowed. A flash of heartbreak filled his expressive brown eyes and the degree of his hurt briefly made you feel guilty. Like you had been the one to betray him. “I love you. You are my everything. I would burn the world for you. How could⏤ How could you leave?”

“I never asked for you to burn the world for me, Din.” You whispered. “That’s not what I want.”

Din shifted and leaned down so he could rest his forehead against yours. His hand hung loosely around your throat, forearm pressed against your chest, and it was a position your body was familiar with. If you closed your eyes and gave into the darkness trying to claw its way down your throat and into your lungs, then you’d simply feel like you were sharing a private moment of intimacy with your love. Din’s lips suddenly ghosted against yours and you felt your body tremble.

“What is it you want?” Din begged. “I will give you anything. I just want you safe by my side.”

“I told you what I want, Din…”

Din sighed, his hot breath fanning across your lower face, “I can’t do that.” His voice was strained as if her were in agony. “The saber is how I protect you, cyar’ika.”

“You’re losing me because of that saber, baby.”

For the longest moment, Din remained silent. His eyes were closed and you could see him ruminating over something. After a second, he opened his eyes and Din’s eyebrows furrowed in defeat. A flicker of hope burned in your chest until he opened his mouth and spoke. 

“Things were okay. We just need to start from scratch again. I know you hated that chain, cyar’ika, but it’s for the best.” Din said softly and your eyes widened at how serious his words were. How much he believed that to truly be the best path. “It won’t be forever, I swear it. Just until I trust you again.”

“Din⏤”

“No.” Din snapped. His soft despair turning to a firm demand. “There will be no argument. I’m taking you home.” You opened your mouth once more, but Din’s fingers began to tighten around your throat marginally. “You’re already in trouble, cyar’ika. Don’t make it worse.”

Panic began to make your heart race. You were sinking fast and the light was beginning to disappear from your sight⏤ your freedom with it. In a poor attempt at a final chance of survival, you spoke up despite his order to stay silent. “I just wanted to say sorry.”

Din scoffed. “You understand why I find it hard to believe you.”

“I know.” You nodded. “Please, baby. I’m sorry. Please believe me. You know I love you.”

You could feel Din’s thumb around your neck tracing the skin under it as he stared down at you. He took in a deep breath and leaned in to press his forehead against yours once more. Din brushed his lips lightly against yours. “You’re always so pretty when you beg, cyar’ika.” That was the one thing you had working in your favor. Din always had a hard time telling you ‘no’ when your bodies were folded together like this. “I’ll hear you out, but let’s get to our ship first.”

“Why not now? Let me tell you how sorry I am, Din.” You begged and he let out a soft sigh as his eyes closed. Your eyes darted to the saber on his belt. If you ended up back on Mandalore it would be over. There would be no second chance. Determined, you rolled your hips up and just as you suspected you were met with the firmness of his half hard cock. Din groaned. “Let me show you how sorry I am.” Your non-dominant hand had been clutching at the hand he had at your throat, but you very slowly let it travel up his arm to bury in his soft hair. “Please, baby.”

You tilted your head up as much as you could with Din’s hand clamped around your neck. Carefully, in fear that too quick or sudden a movement would break the spell, you began to pull Din down closer. Din hesitated against the slight force of your hand only for a second before he slotted his lips against yours. As always, Din’s touch set you aflame. He released the wrist he had pinned and hooked that hand under your thigh to spread your legs so he could settle between them rather than straddle you. You should be focused on escape alone, but the taste of him made you hungry for more. You weren’t sure how much was your love for Din and how much was the saber twisting it into something recognizable. 

Din’s teeth caught your lower lip, and he pulled back a breath, “You’re supposed to be showing me how sorry you are, cyar’ika.” He leaned back down to lick into your mouth, his kiss crushing and near painful as Din’s hips pressed firmly against yours. He left his lips close enough that you felt every word he spoke. “Yet here I am…” Din gave a sharp thrust and even with layers of clothes between the two of you he was able to snap the bulge of his erection right where your clit was hidden. You gasped at the pleasure that rocketed up your spine as hot pangs arousal pooled in your lower belly. “...doing all the damn work.”

At his words, you closed the space to press your lips against his again, deepening the kiss, as your hands traveled to his belt. You undid his belt with practiced ease, and while one hand slipped under the waistband of his flight suit to find the base of his cock the other went to grasp the saber.

Your fingers brushed against the thrumming metal of the saber for only a second before Din’s hand slapped on top of yours pinning it to the saber. Everything froze. Din and you were both panting, breathless from your kiss. You had one hand stuffed into his pants with your hand pressed against his skin on the space above the base of his cock and the other on the saber. Din had one hand tightening around your neck while his other crushed your fingers against the darksaber. He chuckled and the sound sent chills throughout your body.

“Let go, Cyar’ika.” Din’s voice was gruff and seemed to rumble out from his chest. You began to try and pull both hands back, but Din grunted. “Not both. Just the saber.” You sucked in a sharp breath and remained frozen. “What? You don’t want to finish what you started?” He shoved one hand down his pants to roughly grab yours and force your hand to wrap around the entirety of his throbbing cock. It was like this tense moment was spurning him onwards⏤ filling him with a thrill you had never seen before. “I thought you were sorry.”

You hated how his words made your own core ache with want. 

Din snapped the saber off his belt tossed it off to the side. Too far for you too reach, but close enough that its influence weighed heavy on you still. He did the same to your own weapon which was hooked in its usual place on your belt. Din threw that one further, more carelessly, before lowering his face back down toward yours. His hand was still wrapped around yours, and Din thrusted into your dry grip. It couldn't be comfortable you thought, but Din moaned in your ear as if it were already drunk in pleasure.

“Din…” You murmured.

His hot mouth enveloped yours, tongue licking into you, as he thrusted twice more. Din’s teeth caught your lower lip again, but this time he bit down hard enough that the taste of metallic blood flashed across your taste buds. You yelped, he thrusted into your grip, and then Din pulled back just enough that you could see his lips painted with the red of your own blood.

“Are you going to make me take you?” He asked in a harsh whisper. “Or will you come willingly?” Din pressed his bloodstained lips against the side of your face, dragging, and you shuddered as a cold, but tempting, chill filled your body. “I’ll spend eternity chasing you, cyar’ika, but it will be more enjoyable if you just agree to be mine again.”

His lips found yours once more, and for one second you weren’t in your body. Your mind clouded with a sort of vision. You saw Din sitting on Mandalore’s throne splattered with blood he had drawn from others and his features masked in a cold indifference. The saber was not on his belt, but any confusion you had on it’s location faded as a different version of you came into view. She wore an elegant and revealing gown that was as dark as a starless night, and the inactive saber was held tight in her grip as blood covered her hands and left a trail of red petals as she passed. While Din’s face held a cold indifference this version of you looked feral with enjoyment. 

She settled herself on Din’s lap and the mask he wore cracked to reveal adoration as he stared up at this other you in awe. Without wasting a beat, this unrecognizable version of yourself pulled Din into a firm kiss. The blood on the hands that resembled yours smeared against his stainless beskar, and the blood on his face left smears along features you spent your entire life staring at in a mirror. Suddenly, the other you broke away to turn and it seemed she was glaring directly at you.

The saber in her hand activated and burned with a soul sucking energy that seemed to draw you in.

“Be mine.” Din’s voice snapped you back into the moment. “Be my queen, cyar’ika. I want no else.” He pressed his lips to yours again but in a way that was too soft to match the rest of this situation. The tip of his tongue dragged through the torn tissue of your lower lip and you shivered. “Let me protect you as you rule by my side.”

And you wanted it. It was like your body had finally reached the lowest depths and your lungs were filling with the dark water you were drowning in. It was almost peaceful allowing yourself to settle into the cold⏤ allowing it to swallow you whole. Distantly, you could feel the crystal in your lightsaber desperately calling out to you, but you were certain no light could reach you where you were. Cold turned to pleasure as Din’s hands began to map the familiar planes of your body. 

“I’ve always been yours.” You whispered. Din molded his lips to yours and he pulled your hand out from where it was hidden under his waistband so he could have to room and access to begin frantically undoing your own belt. You lifted your hips so he could tug your pants down past your ass and off entirely. He didn’t bother with his own pants, deciding to just tug them down enough to be useful, and  Din settled between your legs. As he worked himself out of his pants he planted his lips against the hollow of your neck.

You tilted your chin up, panting, as you gave him more room to work his tongue against the skin there. Every atom of your being was throbbing and aching for the man on top of you, but briefly a glimmer of pain lanced through your heart. A reminder. You thought you were too deep in for the light to reach you, but your lightsaber’s call managed one faint echo. A weak lifeline back to the surface. Without thinking, your hand reached reached out to where the sabers were cast aside and for the first time in your life you felt the Force do more than just read an energy. It enveloped the space around you and seconds later something firm was in the palm of your hand.

You cried out, managing to roll Din and yourself over so you now straddled him. The saber activated in your hand and rather than the warm familiar glow you wanted, you were greeted by the soul sucking, burning energy of the darksaber lighting up in your hands. Your eyes widened in alarm. The power that washed over you was overwhelming. It rocketed up your arm and pierced your very soul. Din laid on the ground under you as you stared at the cold glow of the saber burning in your hands, and you heard him begin to laugh in amusement. 

“Maker, you’ve never looked prettier, cyar’ika.” Din grinned⏤ the look in his dark eyes was wild with desire. “How does it feel?”

Your skin was crawling as if someone was holding a live wire to it. A tremor shook your body and it took you a moment to detangle your mind away from the raw pleasure that screamed out to you. The darksaber was sinking it’s cold claws into every aspect of who you were and you could feel your reality slipping away from you. You tightened your hand around the hilt and began to squeeze. It was hard to focus the Force to bend to your will with the darksaber’s influence pressing down on you, but you clenched your teeth and squeezed harder. The crack of bending metal filled the air.

“No.” Din growled and his hands roughly pawed at you, to try and take the saber from your grip, but you raised your hands up above your head and continued to squeeze until you felt actual pain began to seep into your body. “Stop! Don’t!” 

The metal cracked further, heat began to lick out of the hilt as the saber’s burning energy flickered and grew wild. It was burning your hands, leaving the flesh it touched raw. Din screamed out at you to stop again, but you couldn’t hear him over the high pitched ringing the darksaber’s kyber crystal seemed to emit. The saber was angry⏤ the saber was scared. You focused every bit of your body’s energy to channel the Force. You screamed in agony as the saber was crushed under your grip. The crystal cracked and the energy stored in it grew volatile and unstable. With one final push of power, the crystal shattered into pieces within the crushed hilt of the saber and the release of energy blew you backwards into the dirt. 

Your ears from ringing from the blast. Your head ached painfully, you could feel blood matted in your hair from where the back of your head had slammed into the ground, but it was hard to focus on anything other than the miserable and excruciating pain that was radiating up your arms. Shakily, you lifted your hands up to try and examine them. Even though your sight was growing blurry, you could still make out the state of your hands. Scorched flesh, raw and torn, greeted you and warm blood was dripping from the spots where jagged bits of kyber crystal embedded in your skin. It rained down on you.

“No, no, no, no.”

Din was suddenly in your line of vision as he cupped the side of your face in fear and disbelief. Your hands, heavy with exhaustion, fell limp and they didn’t even hurt much anymore. You were having trouble feeling anything actually. “Please, Maker, no.” Din gasped. His voice was ragged and hoarse. Tears were swimming in his eyes and for the first time in ages, you recognized the clarity. “Cyar’ika, no, please…”

Your lips twitched up in a smile as you gazed up at him. You sighed in relief, “It’s you.” Din’s face crumpled as the tears streaked down his cheeks as he tried to pull you closer. “You’re back, baby.”

His voice seemed far away. As your eyelids grew heavy, you still felt content. If these were to be your last moments you were more than happy to share them with Din Djarin. Your Din Djarin. Pure and kind hearted. Loving and soft. Darkness seemed to envelope you, but it was not the cold darkness the saber used to force you into. This was warm and tender. You felt enveloped in love and your own kyber crystal, loyal and strong, whispered a lullaby as you relaxed into sleep.

.

[three months later]

.

It took you ages to find Din. After waking up in Boba’s palace, post bacta tank infusion, you realized he had slipped away without a word. Boba and Fennec had comforted you, but the only message Din left you was a soft apology passed down along friends. The fact that he hid from you was proof enough that the darksaber’s influence was gone from him. You felt it no longer either. Occasionally, you’d wake from a nightmare and a lingering darkness would cloud your thoughts, but it always dissipated with the morning light. 

You walked slowly toward the bench where he sat armorless. Din wasn’t wearing a shred of beskar, had not a single weapon on him, as he rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the distance where rolling hills and mountains sat. What made him hard to track was he stayed constantly on the move, but you were surprised that this was where he allowed you to catch up with him. You stopped by his side, Din didn’t turn to look at you, and you followed his gaze to see Grogu far in the distance sitting with Luke Skywalker on the crest of a small mountain.

“I don’t know why I came here.” Din mumbled quietly. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Din⏤”

“I don’t deserve to be here.” He added. Din hung his head down and lifted his hands to rub at his face in exhaustion. He shook his head once. “I was supposed to leave before your ship ever entered the atmosphere, but I… I got stuck.”

That made more sense. In a moment of weakness, he stopped to see his son and he hadn’t been able to tear himself away to flee you like he usually did. You reached out to touch his shoulder, but your fingers only managed to graze his shirt before he pushed to stand began to stalk away.

“Din!” You cried out and followed his brisk pace. He walked back to where his small ship at waiting. “Din, please, wait.”

“Leave, cyar’ika.” Din replied firmly.

“No.” You snapped and raced up the ramp into his ship’s tiny cargo hold to slide into his path to stop him. You expected to see anger in his eyes from your disruption, but the only emotion his large brown eyes conveyed was pain and desperation. You felt your heart ache at the way he stared down at you in misery. You shook your head. “Din, will you please talk to me?”

Din swallowed, his voice was hoarse, “There is nothing to talk about.” 

You reached out to rest your hands on his chest, and he glanced down to stare at them. The bacta tank had saved your hands and left you with full use of them, but the scarring remained. The skin was discolored with burn scars and jagged lines where kyber crystals had pierced your skin and left their mark. 

“This wasn’t your fault, baby.” You whispered as you noticed how intently he was staring at your hands. Din shook his head and tried to pull away from your touch but you tightened your hands into fists⏤ clutching his shirt like a lifeline. “Din, I don’t blame you.”

“You should!” Din suddenly yelled and your eyes widened. His hands wrapped around your wrists as he held your gaze. His voice shook. “You should blame me.” Din took in a sharp gasp. “This was all my fault. I was weak.”

“Din.”

“I remember it all.” Din closed his eyes in agony. “Maker, I⏤ I was manhandled you. I chained you to the fucking wall. Held you hostage.”

“Din⏤”

“Hunted you down like a bounty. Forced you into the position where you had to use your body just to distract me so you⏤ I⏤ Maker. Even if you don’t blame me, cyar’ika, I do. I don’t deserve access to my weapons. I don’t deserve the armor of a Mandalorian. I don’t deserve you.”

You held onto him tighter as he tried to pull your hands away from him. “I love you, Din.” He scoffed. “I do. I love you. The darksaber was to blame for all of that and I stayed by your side because I knew that and I refused to lose you to it. I stayed knowing the risk.” Din’s eyes were still shut tightly, but you could see tears collect in his eyelashes. “And I can’t lose you now.”

“Cyar’ika…” He mumbled.

“Open your eyes.” You demanded. You released his shirt but only so you could cup his face with your hands. Din’s entire body trembled under your touch and his hands squeezed your wrists. “Baby, open your eyes and look at me.” Finally, after an agonizing moment, Din opened his eyes and you offered him a small smile. “I love you.” He let out a shaky gasp. “And I can’t sit idly by while you punish yourself for sins that you shouldn’t have to bear. Please don’t run from me. Please let me stay. I’ll keep following you all over the galaxy if I have to or⏤ or if you don’t want me then I’ll… I’ll stop. If that’s what you really want, then I won’t follow.” Din leaned into your touch. “I’m not trying to control or torture you with my presence, I just… I miss you, baby.”

Din closed his eyes again and loosened his grip on your wrists so he could trace them up and lay them over your smaller hands resting on his jaw. He sighed. “I hurt you.” His thumbs traced the scarred skin on the back of your hands. “I did this to you.”

“No, you didn’t. The darksaber did, and I chose to fight that damned thing.”

“If I had been stronger against it then you never would’ve had to.”

“You had no way of knowing, Din.” You shook your head. “It even took me a while to realize how dangerous that saber was and I’m Force sensitive. Nobody in the galaxy would have been able to resist the influence of that kyber crystal even if they knew what it could do. You were blindsided by it.”

Din opened his eyes. “You resisted against it.”

You pressed your lips together then pulled his face toward yours so his forehead was resting against yours. “I knew what it was doing, and it was still the hardest thing I have ever done.” You admitted. “Even now I still feel that darkness crawling across my skin in the dead of the night. Like a ghost haunting me.” You tightened your grip on his jaw. “But you know how I did it?” Din didn’t respond, but you pressed onward. “I did it because I wasn’t going to let anything take you from me. I was not going to let it keep your soul⏤ I was not going to lose you.” Quickly, you pushed forward a pressed a chaste lip to his lips. “Not then. Not now. I will always fight for you. Even if it’s your own guilt I have to fight.”

“Do you want me, cyar’ika?” Din whispered⏤ his voice so soft and faint you almost thought you imagined it. 

You caressed your thumbs against his cheekbones. “I will always want you, baby. Always.”

To prove your point, you tenderly slotted your lips against his. You stayed motionless, just holding him to you, and you could feel a tear trace the outline of your thumb before reaching his lips. It was as if the taste of his salty tear awakened something in him. Din’s mouth began to move against yours desperately. You shifted your hands down and around his neck to cling to him. Din’s own arms wrapped tightly around your torso so he could pull you flush against his body. 

His lips suddenly left your lips to press sloppy, desperate kisses against your jawline then down your neck. Between every touch of his lips against your skin he whispered an apology or an exclamation of love. You tried to drag his lips back up to yours, but he surprised you by falling to his knees. You gasped and stared down at him. Din rested on his heels as his hands hugged the back of your thighs. He stared up at you in adoration, but you could still see agony there as well.

“I am so sorry.” He pleaded like a man begging in prayer at an altar. “I love you, and I am so sorry. I could spend an eternity reminding you of that and it still would not be enough to express how I feel.” Din leaned forward and rest his forehead against your hip. “Ni cuy’ nass ures gar. Ni cuy’ osi’yaim. Ni cuy’ hut’uun.”

You slowly peeled his forehead away from your hip and his hands off your thighs so you could kneel in front of him as well. You held his face once more and wiped away the lingering tears that stained his cheeks. “Cin vhetin.” Din’s eyes widened at the words. A phrase you had Boba teach you. “That’s what I want.”

“Cyar’ika…”

“I hate seeing you speak so poorly of yourself.” Your bottom lip quivered and your throat felt thick. “It pains me to watch you hate yourself⏤ when I love you so much.” Din sucked in a sharp breath. “So, if you love me still, Din, that’s what you’ll give me. Cin vhetin.”

Din paused before he gave you a curt nod. You pulled him into a tight hug, arms clinging to his shoulders, and you were relieved to feel Din hold you just as securely. As if you were both terrified to feel the other slip away again.

.

[three months later]

.

You woke with a start, eyes snapping open in the dark of your bedroom, and the cold, cruel ghost of the darksaber gripped your spine. It crawled up slowly as you tried to push away the lingering nightmare and piece together your reality. The bed under you shifted as someone climbed in beside you. A heavy hand slipped over your abdomen as Din shifted his closer. His bare chest pressed tightly against your back as he held you close.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” Din whispered in your ear, voice heavy with sleep. “Grogu woke up wanting a glass of water.” That was your reality. You had the love of your life back, and the green boy you and Din both adopted as your own was back in your lives. You, and the ones you loved, were nestled in your cozy home on Nevarro. Din’s lips pressed against your neck. “Riduur?” The new nickname a reminder of the peace that came with your reality. “Are you alright?”

The warmth of his skin against yours cast away the chill the memory of the darksaber brought. One of his bare, thick thighs slid between your legs until every part of you was tangled with every part of him. You let out a soft sigh of content and nodded. “I’ve never been better, baby.”

Din peppered soft kisses against your shoulders and you fell asleep safe in his arms.

.

mando'a translations:

Ni cuy’ nass ures gar: I am nothing without you. Ni cuy’ osi’yaim: I am a despicable person. Ni cuy’ hut’uun: I am a coward. Cin Vhetin: fresh start, clean slate (term indicating the erasing of a person's past when they become Mandalorian, and that they will only be judged by what they do from that point onwards)

.

[here is the dark ending]

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #reader insert #mando x reader #mando x you #female reader #jedi reader #dark!din djarin #din djarin smut

[beloved-blaiddyd]

A Tasteless Cup [Yandere!Joker/Reader]

Prompt: After the destruction of your previous reality, you and Akira Kurusu landed in Teyvat. In an effort to stay afloat, Akira had set up a book café in Mondstadt alongside you. However, is this the true flavor of "Freedom"? [Dedicated to: Riley H. Goodheart, for the Alone Together event]

CW: yandere themes, dubious food, manipulation/controlling behavior, toxic relationship dynamic. P.S: Akira is aged up [20s] in this fic, happens after Persona 5.

To Akira, those he lets into his heart will become an intrinsic part of him. They are more than a trick of a card, more than a mask to mimic and steal for his own, more than a numbers game. Every bit of them is his soul. His relationships are the culmination of his being and, eventually, his raison d'etre. 

And Akira Kurusu had a hard time coping with losing these links. 

To others, relationships are no different from chains. The surrounding people are less a home and more like bars to a cage— a prison. And despite being somewhat of a Mr/Ms. Congeniality, you aren't as affected by the fact that neither of you can return to your respective world.

You are both empty. You have been handed a clean slate, an empty card, and an empty vision.

You are both "fools" again.      

"Bit too early in the morning to start a serious discussion…" Akira tiredly muttered, removing his glasses before rubbing his eyes.

But as long as the sun rises once more, does a rebirth truly matter?

Anyone would be remiss to disregard the sheer jadedness in his eyes and the slight breathlessness of his speech. Akira poured himself a cup. Normally served to others rather than his indulgence, you quietly noticed that his cup lacked sugar. The cafe owner drank and embraced its bitterness, unflinching. 

It's been three months since you both arrived in the world of Teyvat. Getting by as an Outlander proved difficult, and thankfully, Akira is kind towards you and a jack-of-all-trades. One might say he has "maxed out his stats." Charismatic, skilled, and bold, he has the makings for an entrepreneur with a pyro vision to boot. Unsurprisingly, he had become one of old Mond's eligible bachelors in a short time frame. 

So, by just the third week, he managed to persuade Master Ragnvindr with a solid pitch. The cafe you both sit in is a testament to your shared hard work. With his brew proficiency and your hobby of accumulating knowledge through books and art pieces, the cozy place had become a second home for individuals such as the local librarian and the Guild's investigator. 

But you'll always remember his words the night before he was invited into Duke Ragnvindr's study room.

"Akira, are you sure about this?" You muttered, tugging his sleeve. "Once you finalize it, you can't just..."

"Hmm? Why are you hesitating?" He tilted his chin up slightly, confused. "It's a good way to keep our finances afloat, right? Don't you want to keep collecting books and art supplies? I thought you said you wanted to have a small library someday."

"But, for you to work this much for it-"

"You matter to me. You are the only thing left binding me down here in Teyvat." He casually shot you down, but his light tone could not erase the heaviness of his words. "Besides..."

"Don't you like it when I make a hot cup and fresh pastries just for you?" 

That dream materialized into something called Cafe LeBlanc. Though he claims the name wasn't his but a charming, cranky old man's— you doubt anyone else can come up with that. But he sounded genuine enough. His unexplainable "silent" face can sometimes make him a hard read.

… This isn't one of those times. You know what's troubling him quite well. 

"Yeah…" you muttered. "Can't we save this conversation for the end of the day instead?"

Akira laughed. 

"Smart," he hummed humorlessly. 

"You know I get too tired to do anything at night except washing dishes and doing crosswords. It's not happening. We'll have this talk now."

Fair enough. Avoiding one's problems is a mindset you never advocated. You'd be a terrible hypocrite if you start now. "Alright, I'll hear you out."

You shifted from your seat, dragging it closer to the counter. Akira downed his cup on the other side, revealing no liquid gold in its bottom. His eyes were wide awake thanks to the caffeine, yet you couldn't even glance upward. 

"(Y/n), do you remember how I got this pyro vision?"

You blinked, unsure how he'd make the fact relevant. Still, you nodded.

A long time ago, you liked how open Akira was about himself. You can tell he had immense trust issues he had worked on fixing. Akira is a good man. Being wrongfully expelled and imprisoned at a young age must've done damages you can't quite comprehend fully. Sometimes, you wish you had the courage to be just as vulnerable, too.

He traced the outline of a pyro symbol on the table with his slender finger collecting not a single dust nor stain. Despite the warmth his vision may hold, it did not detract from the cold atmosphere you both had to face. With the angle you were viewing him, you can't help but notice his eyelashes. They're prettier than yours, you thought. If only his glare wasn't so pointed.

"When I arrived in this world, I was alone and confused. But you? You weren't. I saw your face— the face of someone who had nothing to lose to begin with."

Akira's gaze softened. He was right. You adapted to this new world so suspiciously well. 

"I couldn't tell whether you saw our situation as a positive or whether you thought this whole transfer to another reality was a cruel joke. But I had a feeling you were as horrified as I was. That you couldn't bear the thought of living alone. I think that you also had friends you cared for, but now, you will never be able to hear their voices again."

He breathed in shakily, his eyes heavy. Akira may seem like a silent person, no different from Duke Ragnvindr, but the time you spent together backs up what your instincts are testifying right this second.

There's one true thought in his mind.

After all his efforts.

After all that he has gone through so that you'll stay by his side.

What was it all for?

"So, when a Lawachurl wounded you in Windrise, I stepped in. I can't help but project myself onto you. I thought about how you must also have friends waiting– family waiting– whether it's a cat or a sister— I knew I just had to. I had to risk everything, even if you were just a stranger to me then." He clenched his fists. "And you were worth it. You were absolutely worth every risk. You were worth everything. I knew I had to survive, if not for myself, but to help you."

"Even without some sort of— card– or whatever— to indicate it, I knew our relationship was progressing. That our understanding of each other has reached such high ranks. I know we had become each other's most trusted confidant, so why? Listen, I value freedom too, but—"

He slammed his cup down— you jolted as you heard it chip slightly. It wasn't his intent to scare. Akira would never wish to frighten you. But he can't stop his emotions and movements from being brash and pointed. 

"... Why did you want to quit working with me?"

There it goes.

"Is it because I haven't spent much time with you lately? You know I've been busy with trying to invest in a better flat—"

The pace of his breathing was starting to quicken.

"Kurusu, it's not that…" You need to rationalize this with him. Fast.

"I-Is it because work has been too much? I told you we could hire someone if you feel too faint for the job. I care about your health— hell— maybe even more than you do—"

"Akira, listen to me—"

His futile attempt to maintain control was like an age-weakened thread. The fibers of his composure whittled away string by string, itching to snap entirely. Akira's jaw clenched. 

The manacle may not be anchoring his feet down as it did in the Velvet Room, but there's no denying that doubt is tugging and clawing at his neck. He knew that if he should continue, only strained words would come from his coffee-bitter lips. 

He rubbed his head against his shoulder. He had to have been wiping a tear away, trying to make it unnoticeable but failing.

"But why are you LEAVING m—"

"Behold, for this fine hour, you are not only graced with the presence of soft rays— you are also blessed by myself: Fischl, the Prinzessin der Verurteilung!"

"Mein Fräulein meant to say good morning to you both, Arsene and Sholmes."

... Akira chuckled a short and strained sound that could easily be missed by a weak ear.

As though a switch had been flipped, Akira's contorted expression turned back to his customer service smile. You trembled slightly. Perhaps it's a skill he mastered during his part-time worker years in high school, but he seemed a little too good at hiding such overwhelming frustrations— almost shape-shifting.

It's… 

Eerie.

He's smiling. It's his usual smile he has that has a calm allure and a hint of cockiness.

As if nothing happened five seconds ago.

"Ah, greetings, Your Highness!"

The guests were none other than some of the regulars, Amy and her bird familiar. This blonde, eye-patched girl is the only person in Little Mond who consistently makes Akira act dramatic. 

He bowed, not missing a beat of young Amy's theatrics. After spending so many years chatting with Yusuke, he's gotten used to bouncing back conversations of this nature. Akira enjoys the young investigator's company. He saw tiny bits of his friend in her.

"What shall we, humble servants, offer you this dawn? Will it be your usual order, or does our dear royal have something else in mind entirely? We will do our best to provide you with maximum entertainment! After all, this is your castle, Mein Fräulein."

You stiffened.

We.

He's not letting you go just yet. You caught a glimpse of his dark pupils, slightly moving to meet yours. Imploring you without words to act out of his best interest.

Akira Kurusu has always been a witty man, but there is no way there's no anger beneath that mask.

"Are you alright, Sholmes?" Oz asked.

For whatever reason, Akira persuaded Amy to call you both Arsene Lupin and Herlock Sholmes. The former was likely a nod to his first persona's name. His explanation for the latter was something along the lines of "you strike me as the type who always wants to search for your truth."

You blinked.

Right. You're his version of Sherlock Holmes.

Ha.

Even here, he gets to dictate everything about you.

"... Yes, Your Highness, to what do I owe the pleasure?" you said. The blonde girl smiled and tilted her head up pompously. 

"What other brew could I possibly order but the darkest taste that leaves any normal mortal to shrivel in imagination?" Amy shrugged, her eyebrow raised as though everyone knew what she babbled on with commendable sass. Her aviator companion thankfully cleared the air— albeit a little too blunt.

"Mein Fräulein desires a cinnamon ginger affogato with more sugar than last time, please. Two spoons for the poor Mein Fräulein."

"O-Oz!?!"

It's easily one of the least bitter cups on the menu. It consists of vanilla gelato, a tablespoon of espresso powder, cinnamon sticks, hazelnut liqueur, and bits of dried sunsettia. I can't say what would make anyone fear such a thing except for those with complications. Someone else shared the same sentiment.

You and Akira laughed in unison.

Your eyes widened in astonishment. That was in sync. You immediately looked away as Akira busied himself with Amy's order. It was awkward knowing that even with your efforts to cut things off, there was still some vague commonality between you two.

"... Say, your Highness?" Akira smiled softly. "Would it be alright for me to probe some of your most revered royal musings?"

...

...

... What is his play this time?

"You have my ears, dear subject."

"Suppose there is a princess who is facing an uphill battle. Furthermore, her valiant knight aspires to rescue her. However, the princess, for unknown reasons, declines his assistance. Is that..." He shut his eyes, laughing that strained chuckle once more. "... equittable?"

"Oh, most grievous indeed! A knight, who is obligated by the code of chivalry, shall always respond to the plea of his princess when she is in peril. His solemn obligation is to protect her honor and safeguard her from any danger!"

Akira looked at you.

His eyes were cold.

"But what if the princess doesn't want to be saved? What if she believes she can handle the situation herself, or maybe she thinks having assistance would make her weak?"

"Ah, but thou dost speak in riddles!" Amy scoffed, unamused. "A princess may exhibit abundant power and courage, yet it is the responsibility of her faithful knight to guarantee her safety, especially when she questions her own necessity. For what good is a knight's valor if not to serve and protect his liege?"

"Would you say her actions essentially strip him of his purpose?"

"Why, of course!" Amy replied with full conviction. "One would not require Oz if he lacks such a necessary trait! It is the basis of our trust– our relationship! A true knight's honor lies not in the glory of battle, but in his unwavering commitment to his princess, even in the face of her refusal."

You sucked in a deep breath.

Akira, you—!

"Speak frankly. Do these inquiries pertain to me?" Amy glared at him. Akira shook his head immediately, umping up his flamboyant voice inflections.

No.

It's about you.

It's always about you when it comes to him.

"Of course not!" Akira feigned worry. "It was for a novel I'm writing— to honor one's love."

… To honor one's "love".

Love? You froze. He calls this relationship love? It hadn't been that for the past few months! Love is meant to be like coming home to a comforting home— not a cold palace with your unfeeling statue at the heart of it all.  

You were hoping that your life would be dictated by what you want it to mean this time around. You hope to create your own purpose, your own identity. You hope to reject his titles—being his partner and his "Sholmes." 

But mostly, you sincerely hoped his words were untrue and did not allude to something as sinister and self-destructive as his love.

Besides, you already have a lover waiting for you to leave this mess behind.

You and he already have everything planned out. A rented flat, food, work— everything is set. The only box to tick off was leaving itself, and then you'll be in your lover's arms.

But you swore.

You swore you just saw him smirk.

"(Y/n), could you please lend me a hand? Can you pass the cinnamon sticks from the cupboard?"

Starting your day by serving Amy leads to serving a hundred more. You can't just stand up and leave whenever someone asks for your service. It's impossible to make the shortest comment about how you no longer work for LeBlanc, even more so when people beg for book recommendations. Being friendly is part of who you are. It can't be helped.

What made matters worse was that people were ordering seconds. Apparently, Akira must've adjusted all the recipes on the menu because whatever was added to those cups made it all the more divine. You knew his skills were perfection, but to think he could even exceed that...

In the end, despite multiple delays, Akira still got you right where he wanted you.

"Thank you. Please come again!" He escorted the final customer outside and flipped the closing sign himself.

Now, it was just the two of you left.

"... You must be tired." You offered, hoping he wouldn't catch on. "It's been a long day, why don't you take a rest—"

"Nice try." 

Well, it was worth a shot.

You stiffly waited for him to say something. Anything. But instead, he took a kettle off the icebox and heated the stove with his vision. 

"Back to my story, do you remember where we left off?"

The wisest thing to have down was biting your tongue or pretending not to know what he was talking about. Unfortunately, your answer was immediate.

"Something about how you got your vision?"

"Ah, yes, that." Akira laughed. "Say, I told you about how I used to be the leader of the Phantom Thieves when I was in High School, right?"

While waiting, Akira tapped his fingers against the table but stopped when he realized you were becoming distracted. Snapping out of it, you cleared your throat.

"You were stealing hearts in the Metaverse, yes, I recall..." You mumbled. Due to the sudden need to speak, you ended up unwittingly playing by his script again. "You manifested a Persona and used that to reform the heart of rotten adults."

You flinched slightly when his tea was starting to release thin smokes. It smelled too much like rust. Maybe he exhausted it too much today. The customers you had were double the amount. You had to commend his willpower for still managing exceed his usual sleep schedule.

"Isn't the kettle burning?"

"Trust me, it's not," he answered nonchalantly. "I remember when I told my story to you, you were mostly understanding of our actions. You didn't judge us. Rather, you told me that humanity is selfish and destructive."

"But back to how I got my vision," he finally turned the stove off. "I genuinely thought my most distinct trait was my appreciation for Freedom."

"Yet you got a pyro vision." You joked lightly.

He didn't laugh. Instead, he nodded.

"Strange, isn't it?" Akira tilted his head to look at you for a bit, before back at the hot cup he was pouring. It's the same liquid he's been adding the entire day. This must be the last of those ten pints. "Here, try it."

You slowly took it. It's still a bit too warm, so you continued talking.

"I thought about it, too. If we go by theories, it will make more sense if Barbatos blessed me instead. But with you here..." Akira laughed. "Pyro is definitely my element. I'm seeing a pattern with vision-wielders like me. Based on what I've seen so far, pyro users are often the most passionate. And passion can put a leash on freedom when need be."

You took a sip.

He put an elbow on the table and propped his chin on his palm.

"How is it?"

"It's... tasteless?" You blinked. 

You thought he must've added something grand to the cups today. Was it all just one big placebo effect?

"Makes it no different than regular water, huh?"

"Well, yeah, I guess?"

"I've actually been disposing of this the entire day, that's why the coffees looked darker. Diluting the original sample is hard work but worth it. Enough as a substitute for normal water in case we run out. Who knew you could empty 10 pints so quickly in a day..." 

"You. In case you run out." You sighed, finally addressing it. "Akira, I'm no longer your partner."

"So is he."

You both paused.

He returned the kettle to the ice box before unmasking its contents.

"You were near-fatally wounded once before. You tasted it in your mouth when I defended you from that Lawachurl-

"You should know by now that blood isn't supposed to be tasteless."

Riley H. Goodheart can now message Akira Kurusu

#$ first follower event #$ brynn's manuscripts #yandere joker #yandere joker x reader #yandere akira kurusu #yandere ren amamiya #yandere akira kurusu x reader #yandere ren amamiya x reader #akira kurusu x reader #ren amamiya x reader #joker x reader #yandere persona #yandere persona 5 #yandere persona 5 x reader #why does he have so many names and aliases. #persona #persona 5

[breelandwalker]

Witchcraft Exercise - Spring Cleaning

There’s a marked tradition of cleaning and airing out the house in the springtime when the weather warms. As you’re dusting and tidying and getting rid of winter stagnation, take some time to do the same with your craft.

Clean and organize your workspace. If you have an altar space or a shelf where you keep bottles and jars and the like, remove everything from the surface and give it a good dusting. Take the opportunity to rearrange things or swap out pieces if it suits you. If you have ritual tools that don’t often get cleaned, check them for signs or rust or wear and give them a bit of love. Repair things that need fixing, if you can. If you have an iron cauldron that you use for fire magic, get a wire brush or some steel wool and gently remove any burnt residue left inside.

Sort through your supplies. If you have lots of candles and crystals and small items laying about, consider getting some small totes or craft organizers to keep things tidy. Divided storage boxes for beads or scrapbooking supplies are great for small items, and shoebox-sized caddies are perfect for taper, chime, and votive candles. Organizing things will make your space easier to navigate and also gives you a proper idea of what you have on hand. Which might help you resist impulse purchases the next time you’re out shopping for witchcraft supplies. While you’re tidying, be sure to discard any rubbish, candle stubs, wax blobs, herb scraps, bits of string, incense bases, and so forth that might be cluttering up the place. 

Discard things that are too old or worn to be useful. Dried plants and seasonings can usually be kept for 1-3 years if they remain in sealed containers. If they have no scent anymore or smell musty or mildewy, discard them and sanitize the container. If you’re using supermarket spices, you can use the expiration date on the container as a guide. Powdered material will likely last longer than whole herbs or cut-and-sifted material. One helpful tip is to put a purchase date on packets or bags of herbs when you buy them, or to put a little date sticker on your jars of herbs when you refill them. (Anyone who’s worked in food service will probably be familiar with the concept of container dating or day-dotting.)

If you make oils or tinctures or suchlike in your practice, check on these as well. Make sure nothing has gone off or lost its’ potency. Day-dotting your potion containers will help with this as well. A simple sticker with the name of the brew and the date it was bottled will help you keep track of your supplies and know when something needs to be tossed and replaced. (You can also print labels with the ingredients and purpose of the brew if you’re feeling super organized.)

Reorganize your books and resources. Review what's there and see if there are any materials that need to be weeded out, donated, or discarded. Remember that as you grow and progress, some things will become obsolete or may show themselves to be unhelpful or inaccurate. It's okay to remove things from your resource library that no longer serve you if you want to make some space on the shelves.

You can also cleanse your workspace and/or components while you’re tidying if you wish. It doesn’t have to be a full clean-slate-everything-must-go cleansing, but it can be helpful to just clear out stagnation or bring in some freshness and vitality.

Happy Witching! 🧼

Want more witchcraft exercises? Check out the masterpost here and visit my shop for spell kits, books, magical powders, and more!

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar, tune in to my monthly show Hex Positive on your favorite podcast app, or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)

#witchcraft #witchblr #spring cleaning #cleansing #witch tips #Advice for Beginner Witches

[ackerifle]

Can you please do a scenario with Yandere Levi who is in an arranged marriage with reader? Their wedding night, perhaps? :)

’til death do us part!

yan. husband levi ackerman x wife. reader

+ CW. — nsfw 18+ mdni; rape/non-con, au: arranged-marriage, mentions of: stalking, blackmail and extortion, slight dissociative rage, levi scares the hoes, rough sex, vaginal sex, cum eating, restraints: leashing and collaring.

it is so sincerely and utterly unfair. there are still far too many things you do not know about your, now, husband. and it is only until long after your departure from the wedding recessional do you ever think to recall such moments of ambiguity from him. but the wedding had gone so well, at least you had thought so, considering it almost made you forget how the evening would inevitably end. you could almost forgive him, for how he was so selfishly, and possessively, claiming you now. baring his teeth, levi is practically fully clothed, while you are bare and naked beneath him— save for the tight leather collar around your neck, tethered by a metal leash that sits pretty in the grip of his right hand.

you’re bent over the bedside, face buried into the silken — now tousled — sheets, along with your hands that held onto them for dear life as he viciously fucked you from behind. how demeaning, humiliating even, but that thought doesn’t dare to cross levi’s mind, not at all. he thinks you’re exquisite. you had looked lovely in your wedding dress and veil, but you look even better now, so helpless and exposed beneath him, so wonderfully, so wholly, his. at first, you had violently clawed and scratched at the collar, struggling with such animalistic vigor when he wrapped it so delicately around your neck. but it seems there’s little to no fight left in you, and your submission brings a sadistic smile to levi’s face.

and as much as he craves to see your face, your expressions of pain and pleasure, to make eye contact with you and intimidate you into giving in further, he’s mesmerized by the way you take him. narrowed, slate eyes observing the way your greedy cunt sucks him back in with every thrust. even as you bit down on your tongue to lower the volume of your moans, your body would betray you, arching your back each time he would buck his hips into you. your skin felt flushed and feverish, leaving you sticky with sweat, and it had become increasingly harder for you to breathe with the collar around your neck. with every tug of the silver chain, you gasped, willing yourself to stay put, and to prevent yourself from going entirely breathless.

and perhaps the worst of it all, was that he had felt so good. as if he already knew how to work you, how to work your body. levi’s left hand was pressed down onto your lower back, his thumb rubbing halfhearted circles on your taut muscles that would’ve soothed you had he been any gentler. he has you panting and heaving, just like he wants— and it shouldn’t have, but his cock filled you up so perfectly, so nicely. every time levi had ruthlessly pounded into you, he would just barely graze your cervix, teasingly pulling at the leash in his hand with every movement. and he knew when you hadn’t choked for air that time, that you were gone.

“i’m glad it all, hah, finally paid off.” levi’s words are incomprehensible to you, pace getting impossibly rougher as if he were intentionally distracting you from his words with each forceful push. fresh tears blurred your darkening vision, and your thighs ardently shook as your sensitive walls enveloped him in a tight embrace, “’ve been watching you for years.”

at this, your eyes snapped open, “had to— make sure you’d remain, ah, faithful to me.” he spoke through low groans and sloppy thrusts into your warm, wet pussy. as if regaining your consciousness, your senses, your arms went straight for the collar. desperately sinking your fingers around the metal buckles, digging your now dull and grated fingernails into the leather until they too, went numb. “’s why i threatened all those shitty brats, those pathetic excuses of suitors of yours.”

levi’s voice began to slur near the end of his confession, but he sounded so, so, content. whether with his own intimidation tactics or with you is unknown. and with his eyes half-lidded, he almost let out a haughty chuckle as he had only now noticed your frenzied scrambling, “told ’em to lay off.” he cursed when you constricted around his length, “or i’d…”

with his left hand, he effortlessly pulled one of your hands from the collar, leading it to rest behind your back. levi leaned forward, pressing down on your nude backside until his stomach laid flat over top of your hand, keeping it in place. his dick twitched inside you when he heard you whimper from the undeniable pressure the slightly altered position granted, as he had pried your other hand in the same manner. had it not been for the fact that levi was now holding both your hands hostage, bound together by your wrists in vice like lock, you may have actually torn through the collar. of course, given a few more hours, maybe.

“or i’d… that’s right.” as if the repetition of his words brought to mind a distant memory, more akin to a repressed recollection of nightmares, levi’s tone dropped forbiddingly flat. and if you had been able to see him, you would have noticed his furious expression, with lips curled into a bitter snarl, and eyes sinisterly glaring down at you. and like a statue, he had stopped moving altogether, “i’ve bloodied my hands for you, broken bones, and fought with those sorry men who thought they had the chance!”

you can’t help the sigh that you softly breathe out. whether out of relief now that his bruising pace had finally stopped, or out of disappointment due to a denied orgasm, you are uncertain. and with your focus elsewhere, his words go straight over your head. but levi doesn’t let up, how dare you not pay attention to him? abruptly, he yanks on the leash with such force, your neck feels as if it’s been decapitated, “so don’t ever say i don’t love you! don’t accuse me of it like you did to your fucking family!” it is like he had completely lost it, snapped out of the euphoric feeling of bliss to lash out at you. and then it finally sinks in, his confessions of coercion and crimes that led up to your inorganic marriage.

but you don’t have a clue as to how he would know of that tight-lipped conversation between you and your relatives. it was in the dead of night, at a grotesque hour where any sound minded individual would have been asleep. only then would you ever profess your dismay for your soon-to-be marital status and husband. and you’re starting to comprehend how serious he was about watching you.

“w-what? hold on–” but it seems that you’ve grasped the severity of your situation too little too late, and you know there’s no point in resisting when levi aggressively slams his hips back down on yours. the fat tip of his cockhead bullying its way back into your dripping cunt, and only until he has stuffed you full again, and he’s satisfied, does he begin fervently moving, “if you didn’t say anything, i— ah, wouldn’t have had to threaten them either!” levi finally concludes with gritted teeth and a tense jaw.

it doesn’t take long for him to work your body again, to push you over the edge, and give you what you want. the licentious and shameless noises you make while he splits you open on his dick only spur him on further, and levi is adamant about holding out to prove his point. even as it becomes absurdly burdensome to keep his own eyes open, he does, just so he can see you come undone. grunting, he crudely drags you one last time by the leash, collar constricting around your throat as levi shoves himself so deep inside of you that it feels that you two have become one. and it’s heavenly when you reach your high, you almost forget about how mercilessly he had coaxed your climax from you, how your body aches, and how perilously you’re in need of air. you almost forget the way it feels when he too, reaches his high, pulling out of you and pumping his cock over your lower back.

the feeling of his seed splattering all over your back and bound hands makes you cringe, and levi releases his grasp on your wrists in favor of puppeting only one of your hands for you— but never does he let go of the leash, “but we’re ’til death do us part now.” your hand is deadweight in his, and levi dips the edges of your fingertips into the pool of cum on your backside before forcing your hand into your mouth. but not without digging your own fingers into the top row of your teeth, pleased with the way the thick white liquid smears against your gums, melding with your saliva, “and i’ll drag you down into hell with me if i have to.”

#ackerifle #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere attack on titan #yandere aot #yandere aot x reader #yandere levi ackerman #yandere levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x reader

[kaylinababy]

Longing For More [iv]

⤷ Uzui Tengen x Fem!Reader x Rengoku Kyojuro

♡ back to portal ♡ demon slayer ♡ series ♡ words: 1.6k | reading: n/a

tags fem!reader, slow burn (not kidding in the slightest), angst central, smut (other parts), emotional cheating, fluff, depression, manipulation, maladaptive daydreaming. (lmk if i missed any!)

Tengen made you want to curl up into a ball. You woke up with a mission, to prove that his kisses were just out of habit, or him even speaking to you at all, for the matter. A recipe for disaster, considering that conversation last night with him admitting that he was seeking a fresh slate, instead of actually reading what was written on the previous one.

‘Why was it so difficult for him to even say things that aren’t full of double meanings! “Oh, y/n, our marriage is in shambles and we have no intimacy besides soulless kisses because you don’t have the memory of a goldfish” I mean, what was he even saying?’ You thought to yourself as you angrily tussled with your hair in the morning, wanting it to look nice for Senjuro’s dedicated day. He mentioned that he liked your hair in a braid, just like the first time you ever arrived to take care of the Rengoku Estate.

Tengen had jokingly told you that the hairstyle made you look like a complete rookie amongst other things, and you didn’t dare do that style again, but today it didn’t matter. Does he even look at you that closely now, anyway? Your mind started to picture what would happen later on, how Kyojuro would probably be extremely attentive, and how Senjuro would be off the rails with excitement and tackle you, his growing strength every day making it painfully joyful. Even Shinjuro made it less of a habit to upset his children, at least while you were around, and thinking about the time when he told you he looks forward to your tea, which had you gloating to Kyojuro, who was very surprised.

Going downstairs, thankfully Tengen was nowhere to be seen yet, and the wives were all stuffing their faces. You gave side hugs to all of them and excitedly told them your daily greetings, and served yourself a plate and fresh tea. Hina speaks up, “You’re so… new today, y/n!” You grin ear to ear “I’m just starving” you say as you bit into bread that wasn’t stored well overnight. Tengen opened the front door and calls for you as you take your last sip. The girls all scramble to watch from the door as you get inside the carriage, before Tengen invites himself on as well.

He leans down and kisses your lips for a few seconds before putting his arm over your shoulder as he whispered, “Good morning, my love” followed by your mumbled “Morning.” Nearing the Estate, you realized that Kyojuro was outside, sweeping. Your heart started beating as you saw his focused face as he was oblivious. You snuck a glance at Tengen to see him looking to his side, watching the markets nearby. You step in between Tengen’s legs, pressing a kiss to his temple before stepping off. “Thank you, love. I’ll see you at home.” You looked at him with a blank expression as he did the same, just smiling without showing teeth.

You adjusted your clothes and hair before starting to walk, eventually meeting Kyojuro’s eyes. He inched closer to you, “How was your morning, y/n?” You let out a sigh of relief “If excitement could explain it all… yours?” Kyojuro closed his eyes “I haven’t slept well these past few nights, y/n. But-” “y/n!” Senjuro comes running from the garden and hugs you. You and Kyojuro share a look of amusement as you are dragged inside.

Senjuro was clinging onto you as you put water to boil and prepared a simple breakfast, talking your head off. He was excited about meeting the other kids in his neighborhood after breakfast, and you were doing flips in your head over having the house ready for the surprise with no distractions during preparations. He was such a quiet and timid child, at least around others, so this was a pleasant surprise.

Kyojuro came up behind you two and spoke softly “What are you guys up to?” You jumped in response, causing Senjuro to let go and giggle as he ran to the table. “I’m almost done with breakfast-” you turn to look at him. “After eating you should sleep for a while.” Kyojuro’s eyes were so bright and welcoming. He was so close, his scent was- “Just for a little while, I have to help Sen, and you…” he finished with a smile. You could only nod and finish preparing the meal.

As the boys were eating, you were cleaning the kitchen. Kyojuro and Sen made their way to his playdate. You began laying out all of the ingredients for the meal that takes the longest, and are peeling vegetables as Kyojuro walks inside. Without missing a beat he grabs the necessary pots, and begins dealing with the meats, as per your request. You started blushing as he stood to your left and would move his arm behind you in order to move ingredients to the pot you were mixing, his arm occasionally making contact with your right shoulder.

After he’s done, you look at him apologetically, “You should take a nap. I can wake you up when I need you, really.” He smiles and nods, excusing himself to the couch. After the two separate meals are left to finish cooking, you watch his chest slowly rise and fall, his lips forming a pout as he laid upright with his arms crossed. Getting closer to sit with a book on the opposite seat, you hear light snoring, giggling to yourself as you open your book.

The soup you’re making starts boiling over, causing you to clumsily speed walk back into the kitchen. Cracking open the lid, some bubbles of soup travel to your white apron, causing you to furrow your brows in frustration and groan. You remove your apron and Kyojuro grabs it from your hand and observes it. “Did you get burned? I’ll clean this for you.” He grabs some soap and heads to the garden after you nod your head no. Kyojuro gets down on one knee in front of the basin filled halfway with water to wash your apron. You are in a trance, seeing his wide shoulders and arms holding the washboard, veins popping out under his rolled sleeves. Kyojuro seems to notice you staring and turns his head, laughing. You just can’t seem to gather up a response to his actions today. He eventually stood up and hung the apron with other clothes to dry in the sun.

You tell Kyojuro that the food is ready, and he stands outside to greet Senjuro who should be arriving at any moment, since the sun won’t be out for much longer. You alert Shinjuro on the food being ready and he grunts after mumbling that he might join. You go outside to join Kyojuro, standing side by side. “y/n, how are things?” You widen your eyes but don’t make eye contact. You begin mumbling “Things are fine. Tengen is just busy lately. I don’t blame him… Exhausting sometimes-” Kyojuro speaks up, “I do wonder what goes on in his mind…” Suddenly he’s giving you a side hug, wiping away a single tear you didn’t know was running down your face. He wasn’t saying anything, much less looking at you. After the embarrassment dawns on you, you thankfully spot Senjuro and remove yourself from his strong arm.

At the table, the 3 of you were eating your meals, with Shinjuro hanging about in the shadows, eating on the couch. Senjuro brightens up with each bite. “I love it! I want some more, tomorrow!” I smile, “You can reheat it tomorrow! It’s just enough for you, too.” Kyojuro finishes chewing and exclaims “She did this all for you, since she won’t be here during your actual birthday, Sen” His eyes flicker over to you, getting you embarrassed because your mouth is full. “Mhm!” You sound, trying to chew. Senjuro’s bright face formed into a semi frown as he processed this, and said “I wish you could be here with us…” You could hear even a pin drop, the awkward silence was killing you.

After dinner, Senjuro was doing paper crafts as you and Kyojuro were supervising him until your carriage was supposed to come. You both kept smiling at each other, warm just by looking at his sweet widened eyes. Kyojuro put his hand on your shoulder opposite to you in a side hug, leaning in to whisper “You’ve made us so happy today.” “Us?” You whisper back. “Of course! A wonderful meal, as always, and I bet Sen really appreciated your efforts.” Shivers are sent down your spine, he sounded so gruff. He’s so close for the second time today. You smile up at him, your blush hidden, as his face is relaxed and comfortable.

You heard the carriage wheels due to it being so quiet, Kyojuro let you go slowly before taking a few steps back, rubbing Senjuro’s head. Seeing Tengen arrive on the carriage made your heart drop. Climbing inside, you don’t say anything and offer a side smile. Tengen leaned in close to you, for the purpose of sniffing your clothing. He planted a kiss on your cheek before sitting upright, “Did you forget to wear your apron today?” Looking down at yourself, you notice you left it at the Estate, sighing quietly to yourself. “I must have forgotten it there…” “Hmm? Why did you take it off?” He turned to face you. “It got dirty as I open-” His eyes turn into slits, “Dirty? From what?” You groan rather loudly “Don’t start questioning things if you won’t even let me finish talking, Tengen.” The rest of the ride was silent, with you turning your body away from him. You wonder if he feels what you feel when his mind is elsewhere.

kaylinababy please do not copy | ty for the ♡ & reblogs!

taglist @bitches4lifebro @movie-enthusiast22 @diaboliklove-blog1 @wolywolymoley @tati-the-fangirl @mar-hee06 @stuckinthewrongworld @archer-fb @versalia @annie-napier @gingerspicelattemix @misty-angerose

#demon slayer #rengoku kyojuro #demon slayer kyojuro #demon slayer x you #rengoku kyojuro x reader #angst #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer uzui #kyojuro x reader #rengoku x reader #uzui tengen x reader #tengen x reader x kyojuro #uzui x reader #uzui x reader x rengoku #uzui x y/n #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojuro rengoku #kny x you #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #uzui tengen #slow burn #demon slayer rengoku #demon slayer tengen #kny x reader #tengen x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #kny uzui #kny kyojuro #kny rengoku #♡-kaylinababy

[this-is-my-funny-reblogs-account]

I didn't double read it or check this after writing. It's just pure - fast before I'd be too lazy to write this! So I'm sorry for any typos.

So y'all I'm typing this on my phone in English with Canadian French keyboard, before my hype dies out! This one is set in the @uselsshuman 141 families AU. I know that the idea behind the 141 wives is to keep them as blank slates for anyone to picture themselves but I can't help but give them distinguished personalities because why not 👀.

You can treat it a sort of

'what kind of girl I see each 141 guy with?'

Let's begin! I wrote those with civilian partners in mind 👀.

Warning: sex mentioned (it's a normal part of being in a relationship but minors better sit this one out)

John 'Soap' MacTavish

I picture him dating a daydreamer, someone who has imagination and a dash of wildness in her. Soap is an adventurous guy and he'd like to share this with his love. They definitely travel a lot together because world is beautiful and they want to experience it with one another.

Soap's girlfriend can allow herself to be a bit idealistic, with her mind in the clouds, because it keeps Soap's mind away from the harsh reality. In case he dies, she still will have a strong support system in his family, friends and community. She's not alone.

Their relationship is very affectionate and like a never ending honeymoon phase. Basically both of them are aware that what Soap does is dangerous and their relationship can end on a dime with his death. That's why they try to keep it constantly fresh and exciting. Who knows how long they can enjoy one another's company so they better spend it in the best possible way.

I think that they're the kind of couple that doesn't have big arguments. They're a team not rivals. Sure, Soap sometimes leaves the toilet lid open and his girlfriend tends to burn dinner a bit because she's been focusing on some random idea instead of paying attention but at the end of the day those things don't really matter - they're together for the good time and not necessarily long time (as in he can die at any moment, because those two are together for life.)

If any big arguments happen, they're regarding their son. As in "I know what's best for him" kind. Whenever arguing they do try to not yell at one another, and go to bed angry. Banishing to sofa doesn't really happen because both of them have hard time sleeping alone when they know their partner is nearby.

Sue me but I really like John dating a Polish girl 🫣 and I guess I'm not the only one. Soap surely gets protective of her and is ready to throw fists if anyone disrespects his missus. Sometimes he'd just annoy her how she's constantly grumpy because of the 'no smiling in public spaces' culture in her country. Other times he'd say she's like a model on a runway "because I'm so hot 😍? No, because you never smile 🤣. John!"

Their relationship is very physical, both romantically and sexually. They boink a lot and it is usually pretty funny. They do laugh a lot because sex is awkward sometimes and they are a playful couple altogether. Sometimes Soap will romance his way like Gomez Adams, other times he'd just put his penis on his girlfriend's shoulder while she's reading a book and say in a high pitched voice "hello" and that's his idea of charming his lady. I feel like they'd be the couple on a search for the most wacky condom. Neon green, glowing in the dark, and tasting like bacon - they've tried all of those.

MacTavish duo definitely cuddles a lot. Both at home and in public. It's not unusual to see Soap's girlfriend just nuzzling him or Johnny holding her tight and giving her forehead kisses.

Some might think that Soap's girlfriend is just a damsel in distress, waiting patiently for her prince charming - nothing further from truth. Since her boyfriend disappears for months, she has a life outside of the relationship. She goes to work, meets with her numerous friends (her skill of finding accidentally everyone's identity because she's friends with X wife is quite famous) and has her hobbies. She probably likes nature and keeps multiple plants (only after making sure those won't hurt their three cats) so her and Soap's place looks like a jungle on occasion. She might have some artistic hobbies like writing, painting or drawing. She's self sufficient on her own, but her life is better with Johnny.

She calms him down and grounds Soap in reality. After all she's mostly in Hereford so whenever Johnny gets back she informs him what has changed in the town or their house and how they're now doing certain things.

While Soap is a clown, she's his audience and even though she tends to react like she's annoyed with his antics, she loves how playful he is. Like Jessica Rabbit - he makes me laugh.

She's the disciplinary of the family, mostly because she knows that Soap won't be. He wants to be the fun dad for Fergus, because again he doesn't know how long he'll be there to cherish this life. Nevertheless, sometimes you have to lay down the rules and here's where Soap's girlfriend enters the scene. They're both pretty chill and loving parents though.

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Simon's wife is pragmatic and doesn't accept any bullshit, she has a job to be done and that's her focus. Unlike Soap's darling, she's on her own if something happens to her husband, and she knew it upfront before getting into the relationship with him.

Ghost got serious with her because he knew that she can carry on if he's KIA, he knows she can handle his emotional baggage and his character. She's not the one to cry or complain about her life, she just gets shit done, no questions asked.

Sometimes she gets frustrated with Simon's bullshit (who wouldn't honestly) but she's the only person whose opinion really matters to Ghost. She can lift him up and knock him down like nobody else. She's equally calm and understanding person who soothes Ghost, and the force that pushes Simon to be a better person if he needs to be told off.

I think that's the main reason why he married her, she makes him a better person. She's strong but calm, patient but reasonably so, and she cares about him. He had difficult life and his upbringing was anything but perfect but this woman makes him care. She makes him feel something else than anger and pain and for that he's forever grateful.

Their love language is quality time but since they're unusual couple it's not what you think. Their home is their castle and they relax the best while at home. Even if their house is full of children they do bond together via chores. Soft conversations while folding the laundry together, sprinkled with jokes, Simon fixing the leaking pipe without being asked to do so, her making his favorite dish just because he'd enjoy this, cooking together - Simon as an ex-bucher appreciate would handle meat while his wife prepares veggies, on occasion they'd compte who can make their part of the dinner faster. Just mindlessly watching TV together with their dogs and commenting how ridiculous Come Dine with me is or how "this blonde chick should have picked Zack rather than Jacob! Zack at least tried, and prepared his dessert from scratch to impress her" while watching Dinner Date. Trash talking game shows participants is their definition of entertainment.

When his wife was expecting their first daughter Simon panicked. He was sure he'd be a horrible dad and kids aren't for him. His wife was quick to knock him down to Earth - you're a dad now so step up. She'd remind him that he's his own person and regardless of how shitty his dad was, he turned out to be a good guy and he's so caring he'll be an amazing dad.

Their sex life is a mess. I think they're the kind of couple that gets so into it that sometimes wrapping it takes a back seat. Hence the five children they have together. With brood this size, it's difficult to take time for the proper intimate time but they're doing with what they have. Unlike Soap and his girlfriend, Riley's have the bunny phase behind them. They still boink and it's still very satisfying when it happens, just with five kids it's not always possible. Sometimes they're just too tired and it's ok. There are days when Ghost doesn't feel like having sex and his wife gets it. Sometimes she's not in the mood and he's ok with that. Their need for intimacy can be fulfilled by just having a moment for themselves to cuddle and hold one another.

Mrs Riley has her own business. Idk why but I can see her having a very niche, online business. Like she's making stained glass windows and decorations. She has her own workshop and she's making money on her hobby. It lets her stay at home with her daughters (and later with her son) but she's not fully dependent on Simon's income.

I remember someone mentioning that she's an American so I'm going with that. She has the 'fish out of water' moments, even after years of living in the UK. Like the little moments of 'right, you guys do/don't do that'. She's probably fascinated how old/small everything is in England or how brick house are basically a standard instead of drywall.

Even though both she and Simon are similar when it comes to discipline, I think their children are more likely to ask her as she's a bit less strict than their dad. When her daughters start dating she's more calm about it. Simon isn't the shotgun dad, but he does feel uncomfortable that his girls are growing and he was often absent. He would do the whole "scary dad show" but it's nothing more than a show. He's not intimidating his daughters' boyfriends on purpose. It's like a by-product of him looking like a tree trunk. His wife definitely plays along and they later laugh about it together when the young couple leaves on their date. She also supports their kids no matter what and she's as proud of Lottie making a cake as she's from Aya getting an A from the test. She knows that her kids are different people and she supports their decisions and goals for the future.

Mrs Riley isn't much of a romantic soul. She'd take a practical gift over flowers any day. If Simon isn't there to fix something she'll do it herself because there's job to be done. She's a hard-working person and someone very practical. She's calm but not beyond calling her husband a dumbass if he deserves this. However, she'd never call him names when she can see he has one of his episodes. She's ultimately there to support him through thick and thin.

John Price

Mrs Price is the OG wife as a captain's spouse. She and Ghost's wife are the OG 141 wives so she's a bit like a mom-friend to the group. She's the closest to what a typical army wife would be (in non Karen way) as she's the only homemaker in the group.

She is a bit old fashioned, just like her husband she's in her late 30s. She's still a sassy lady so you better not underestimate her as she's the ultimate leader of all military wives in Hereford. Not because of her husband's position but because she's a nice person and a true leader. She's not the queen B who makes everyone bow down to her, but rather someone so helpful and wise that people are willing to follow her lead.

She's engages in her community and is always there to help, especially the new girls and guys who just learn what's like to be a spouse of a soldier. She organizes a lot of events and get-togethers for them so they'd develop a nice support system to comfort one another, whether it is because of the distance or death of the spouse. While Soap's girlfriend knows everyone on accident, Mrs Price knows people on purpose and can match friends perfectly.

She's from New Zealand so she does bond with Mrs Riley over being a non-European in Europe. She misses the Pacific Ocean, hence trips by the seaside are pretty common in the Price household. She makes sure her children are at least familiar with their Kiwi side.

She and her husband are something between MacTavish duo and Riley's when it comes to affection. They do like to stroll together, hold hands and share soft kisses, but you won't see them glued to one another like the MacTavish Turtledoves. However, she finds them adorable and likes to reflect on "young love" with her husband. Little does people know that back in the early 2000s when not-yet-captain Price was on his training in New Zealand he was quite a romantic when he tried to woo a nice, Kiwi lady. One could say that they were whipped for one another.

She's super confident in herself and her relationship, without being narcissistic. She knows where she stands with her marriage and she knows her value as a person. If anyone tries to knock her down from her throne, they're in for a surprise. Mrs Price is nice and very motherly but you don't want to get on her bad side. Remember she's a well respected member of the community and an influential figure without pulling the "My husband is a captain of an elite squad" card.

Her and her husband sex life is very fulfilling and they still keep things fresh. Just because they're reaching their 40s doesn't mean that the passion just died out. They might not have sex every day anymore but when it happens, oh boy they're definitely very VERY satisfied afterwards. Both sides try to look desirable for one another so no boredom in bedroom for sure. Price probably still keeps a sexy pic of his wife on him when he's deployed.

Even though Mrs Price is very wise and responsible for everyone she's not boring. She's pretty chill person who avoids conflicts. Like the perfect client who once told there's no chicken salad, instead of wanting to talk to the manager would just order Greek salad because people working in services have difficult job already. She likes to joke too and it's not uncommon to hear her make fun of herself or her husband.

She could run for a local politician office and would win because she's clearly the most competent person for this job. She's aware of this but we're back to her pretty chill personality - she doesn't want to. Official function would keep her busy and away from her family and friends. It would make her unhappy in the longer run. Just because she's not employed doesn't mean that she has no work experience or experience in case she'd have to/want to work. She's constantly learning new things and developing as a person. Organizing the school's Christmas Market that turns out to be bigger than the Christmas market organized by the town surely counts as management skills.

Just like Ghost's wife she can handle being left alone if her husband dies, but just like Soap's girlfriend, she has a strong community to rely on if something happens. She has been there for others so the others would be there for her.

I picture her as a very elegant lady. She'd wear pearl earrings and pencil dresses. She always looks very elegant and professional whenever she's outside. At home it's a different story altogether and Price (and their children) is the only one who gets to see her in yoga pants and a hoodie.

She's the disciplinary parent for sure but just like in case of Riley's it's 50/50 when it comes to being the responsible parent. Mrs Price does points out to her husband whenever he's not as strict with their daughter as he was with their twins.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Now Kyle is a pretty chill guy so I can picture him as the soothing partner to his wife. Mrs Garrick is definitely the louder and emotional one of the two. Ironically she's the one that brings chaos into their lives but Gaz is into it actually.

Mrs Garrick tends to overthinking and overreact a little, and Kyle is the only person who can calm her down almost instantly. Just knowing that she's enough to him and he's proud of her, calms her down a bit.

She's a primary school teacher and she loves her job. Kyle just likes to hang around her when she's grading tests and sometimes she'd read him funny and stupid answers her students put on the tests. Yes. They're making fun of how stupid children are sometimes. Nothing against children themselves, they're just funny.

Just like Mrs Riley and Mrs Price, she's a busy woman who loves her job. Gaz support her and encourage her to develop her career. Sometimes Mrs Garrick feels insecure but her man is always there to proof to her that she's amazing. He admires her a lot and how she's putting an extra mile to help children from the poorer communities because everyone deserves good education in her eyes.

Both she and Gaz would like to see the world as a better place, that's why they're doing what they're doing. Their relationship is also very funny, as they have many inside jokes that started as something awkward. Like Kyle saying that his "friend thinks you look cute" then pointing out somewhere and running to that exact place, and the time he tried to come up with the conversation started so he asked "Sooo...do you like ducks?"

Their idea of romance is watching Bee movie together and laughing. Garrick's also like to walk together in a park, feed ducks and enjoy the outdoors. Not in a wilderness sense like MacTavish but in a nature in the town sense. They like to go on a little trips in their county and visit unusual places that they know one another would like Cider museum or The Chained Library. They can be unapologetically themselves when they're together and they embrace their weirdness. They definitely attend the annual Cheese Rolling Competition at Cooper's Hill, near Gloucester. Now whether or not Gaz actively participates and tries to catch the cheese is only for his wife to know.

Gaz didn't want any children and his wife always said that she already has 18 children in her care so she doesn't need more. So Rose was a very much an unplanned child but she was still a wanted one. Both parents were panicking once they've learned that there's a bun in the oven but in the end they decided that parenthood is yet another crazy thing in their life that they'll embrace together. Both parents love Rose and after she was born they felt even more happy and in love than before. Neither of them thought it was possible.

Mrs Garrick is a Welsh woman so her mom is a very important figure in the family. It often causes arguments between her and her husband because he feels like his mother-in-law's influence on their family is bigger than he'd like it to be. However, he understands that when he's gone for months it's good for his wife to have someone to rely on.

Garrick's are still a young couple so sex is a pretty common activity they engage in. I'd place them 2nd after the MacTavish duo (3rd place is Price's and 4th belongs to "I pity your wife if you think 6 minutes is forever" Riley's) they tend to treat the activity more seriously than Soap and his girlfriend. I'd say that they are the old school romantics in this department but whatever floats their boat is still there. They want to please one another so they definitely discuss kinks and what they want to try next time.

#cod mw #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #dad soap #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare ii #141 wives #cod mwii #kyle gaz garrick #call of duty modern warfare #simon ghost riley headcanons #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #ghost headcanons #ghost imagine #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #soap x reader #kyle gaz garrick headcanon #gaz headcanons #gaz x reader #dad gaz #john price headcanons #captain price headcanons #dad price #john price #captain price #cod mw22 #mw2 #mw2 x reader

[heliads]

first of all i just wanted to say that i’m actually in love with your writing and i can’t wait to read more from you!! anyway i was thinking of some good ol’ peter hayes x fem!reader where they were both in candor together and hated each others GUTS, but then when they transferred to dauntless, peter starts developing feelings for reader so he follows her around like some puppy but she’s still on the peter-hate-train. maybe also like he starts talking to some other female dauntless initiate and stops giving reader as much attention and she finally realizes that she likes him

(this is such a long request i’m so sorry)

thank you so much!!

'Bad Liars' - peter hayes

masterlist

Starting out life on your own terms. A fresh page, a blank slate. This is why you decided to switch factions in your Choosing Ceremony, why you agreed to never see your family again except by something as meager as coincidence. Friends, neighbors, blood relations, all left behind with one swipe of a knife against your palm. It’s worth it, though. Running through the streets of your city like your world is on fire, you’re free for the first time in your memory. It’s just you in this new, grand place they call Dauntless.

Well, you and Peter Hayes.

Of all the people to come here with you, of course your fellow transfer from Candor would be Peter. Bold, callous Peter. Peter, who’s had it out for you since you were kids. No child should know that much bitter hatred, but the two of you have been arch rivals since you were small. You’d be lying if you said that leaving him behind didn’t factor into your decision to transfer from Candor to Dauntless even a little bit, but yet here he is anyway. Turns out you couldn’t run that far from him after all.

To you, it makes perfect sense that if Peter Hayes had to go anywhere, he would go to Dauntless. All throughout his time at Candor, for as long as you can remember Peter, he had been crafting his words to inflict as much misery as possible. In the eyes of the faction leaders, anything he said was fair game so long as he was telling the truth, and Peter did just that. He told his truth, which was precisely like reality except warped to cause as much hurt as he dared. 

Peter’s words were honed to a knife’s sharpness, easier for drawing blood than the syringes of your faction’s truth serum. Of course he would go here, where bullets are no longer how he shapes his syllables to spike into your throat but a real thing. Why bother with figurative pain if you can produce the genuine article?

The two of you had ended up here for precisely opposite reasons. Peter wanted to hurt, you wanted to fight back. Candor is full of self-righteous bullies who believe they’re doing the right thing by being uncommonly cruel to anyone they pass. In Dauntless, everyone is finally on a level playing field. If someone insults you, you fight them, and no amount of callous words can save you then. Talk is nothing if you can’t back it up with prowess. For someone who had to swallow plenty of poison back in Candor, Dauntless is like a holiday.

However, the one thing that makes your paradise fall short is the fact that Peter decided to come here with you. He had made his decision independently of you, of course, but you’re still infuriated about the whole affair. This was supposed to be your fresh start, your one chance to escape your past and become something no one expected of you. That’s the whole point of the Choosing Ceremony, isn’t it? To kill off the old you and transform into the best version of yourself?

That had been your plan, at least, and then Peter had made his choice. You wouldn’t go anywhere but Dauntless even if your entire faction transferred over here, but it did complicate things. You had hoped that you and Peter would always end up on opposite sides of the room, then opposite ends of the faction, and never come in contact again, but as per usual, it looks like Peter isn’t much inclined to follow your whims.

From the first day alone, you knew he was going to be trouble. You were one of the first to jump, fresh off the exhilaration of the free fall plunge from the top of the roof, and reeling in the lingering aftereffects of your largest adrenaline rush to date while waiting for the jumpers to take their turns off the edge. The room was crowded, more so with each new jumper to make their move, yet somehow in all that chaos, Peter managed to find you. It didn’t bode well for the remainder of initiation, to say the least.

You had been hoping that the two of you could exchange silent, wary eye contact and then move on, your past shattered and gone for good, but instead Peter wove his way through the throngs of people and came to a stop by your side.

“Look who we have here,” he says, drawing the words out, “Y/N L/N. I never thought you’d have the guts to come here.”

“And I always thought you’d be too much of a coward to leave Candor,” you reply. “Looks like we were both wrong.”

Peter’s eyes widen and he chuckles, evidently not expecting your retort. “Careful, L/N. Didn’t know you had such a sharp tongue.”

“You’ve known me for years,” you say, eyeing him coldly. “If you didn’t know that, you’re about to be very surprised indeed. I hope you didn’t set your hopes on making first place in initiation, Hayes, or you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

Up ahead, one of the initiation leaders is calling for the trainees to fall in after him. You take this opportunity to breeze past Peter, who’s standing there and staring openly, mouth agape. You’ve put up with his bullshit for many years now, always taking it silently in fear of jeopardizing your position in your faction, but no longer. You’re on even footing again for the first time in a very long time, and you have absolutely no intention of ever caving to Peter Hayes again.

For Peter, it seems, your decision is a very rude awakening. You immediately fling yourself into the intricacies of fighting and running and shooting, which causes you to rise quickly through the ranks of initiates, much to Peter’s chagrin. Although he’ll tell anyone in earshot that he’s only letting you do so well because he thinks it’s funny to watch you struggle, you can see the panic in Peter’s eyes when you crush one fight after another. You meant what you said, after all. It’s first place or nothing, and you don’t intend on settling for anything where Peter’s concerned.

Your rivalry becomes just as well known among your new friends in Dauntless as it was back in Candor. Hardly a day goes by without you and Peter getting in each other’s way, whether it be slamming each other into the ground during a fighting match in the ring or running yourselves ragged in an attempt to be faster, stronger, better. It’s like you can’t get away from him. 

Everywhere you go, Peter is there too. Staying late after initiation to get some more practice with throwing knives, he just so happens to choose the target right beside you. Walking over to the training gym in the middle of the night because you can’t sleep and might as well use the empty hours to improve, Peter seems to have the same bright idea to practice with the punching bags even despite the midnight hour. You don’t like the fact that Peter seems to have such a good knack for telling when you’re awake or asleep, you have half a mind that he might get frustrated of the close competition and take you out while you were sleeping, but he’s never gone that far.

Your friends seem to have a different view of the whole affair. Every time you complain to them about Peter never letting you have a moment’s peace, Tris and Christina, your closest friends in initiation, just exchange knowing looks and begin to tease you. They seem convinced that Peter doesn’t hate you but actually harbors a crush, which is beyond you. There’s no earthly way that Peter likes you. The two of you have despised each other since before you could talk. The whole idea is absurd.

Still, if you were nothing more than an unknowing bystander, you supposed you could see how the situation might be misconstrued. A lifetime of truth-telling in you has to admit that maybe it is a little suspicious that you and Peter can’t seem to go an hour or two without running into each other, that Peter is both your greatest threat and the object of your every waking thought. It’s just because you want to beat him so badly, of course. Of course. If it weren’t, though. If you were thinking of him not because of hatred but for something more–

You wouldn’t. You would never be so foolish. This is how Peter wins, by twisting his way inside your mind until you’re second-guessing every single thing he does, and you’d die before you let him win. If he’s willing to play the game, though, you’ll do anything to beat him at his own technique, so you up the ante and repeat it right back to him. 

Sarcastic comments slip from your tongue whenever you see him. When Four takes the initiates out on guided runs, you make sure you’re jogging right by Peter the whole time, your pace steadily increasing until both of you end each race at a sprint. The rest of the trainees have learned to leave two targets side by side for you two whenever it’s time for sharpshooting practice, and heaven help the hapless initiate who asks one of you to spar as if the other wasn’t standing right there, guarding their territory.

It doesn’t mean anything, though. You still hate Peter to the ends of the earth, and everyone around you had better know it, too. You despise him as much as it’s physically possible for a human being to hate anyone, but then he starts spending a lot of time with someone else, and suddenly the hatred is far harder to come by than it ever was, and you’re not sure what to do with yourself at all.

He’s spending time with another girl. Which isn’t bad, of course. He’s got friends. You do too. But. One time at dinner, you heard Tris saying that he’s looking at the girl the same way he used to look at you, and she wasn’t talking about hate, and you cannot tell whether you were supposed to deny that he’d ever done anything but hate you or be furious at this new girl for stealing his attention away from you, so you didn’t answer at all. You didn’t sleep a wink that night, and gave up a few hours in to try and train some more. He didn’t follow. He always follows. Not this time, though, and when you came back, he was quietly whispering with the other girl. Hatching sinister plans, no doubt, or planning to stab someone in the back. He didn’t even look at you when he came in. It was like he didn’t even care.

You feel sick to your stomach. You intentionally ask other trainees to spar in the ring– look, Peter isn’t the only one capable of moving on– but it’s like he doesn’t even notice. You want to slam your hands against his chest and shout in his face, do anything to make him look at you, but instead you stay sullen and quiet and pretend like nothing has changed even though everything, everything, has.

It hits you, about two weeks later, what the problem is. Like a lightning strike in the dark of night, all of a sudden you know, a knowledge that had been blank and absent before but totally unavoidable now. You like Peter. Hell, you might even love him, if you gave him that chance in your heart. Peter might have liked you, but you brushed him off for so long that he moved on.

It hurts like a jagged hole in your heart. Someone has reached inside and broken your ribs to claw this feeling out from where you’ve so cleverly hidden it, and there’s no disguising the horror of the wound now. You couldn’t escape it if you tried.

You found out this truth about yourself in the middle of a Dauntless party, and it kills your mood completely. You can’t stand the loud music or flashing lights anymore, so you put down your half-empty cup on one of the debris-strewn surfaces and make your way out. No one notices you leave. You’re a ghost on the outskirts of a celebration of life, and there is nothing here for you anymore.

You wander until you end up on the bridge overlooking the pit near the center of the Dauntless complex. You stand as close to the edge as you can, hands gripping the flimsy railing until you’re not sure your fingers could peel away from the rusting metal if you tried. If you’d felt any buzz from the party at all, you’ve sobered up by now. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing here, skin chilled by the drafts of the pit, and then a voice sounds from behind you, and you’re abruptly dragged back to reality once more.

“I thought you’d be back in there with the rest,” Peter says, coming to a stop beside you.

You don’t dare to look at him, opting instead to keep your eyes firmly trained on the drop over the edge of the pit. “I could say the same thing about you.”

Peter sounded genuinely curious when he asked, but your tone is harsher, colder. You still haven’t forgiven him for moving on just when you realized that you liked him, and it’s leaching into your voice. Peter chuckles even still. “No, not me. The best part just left.”

You risk a glance his way, and to your surprise, he’s looking at you. “Are you being honest with me, Peter?” You ask.

His face twists into chagrin. “Looks like we can’t beat the Candor out of ourselves after all, even despite all the training sessions we’ve pulled. I’ve tried, though.”

“You’ve done a good job,” you muse. “It’s me who needs to be fixed the most.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

You shake your head. Maybe you weren’t as sober as you thought. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Says who?” Peter asks plainly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

You regard him suspiciously. “You haven’t always.”

Peter has the grace to look embarrassed. “I’ve done things I regret.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and laugh to hide your heartbreak. “I know you, Peter Hayes. I know what you do. I’m not falling for it. Not again.”

“It worked before?” Peter asks, genuinely surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

This time you do laugh for real. “Why would I? And give you another weakness to exploit?”

Peter flinches as if you’ve slapped him. “I deserve that, probably, but I’ve been trying to be better.”

“Why?” You ask. “You’ve never cared what I thought, and you certainly don’t care about being better. Nothing about you makes sense, Peter. You’ve got a girl back there in the party who’s probably looking for you now, but instead you’re trying to apologize to me. You’ve never cared about that before.”

“But I do now,” Peter says, voice unexpectedly strong. When he turns the force of his gaze back on you again, you feel totally rooted in place, unable to move even if you wanted to. And, when he starts to move closer to you, one hand coming to rest on top of your fingers, you’re not sure that you do. “I do care. I’ve been trying to tell you that for weeks.”

“I thought you were excellent at telling the truth,” you whisper.

“So did I,” Peter replies. Hesitates, then says, “Only other people’s truth, it turns out. You were always my best secret. I wanted to keep you the most.”

Your breath sticks to your lungs, refusing to grant you release. None of this makes sense. Peter would never– But he is now, standing in front of you, telling you as much as he can. Peter still wants you. It’s up to you if you want him, too.

After everything he’s done to you over the years, you owe him nothing at all. He’s hurt you more times than you could count. When you’re cold, bitterly cold, freezing down to the bone with no way of rescue save your own rough and ragged principles, you burn everything around you. Clothes, shoes, furniture. Even people. Peter burned you, and so severe was the flame of your mutual hatred that it made it impossible for anything to grow between the two of you but a jealous wrath. 

Peter has left the cold of Candor and traded in his shivering bones for Dauntless’ natural warmth, and now he finally has the room to put out the fire again. He’s stamped out the inferno, or tried to, at least; but upon inspecting the last flattened spark, Peter can’t tell if he went too far. It is immensely difficult for him to discern if he has left anything of you but char and ash. 

What could have been a beautiful thing went up in smoke the moment he first raised a harsh word against you. Peter loves the truth, loves most of all to twist it, but in the end, the truth cannot help him here. Peter knows what he wants the truth to be, but the truth is no substitute for reality. It is up to you if you can ever forgive him, and no amount of pretty words on Peter’s end can change that.

It’s up to you, and for the first time since you came to Dauntless, you know precisely what you want. “I know what you mean,” you tell him carefully.

Peter’s face cracks in a tentative smile. “You know? So you–”

“I do,” you interrupt. “I like you, Peter.”

You have seen Peter furious, filled with righteous vengeance. You’ve seen him bloody and bruised on the other end of a sparring ring. You thought that the brightest emotion you’d ever see on him was the pure flame of hatred, but it turns out there’s one thing better than wrath, and that’s sheer, incandescent joy. He wears it now like the finest of luxuries, and you decide that you’d like to see it many times again. As it turns out, you’ll have plenty of chances.

divergent tag list: @blondsauduun, @gods-fools-heroes, @23victoria, @manyfandomsfanvergent, @imwaysthelastchoice, @crazyhearttragedy, @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed, @alex-1967s-blog, @aoi-targaryen

all tags list: @wordsarelife

#peter hayes #peter hayes imagines #peter hayes x reader #peter hayes oneshot #divergent #divergent imagines #divergent x reader #divergent oneshot #divergent peter #divergent peter imagines #divergent peter x reader #divergent peter oneshot #dauntless #divergent fanfic

[yeyinde]

after dark

Keegan P. Russ x f!Reader

⟶ WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT; P-in-V sex; female reader, female gendered anatomy; gratuitous use of kid; slight body worship; established history/relationship; canon-compliant, takes place after Sin City; minor game spoilers; mentions of death (canon-compliant); war; fluff - this is honestly just gratuitous smut and my awful attempt at fluff ⟶ WORD COUNT: 9,7k ⟶ SUMMARY: you want to see him break. ⟶ NOTES: my first foray into Keegan! this took a bit of time since i wanted to include so much, and it ended up growing a little out of hand. i might expand on this/make it into a series potentially (just small drabbles). Keegan was so fun to write for!

Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity. (You often tell him that the two of you are kismet. He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)

The milky white expanse of his torso is littered with scars, and you map them with your greedy eyes, drinking each bloom of imperfection that stains his ivory skin. Finding new ones that weren't there before. 

Blades, bullets, burns, pockmarks—many from weapons you can't even begin to name, to know—all etched into sinew. Into bone. 

They mar him in a brutal smear of varicoloured hurt. A mosaic of near–death laid out like Orion, curved like the tail of Sagittarius. It's spooled, knotted, in a way that makes you think of Lyra. Of the stars you can see so clearly now without any light pollution around to smog the indigo sky above. 

The scars are healed in uneven patches; some darker, uglier than others. Raised welts, bumps. Deep indents in his skin, cutting through muscle and tissue. 

There is no sense of structure in the gashes that line his body—silver, to red, to purple, to black—and you know they were collected over time. Over years, decades, before you ever met him. Knew him. 

(The only one that looks familiar is the jagged hole on his shoulder where he stepped, stupidly, in front of a bullet for you. 

Stupid, because no one, especially him, should risk themselves for you.)

They sit, carved in flesh, as a testament to his nomadic lifestyle, one drenched in danger, death, and calamity. Shadows moulded into man. Into ruined skin and jagged bone. Deadly forces of nature hidden in the craters where the earth split into twos, threes. Triplicated ravines clogged with the rubble of was once life. Peace. Home, maybe. 

A tenuous fallacy, now. 

But they risk everything—even themselves—for it, and the proof of their commitment, the dedication to the cause, is smattered across his torso for you to see. 

The exploratory tips of your fingers, dripping reverence and featherlight, ghost over his flesh, over the blemishes that decorate his body, taking them in, feeling them. 

Some are baby–hair soft, silky sateen; they sit in thick, raised welts of scar tissue clotted over each other. Others are rougher than sandpaper, gritty like stripped lath. They feel like tree bark under your fingers. Scabs. Fresh, new. 

You wonder if he remembers each one of them—how they happened, where, by who; which ones hurt the most, and which ones took longer to heal. He might, you think. 

(It's him, after all.)

Catalogued pain organised and filed away. Locked in a safe box inside the enigma of his head, and kept there for safekeeping. 

But it's not gone, not put away. 

(It's always within reach.)

Phantoms congeal in the corners of his eyes sometimes when you happen to touch one, to reach out and grab him by the arm, or the hand, the wrist, and you see the brief flash of recognition in cut slate. A distant fog simmers up from the depths; veiled blue. A past you're barred from touching, knowing. 

It's not pretty, kid, is what he told you when you asked. Not like you. No sense ruining something like you with all that ugly. 

It was the end of the conversation. Locked away for good, and brassbound with a warning sign, rusted and aged, that read: do not enter.

So, you don't. 

But sometimes, like now, you like to take them in. To see the contrast between your blemishless skin in comparison to his. Worlds apart. A cosmic chasm of experience and life needles between you, and yet—

You brush your fingers against the marks, and have never felt closer to him, despite everything inside that tells you you're wrong. 

You place your hand flat over a cut over his breastplate, right where his heart thuds against your palm, and wonder what near–miss he escaped from that caused this. The other slides to his stomach, his muscles flexing, rippling, under your touch, and you brush your thumb over a circular hole under his solar plexus. 

You think, then, of the years you spent underground, running through the barren safehouses that dotted the landscape, only to come away with minor cuts, abrasions. The worst of them all is a small scar near your wrist where you burned your skin with cooking oil. 

You've never met the end of the blade—not until him.  

"What are you thinking about, kid?" 

His hand lifts—skin littered with small knicks and cuts, a burn on the back of his hand that almost matches yours except his was caused by a Molotov cocktail and not youthful ignorance (a world of difference, a chasm)—fingers sliding over the curve of your cheek. His slate–blue gaze is fixed, unmoving, on you. 

It was those eyes—cenote blue—that drew you to him in the first place. Teal in tenebrous. They haunted you for months. Wordlessly following your every move, drinking in the expressions that flitted over your face. Taking stock of you. Measuring you. Your accomplishments. Your worth. Assets.

Survivability.

("Pretty low," Merrick says, plain and brutal, and the rawness of it rumbled through the hollow crevasse you found yourself in. Low. Lower than low. So low it was almost a miracle you survived as long as you had.)

Keegan said nothing at the time. He stood back, hand gripping the butt of the rifle, eyes fixed on you, unwavering. Unforgiving. 

It was easy to take his silence as cold. Distant. Bundled up in thick layers of muskeg, in icy separation. 

You did—at first. 

An active war zone was not a place for a civilian. Merrick told you as much when he found you, taking refuge in a dilapidated home split in two, and welding only a metal bat you'd grabbed on your travels. Your only protection against an enemy that has no qualms in murdering innocents. That uses guns and heavy artillery to decimate the soldiers, the allies who jumped oceans to fight alongside the troops. 

You lit a lantern one night after settling down in a broken home, and woke up to the barrel of a gun pressed to your temple. 

It was Ajax who saved you. 

"Hey, uh. You're American, right? What are you doing in a place like this?" 

You didn't trust them. 

Didn't trust anyone. 

You'd spent too long cutting through the thickets of the surrounding overgrowth, hopping from one ramshackle house to another to lay low, to hide from the people who wandered past, looking for survivors, hostages, to give into that part of yourself that longed for people. For normalcy. The road jaded you a little. Isolated you. 

It was safer. 

The people you stumbled across either tried to pick you bare, taking the meagre belongings you scrounged together until there was nothing left but the thin skin covering your body, and your will to live. 

Or they tried to kill you. To use you. 

Hostages. Civilians used against the threadbare resistance. Their safe return in exchange for more land, for surrender. 

So, you hid. Got good at it, too. 

("Too fuckin' good," Merrick hissed, shaking his head. 

The only one who was ever able to spot you was Riley. Keegan, sometimes, through the lens of his rifle.)

When they found you, you tried to run, to fight. Enemies. All of them. 

It was Ajax who stopped you, who talked you off the ledge. 

"Come on, we're not gonna hurt you."

"Heard those words before."

"How long you been out here for, anyway?"

"When did ODIN destroy New York?"

"Jesus, kid."

"Stupid," Merrick said. "That's what you are, Cali. Stupid as hell." 

And Keegan—

Said nothing. Nothing. 

He doesn't like you, was your first thought when it all added up, stacked together. The avoidance, the distance. He wasn't cold, but he didn't try to get close to you, to get to know you. He just—

Watched. Waiting, you thought, a touch bitter, for you to die. Like they all expected you to when you said you weren't going to the safe zone. That you were staying, and you were looking for them—your brother, your father. 

Then—

Stay behind me, always, kid. You got that? 

If you can't see my back, you wandered too far. 

Eat. You need it more than I do. 

Watch your step. You'll fall into a crevasse if you're not careful, kid. 

The second: he likes you too much. 

And now—

Your hips flex. A slow, teasing roll against his pelvis, and it's that indelible sight of sky blue eyes shuttering out of view when his lids lower, lashes fluttering, that nearly sets you on fire. 

The press of his cock makes your nails dig into the constellation of scars on his chest, clinging to him as licks of pleasure flicker up your spine. Nerves smouldering at the stretch, the feel of him seated so deeply within you. 

"Thinking about you," you murmur, breathless. Raw. 

You wonder if he remembers the rainy days in San Francisco, the sunrise in Los Angeles, huddled under the waterlogged crater of what once was Pacific Avenue and Venice Boulevard with the same touch of halcyon fondness as you do. 

You think, then, of the fusillade following you in the ruined husks of the streets, enemies on every corner, of the six-day hike between the cities to reconvene with the others, lost somewhere in the decimated coast. 

A little part of you still hopes he does despite the stress, the tension, the danger; the separation, the distance, that cracks between you, louder than a thunderclap. 

That he thinks back on that time when it was just you and him, and no food, no shelter, and feels something more than the gritty reality of everything falling apart around you. 

Of death, and the stench of rot, and decay, and the overgrowth of vegetation that sometimes felt like it was trying to reclaim you along with its land. The vines that curled around your ankles when you idled, or slept—shackles that refused to let go. Gunshots in the night. Predators roaming wild and free in what once was a metropolis. 

Then, softer, you add:

"Always." 

You speak it reverently, as if the word, the sincerity in your voice alone was enough to somehow shade the gossamer of calamity and horror you faced together into something pink, something roseate. Something fond, and wonderful, and good despite all of the ugly and the bad that stacks up, deeper than the hole punched through San Diego.

(Down so deep you sometimes think you can see the eerie glow of molten rock below.)

Keegan says nothing, gives nothing away, but you catch something in his gaze shift, relent.

Another inch off the thick veneer that keeps him from falling into you fully, that keeps him from letting you in. 

It's the slow erosion of his defences, the ones that make him say, yeah, kid, whatever you say when you bring up the smouldering ruins of Death Valley, when you slipped your finger in the cut of his mask, and tugged it down below his chin. Your nail caught on the bridge of his nose, but he didn't flinch at the thin white line you left behind, the sting. He didn't move. Didn't blink. 

Didn't push you away. 

He let you. Let you press your sun-chapped lips to his for the first time with nothing more than an easy, kid—don't start something you can't finish before he gives in. Kissed you against the grainy sand that scorched your skin. 

You used to think he was cold. Unfeeling. 

But now—

Shadows dance over his face when the clouds drift over the milky moon hung in the indigo aether, but you catch the rubicund smear over the bridge of his nose when they part. Pretty pink dusted in soot. An ethereal chiaroscuro etched into his flesh. 

You feel his chest shudder, expanding with his rippling inhale. 

—You know that, sometimes, he just feels too much. 

You hitch your hips again just to watch him flinch beneath you. The breath stutters out of his chest, lips parting on a grunt when you grind over him. The pinched knot between his brow is stained with bliss, and deep like the crevasses ripped through the earth. 

The hand on your cheek jerks, tenses. His fingers curl around the back of your skull as his eyes crack open once more when you settle. Heavy lidded, stained the residuum of soot and grease paint the lukewarm water wasn't able to scour off. 

You meet his cobalt stare, and feel the breath catch in your throat. 

Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity.  

When you whisper this to him, his hips jerk again, flexing, under yours. 

"Fuck, kid. Don't go starting something you can't finish."

His words nudge something inside of you, and the slow simmer of competition roils through your chest. 

"Can't finish, huh?" You murmur, and keep your eyes fixed on his as you lift your hips. The drag of his hardened cock sliding against your walls has pleasure liquifying your core. 

When it's just the tip you clench around, you pause, a small smirk curling over your lips. You'll make him break. Make him eat those words. 

But Keegan can read you like an open book. 

His hand lifts from your hip bone, sliding up the flesh of your torso until his fingers are perched in the gaps between your ribs, holding you steady. 

"Easy now, kid," he whispers the words low, voice breathless, humid. "Don't bite off more than you chew."

In response, you sink down an inch. 

It makes him choke a little. A wet noise spills out from his mouth, teeth flashing when they burrow into the plush give of his full, pink lips. The tendons in his neck strain, pulse throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat. Linked, you think, a little delirious, even like this. 

(You often tell him that the two of you are kismet.

He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)

His fingers tighten on your ribs. The other hand falls, palm swallowing your breast, fingers digging into the flesh once before sliding down, pinching your nipple between his calloused thumb and forefinger. It sends shocks of pleasure ricocheting down your spine, and you arch into his grasp, eyes dropping. 

"That feels good—"

"Yeah?" He husks, lips curling into a rare smile, a grin. "Like that, huh, kid?"

The raw timbre of his voice coils over your flesh, and you shudder at the liquor-rich sound, eyes blinking open to drink him in. 

The spark of pleasure that glimmers over his expression, eyes dark, eclipsed, and saturated in bliss, makes something coil low inside of your belly. A molten heat that leaks into your bloodstream until it bubbles, froths. 

Keegan is a slow burn. A steady crescendo of pleasure that builds and builds in evenly spaced increments until your head is molasses-thick from the endorphins that saturate your synapses. 

Keegan is always so giving, so quiet with his affection; picturesque stoicism even when he has you bent over, battering his cock into you as you lose it amid the unrelenting waves of euphoria that bloom inside of you, singing hymns in his name, and only just lucid enough to round the vowels out. He rides you through it all without cracking. Without rupturing from the pleasure that thickens the air between you until it's syrupy and heady with the scent of sex. 

And it's good. Always. 

You love the way he handles you; love the way he splits you apart atom by atom until you're an impending explosion, leaking bliss into the warmth of his mouth when you breathe his name. Raw, exposed. Bare and flayed by his scorching hands, and hungry lips. 

Keegan touches you with the same delicacy as he does the rifles in his arsenal. A finely tuned weapon, honed and perfected in his hands. He drags only the best out of you, and knows where to press, to nip. He knows your body like he knows the inner workings of each gun he carries. 

He's adroit in combat, and it bleeds over into the soft, plush give of your body beneath him. 

It's often thoughtless—done purely on muscle memory, and instinct alone. A primal switch in the back of his head he commands at will, one now grounded and circuited into making you tremble, gasp, and moan his name the way you know he likes best. 

Keegan leeches his own release from the aftershocks of your pleasure, pounding desperately into you as you clench around him, back arched and toes curled. He fucks you through the remnants of your climax until his own takes hold, and spits his bliss into your body, groaning low in your ear. 

But everything—everything—is for you. 

He takes where he can as he fractures you into pieces, into fragments of yourself. Crumbling in ecstasy under his touch. Broken, shattered. Rendered into a trembling mess of pulp beneath the bulk of his body.

He's a lesson in patience, in tenacity. 

Usually.

But now—

You set the pace. Control the motions. 

(And you want to see him break in the same splintered pieces he leaves you in.)

"Just sit back, and let me make you feel good."

He draws a sharp breath, eyes fluttering, widening slightly at your base command. 

Something gnarls over his exposed face, a frisson of affection, and softer than anything you'd ever seen before. 

It's rare you get to see him so bare, so open. 

"You do," he rasps, words sticking between his teeth. "More than you know."

He swallows thick, eyes skirting away from you as if to gather himself together, to calm the racing of his pulse that beats against the pale skin of his throat. 

Comfort is taken in composure, in distance, and you can see him grasp for it, reaching for that same phlegmatic control even now. 

You don't let him find it. Won't. 

You take a quick breath to steady yourself, fingers sliding down his damp chest, nestling in the messy smear of hair that sticks to his skin, grainy and gritty from salt and dirt, and then you drop. 

The blunt head of his cock bludgeons into a fleshy spot behind your navel that has your ears ringing, head tipping back in pleasure. It's good—so, so good—and you can't stop the whine of his name, broken and fraying at the edges, when you sink down to the base, swallowing him whole in the right clutch of your cunt.

White noise, static, flashes behind your eyelids, catching in the pale moonlight. A slurry of soporific pleasure spools inside your head, saturated with bliss, and edging into that indelible equinox of pleasure and pain when his head kisses the seal of your womb. It flexes against your mettle, pushing the limits of what you can reasonably take, but you grit your teeth against the strain, and breathe. 

You won't break first. 

Not when his eyes roll back a little as you shift in his lap, brow furrowed into a deep ruck of pleasure at the feel of you around. 

The overwhelming feel of him buried deep behind your navel notches into too much, and the ache of it pulses like a heartbeat in your sternum, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you hold steady amid the waves that crash over you, that threaten to consume you. To drag you under. 

White-hot pleasure lashes at your spine. Congealing inside the pit of your lower belly. A molten puddle of nirvana that steadily thickens into a coiled knot, gnarling within you. A spool of bliss, slowly unravelling under the stretch of him, the grind of his pelvis against your throbbing clit..

It thrums in your veins, your bones. Madness bleeds in at the edges; blurred lines of so good and too much too full and you find the equilibrium, the perfect zenith, when he groans your moniker, Cali, out between gnashing teeth. 

The brassy rasp of his voice centres you. Grounds you. You inhale the tang of him until your lungs begin to burn, to ache. You feel them pressed taut to your ribs where his fingers sit, nestled between the gaps of your bones. Firm, steady. 

You exhale in slow, measured increments, feeling the way he throbs against your walls, in your throat. You take it all in, all of it. Him. The firm press of his body beneath yours, thighs spread to fit him in the seam, makes you relax, ease into the press of him. The fill. 

Keegan's hands twitch. His hips lift slightly, an unconscious movement. An accidental proxysm. His ironclad resolve, the honed stillness of an expert sniper in perfect control, command, of every limb, every muscle, every movement, and breath, crumbles like papier-mache with the tight clench of your pussy around him. 

It edges into delirium, into that burning sense of conquest when he grunts, and rubs a spot inside of you that feels like heaven itself is nestled behind your belly button. 

(A fissure. A crack.)

The steadying breath he takes draws your attention back to him, to the sheen of sweat drenching his brow, the smear of charcoal he couldn't scrub away. It stains his skin permanently, now. A tattoo of battle grease, war paint, that he can't be rid of. 

(You tell yourself it isn't jealousy that congeals at the base of your throat when you see the blemish on his skin, and wish, so desperately, that you could brand him the same way. Mark him, too. 

To crawl inside the brackets between his ribs, and suffuse your atoms to his until every pump of his heart sends blood roaring through your veins.

It sits there, bitter and acrid, when you try to swallow it down, refusing to budge. 

Stupid. Stupid—)

You take it all in. The racing of his pulse, the slow, deep inhales, and the way he reaches out, struggling to control the impulse, the instinct, the want, to greedily take more and more from you. 

"Keegan," his name falls between your teeth, breaking in the middle when you roll your hips, and catch the flash of gritted teeth. 

The thin strands of sangfroid he managed to snag in his grasp are released when your voice crests over his name, cracked open and wanting, and desperate. 

It tastes of victory when he groans yours in return—not kid, not Cali, but the one you whispered to him that first night he found you in a desolate husk of what was once someone's home—and bucks into you in a stutter. 

You meet him again, pelvis kissing his until it suctions the air from your heaving lungs, and you can feel him pulsing in your sternum. A red-hot blade snug against your jugular.

The thin skin of his eyelids crinkle when he squeezes them shut against the feeling, the overwhelming pleasure, of being buried balls deep inside of you. 

Your ribs ache. His fingers burrow into the flesh that separates each rung, clinging to you, and keeping you perched on his lap as he struggles to catch his breath. 

It rips open something inside of you—something deeper and fuller than sex, than shattering his ironclad resolve—and the sight of him, chest heaving, eyes heavy and black with desire, and the soft way he crumbles in your hands, makes you think of the morning rays of the sun brushing over the broken landscape. The moments of peace in the midst of war. 

You think of him, and the tick in his jaw, the gleam in his eyes, the same shade as crushed bluebonnets, and think of kismet once more as you pant out his name. 

"Ah, fuck—," sweat drips down his brow, and you follow the droplet until it falls, soaking the jaundiced pillow below. "You keep that up, kid, and you'll be tapping out soon enough."

It drags a huff from your chest. "It was once. And you made me run through San Diego for hours before, and—"

"It was fifteen minutes. We ran a block," his hand falls from your breast, palm swallowing the side of your thigh. "You lasted five minutes on top before you begged me fuck you instead. Said you were tired."

"I was," you whine, muscles flexing when you lift off of him again. You feel the ache in your muscles already, the burn of exertion from sitting atop of him like this, knees wrenched apart to accommodate his bulk between them. "But I wanna make you feel good, Keegan."

The sharp sting of his nails catching your flesh makes you gasp. "C'mon, kid. Easy now." 

The low commands roll off of his tongue with practised ease, and you slip a little further into that inky madness that smells of fir boughs, sticky spruce sap, and ripened satsumas. You breathe him in and taste dusty pomander balls, and pinyon in the back of your throat. 

"Keegan—"

His hips lift, pushing into the soft, wet clench of your cunt. "That's it. Nice and steady."

He guides you along—a maestro stroking the keys of a piano as he plays his grand requiem. You struggle to keep up with his pace, the way he pistons into you, notching his cock into that soft, sensitive place inside that makes your eyes brim with unshed tears of bliss. 

Each deep thrust makes the head of his cock kiss the plug of your womb—just a brush, just a tease—but the burning sensation of blistering pleasure and wisps pain, of too much and too full, have you spiralling down the precipice faster than you expected. 

It's a dizzying descent, but you match his tempo as best as you can, determined to ride the torrent of ecstasy that runs down your spine in a thick, dulcified rivulet. 

Still. Still. You can't help but bask in the way he melts in your hand, rendered into malleable polymer with just a twist of your hips, a clench of your cunt. It's electrifying. Addicting.  

The high of it all brims deep in your head, blooming like a sickness that clots along the seam, noxious and heady. 

You can't stop the satisfied curl of your lips from growing, slowly and languid, when you bear down on him, taking him to the root. 

His grunt reverberates through his chest with enough of a punch to rattle your bones. 

Seeing him desperate is intoxicating. 

"What happened to your composure, Keegan?" you mewl, heading rolling back. "My big, quiet soldier is so talkative now—"

Rough palms sear the flesh of your hips when he grabs you tight in his unyielding hold, keeping you fixed on him. 

You try to move, but he tightens his grasp, refusing to let you budge. 

Frustration curls inside of your chest, and you glower down at him through glassy eyes brimming with tears. "Keegan, I wanna—"

Your words dissolve into a low keen when his hips lift again, battering into your cunt in an unrelenting wave of thrusts that force the protests from your lips. 

"Talkative, huh?" He grinds the words out from between clenched molars. "That was your goal, eh, kid? Break me?" 

He punctuates each word with a brutal cant that feels like a battering ram to your skull until the weakened bone splinters, shatters, and he punches through. 

"Kee–ah, ah, fuck—!" 

"That's it," he husks, tone liquid. His fingers spear into your flesh, tight enough to bruise your bone. "Just like that, kid. You wanna see me break? Lose control?" 

Heart in your throat, all you can do is whimper around the pulse in your esophagus, and struggle to find purchase under his unrelenting onslaught. 

His hand lifts, falls to your shoulder when he stills, keeping you locked tight to his pelvis, cock jerking inside of you. His fingers curl over the ledge, gripping bone, and then he tugs, pulls. 

You fold easily in his grasp, lowering your chest until it rests over his, sweat-slicked and warm. The scrape of your sensitive nipples over his coarse, damp chest hair makes you moan, clenching desperately around him at the sparks of pleasure roiling through you. 

When you settle over him, his hand moves, slides to the back of your skull, and wrenches you even closer to him, until your forehead meets his, and the soft bump of your nose catches on the bridge of his, right over the thin line you left on his skin. Healed, now, but you wonder if this is intentional. If it's—

Keegan breathes heavily through his open mouth, breath mixing together with yours, a humid coagulation against your lips where condensation gathers on the dip of your chin. 

He says nothing, just stares. Bare-faced, naked. Still smeared in the residuum of his battle grease, the armour he wears to keep himself hidden from the Federation, from discovery, and the freckles of black on his ivory skin look like an inverted night; the endless yawn of the heavens above. You wonder if you can map a new constellation in the dirt left behind, but the notion is pushed down, dissolved, when your gaze lifts, finding his own. 

He hasn’t looked away from you at all, and the intensity of his gaze makes you dizzy, breathless. Too many emotions ripple through the mercury depths for you to grasp, but they're soft. Tender. Your heart thuds when you see the endless flicker of them hidden inside, tightly sealed under a rusted lock without a key. 

"Keegan—"

He doesn't let you finish. His chin lifts, mouth hooking on yours in a blistering kiss. His tongue slides between the gap of your parted lips, stealing the words that spool behind your teeth. 

Keegan kisses you with a deep, almost methodical precision. It's a contrast you can't keep up with; an ebb and flow. He starts fast, harsh. A demanding press of his mouth to yours, unrelenting and eager. It's all tongue, lips, the clash of teeth until yours are stinging and bruised, and then he pulls away until his are just a brush. A ghost of a touch, a whisper. 

He holds it there, teasing, taunting, until your lips bloom in a soft pout, eyes turning downward. 

"Keegan, please," you whimper into the firm seal of his mouth, so close and yet, so far away. Out of reach. Held there until whatever he wants, whatever he seeks, flashes in the glossy puddles of your eyes. 

And then, he gives. 

Gives, gives. His mouth devours yours with a steady ferocity like the howling winds echoing through the wizened fir boughs in the desolate forest. He holds you close, a hand fisted against your skull while the other plinths your jaw, thumb stroking the bubble of your cheek. 

The pressure of his hold, of his hands, oscillates between firm, unyielding, and keeping you afloat, soothing you. 

You need it, you think, when he kisses you like the sudden approach of an avalanche ripping through the thicket, and barrelling down the vertiginous mountain he keeps you locked on. 

An ebb and flow. 

When your head swims, dizzy with hypoxia that inks across your vision like a Rorschach, he pulls away. Peppers small kisses, nips, over your stringing, swollen flesh, and soothes the ache he left behind. 

"I know," is all he says to you before he starts to move. “I know, kid.”

Keegan keeps you locked to his chest, one hand bracketing your skull, kissing you in tandem with each roll of his hips. His other hand settles against the swell of your ass, holding you steady as he bucks into you, bludgeoning his cock into your cunt. 

Your hands drop to the pillow under his head to stabilise yourself, pushing firmly into the mattress in a futile effort to keep the brunt of your weight from pressing against him, but he notices. 

Always. 

His grunt of displeasure is barely heard over the roaring in your ear, the lewd slap of his wet skin on yours, the grind of his cock into your cunt, but you feel it rumble through his chest, reverberating over your lips. 

His hand trails up from the curve of your ass, and over your spine. 

"C'mon, kid," he murmurs, teeth scraping over your stinging bottom lip. "You're not gonna break me."

His sly words make you huff, and you clench your muscles around him in retribution. There is something blisteringly intoxicating in the low groan that leaves his chest, the pinch between his brow, the flutter of his lashes, lids cresting in pleasure. 

It's a small win, a minuscule victory despite losing the war. But it is a double-edged sword that leaves you just as breathless, just as aching, as he is. 

You acquiesce to his insistent prods, and slowly, hesitantly, melt into him. With your full weight settling on top of him, Keegan breathes in deep, and murmurs a quiet, hushed: that's it into your lips. 

His hands are on you, tugging and pulling until you're flush on his body with a muted groan. 

Your arms bend at the elbow, hands moving to cup his jaw in your palms, feeling the scratch of his rough stubble over your life line. 

Kismet, you think, and taste salt on your tongue, a humid breeze on your skin. It reminds you of Los Angeles, of the hole you sunk into with him. When you decided in the ramshackle remnants of what once was that, despite everything, all of it, you would follow him anywhere, everywhere. 

A confession in the shambles of normalcy, where the cracked Macy's sigh hung suspended on wires, and reinforced by nature. Thick webs of wisteria kept the relic from a bygone era arched over the collapsed ruins of the Beverly Centre. A macabre chandelier: a poignant piece of what is now history. Gone. Erased. Decimated by a weapon meant to protect. 

The rest was felled into a deep cavern, karst, destroyed by the beams of inert energy that spliced the world you knew in half. Water leaked in—from the burst pipes, the broken aquifer at the bottom, rainwater, the ocean, and, you think, from when they razed the smouldering husk of the cities on fire with a deluge of water, back when everyone still clung to the belief that everything was going to be okay. It pools at the bottom, a murky abyss of cracked rock, steel beams, and dead wires. 

On the surface, something floated past. A bag, maybe. Waterlogged and aged. You fish it out despite the soft rumble from Keegan to stay away from the cenote. 

"Currents might sweep you under. Not a place you wanna fall in, kid." 

When you dragged it to the linoleum ledge you sat on, the broken logo made you snort. 

"Never could afford designer," you muttered and tossed the Balenciaga bag aside. 

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not here. 

You know it doesn't, feel it deep in your polluted bones, and yet—

You stared at the shattered heap of luxury, and couldn't help thinking about those days in the past when you'd wake up after a long trip on the road with your dad, your brother, and the world would feel so massive, so empty. It felt like you were the only ones left. The only survivors. 

It eats at you now. 

You cried that night. Broke for the first time in months, years. Sobbed into the corner of what was once Macy's or Gucci or some other relic you used to scorn in your youth, and the whole time, Keegan said nothing. Nothing at all. 

He just held you when you stumbled into him. Kept you tight to his body as your sobs echoed through the chamber. 

Through it all, it was Keegan who kept you grounded. Who stood in front of you, sniper ready, whenever the bushes around you rustled, or the ground trembled with the aftershocks of the lingering explosion that decimated your home. Your world. He was there, his hand on the small of your back, eyes sharp, wary. Kept you alive, fed. Safe. 

Safe.

You can only sleep when he’s around. Even when they left you in the safe zone you clawed out of, you couldn’t sleep. Nothing quelled the anxious needling in the back of your head but his presence—solid and steady. An unshakeable rock. Your foundation amid a shattered sense of security. 

You turned to him, then, when the moon drifted over the open crater punched through the earth, and whispered the words he refused to return. 

Even now.

But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. 

Not anymore. 

“Thinkin’ too much,” he husks, nails leaving trails of white when he scrapes them over your skin. “What happened to breaking me, kid? Give up already?”

There is no way for him to know you taste algae in the back of your throat from when he pushed you deeper into the cenote as you ran from the Federation soldiers. When they closed the gap, he shoved you into the murky blue of the grotto below, too quick for you to close your mouth, to not panic when you hit the pool with a splash that echoed on the slick, mossy walls. You breathed in the stagnant water filled with bioluminescent algae, and as gunshots bounced off the jagged limestone, and you drifted down below the buried rubble, you wondered if you’d glow so bright he could find you at the bottom of polluted blue. 

(He did. Always.)

Still. You swallow down the tang of salt, and breathe him in, saturating yourself in the loam scent of him—thick musk; burning lignin and scorched evergreen—and let it sit in your throat until all you can taste is him when you swallow. 

“Thinking about you,” you say. 

He says nothing, but you catch the shudder in his chest, the tremble in his hands, when he slides them over your flesh. Reverent. Halting. The fingerprints he leaves on your skin are stained in chiaroscuro. 

He grabs you tight enough to bruise sometimes; holds you so close that you often think he’s trying to absorb you into him. To keep you safe and secure in the bulk of his body where nothing can hurt you, touch you. 

Not even him.

So, he pulls away. It’s not distance that pitches itself in the recess of his piercing gaze, but something close to it. Kin. Fear, maybe.

Of this, of you.

The fear started when Ajax went missing, but it was Keegan who held you together.

("It's gonna be okay, kid. We'll get him back.”

Empty promises. Broken pinky fingers.)

You broke when they brought Ajax home and laid him to rest as best as they could, and the marker that signified his resting place—a coded message only they would ever know—was all that remained of the man he fought beside, the man who made a pinky promise to never leave you in a the empty shell of a Walmart parking lot when you told him about the camping trips.

A scrap of fabric. A blood-drenched mask. 

You held Keegan as he whispered sorry, kid. Sorry. We tried. We— 

Gone. Gone. You think of rubble and the scent of rock dust. The crushing weight of cinder blocks and beams, and what it feels like to stumble when the earth breaks into pieces beneath your feet.

Elias. 

And now—

All he has left is Merrick. Hesh. Riley. 

Logan—

(“Missing,” the radio crackled a few days ago. “Gone.”)

—and you. 

He holds you at arm's length, even now, after coming back to you, after finding you again, because what you offer is different, more dangerous, than theirs. 

And despite what they say, Keegan isn’t a man who feels nothing at all.

No. 

He’s a man who feels too much. 

And he knows this. Knows it like he knows the world is in shambles, knows what the Federation is capable of. 

What you're capable of. 

You wonder if he's thinking of that now, as the shadows leak back in. They flood the corners of his eyes when he gazes through you, lost in those lour thoughts that rush by in quick succession. Too fast for him to cling to any. 

They cut into the crease. The ones that make you think he’s somehow omnipotent, all-knowing. That he can chisel inside of your head, and read the want, the greed, that festers in the rucked divots. 

And he isn't sure how to handle it. What to do with the bold, bare-faced sincerity of what you offer him. What you want from him. 

Before, Keegan would get so lost inside the maze of his mind that you didn't know how to bring him back. He'd speak only when necessary—just short, clipped words, commands (over there, inside, stop, eat)—and the silence would grate at you. Somehow quieter than he usually was; oppressive. 

It lasted for days, sometimes. 

It never sullied his ability to aim, to shoot. Survive. Protect. 

It was just—

An introspective silence. A storm cloud over blue. 

He was thinking too much, and wasn't sure which option to pick, which outcome was best.

You never knew what to say to bring him back. To ground him. All you could do was wait it out until the gyre would fade from his eyes, and he'd turn to you again, clear blue. 

Now—

“—You’re thinking too much,” you murmur, mouth trailing loose kisses over his stubbled jaw. 

“Just waiting for you to come back to me,” he volleys back, eyes cresting. A tendril of that unknowable something snakes through the gloom of blue, and you reach for it with curious, wanting fingers. 

“I’d never leave you.” 

Keegan swallows, and you trace the bob of his Adam's apple. A part of you expects it to retreat, to flee back to the safety of its bivouac where nothing can get too close. Nothing can hurt. 

But it doesn’t.

He huffs, and the soft expel of his breath, the sinking of his chest, feels a little bit like victory. 

“Wouldn’t survive without me.”

It’s as close to a confession as he’ll offer, and you take it with eager, greedy hands, cupping it in the plinth of your palm where it sits, safe from harm, from the world that crumbles around you. 

“Neither would you.” 

It’s a lie, of course. Keegan is dampening his own chances at survival by keeping you close to him instead of doing what everyone said he ought to, what he tried to do: leaving you behind. 

He pushed you away once. You wonder if he thinks of the separation. The distance etched between the two of you. Slowly relearning each other in broken husks that were once homes.  

"Drop Cali off at a safe zone, and then come find us, Keegan."

The intention, you know, was to leave you behind permanently. To keep you locked in the safe confines of a safe zone in Oregon, where they pitched tents in an expansive field, and lived off of pipe dreams. Where they pretended they couldn't fear the gunfire in the distance, or smell artillery smoke in the air. 

Direct orders passed down through the chain of command, from Elias himself, and yet—

He came back.

("Just gonna do whatever you want, kid. We're headed the same way, anyway.")

“That so?”

"It is."

Keegan swallows. Something yields, breaks. 

His palms are balmy on your skin, firebrands. You stare into his eyes, counting the deep ravines of inky black cutting through sapphire blue, and the gyre of those hidden things, locked away and kept at a distance, seem to tremble. Wobble. The edges blur. 

A frisson passes over his face, illuminated only by the milky light spilling in from the tattered curtains, and something cracks. Splinters. The fracture makes him flinch, makes him heave under you, chest expanding with the deep drawl of his breath. 

With another sigh, his hand slides down the heated flesh of your back, spreading over the swell of your ass. Before you can say anything in response, his middle finger dips into the valley between each cheek, brushing over the skin of your perineum before dipping lower, brushing over the wetness gathered there. 

He drags his finger higher, brushing over the soft skin of your ass. The feeling of it, the red-hot heat of his flesh, makes you keen, tightening around him. 

He huffs into your neck, lashes fluttering over the soft skin of your throat when he blinks. "Like that, huh? Want me here, too, kid?"

You gasp when he presses against the rim. "K–Keegan—"

"Not ready yet," he murmurs, and you try to stifle a whimper when he pulls away, heart thudding in your chest at the thought alone. 

He catches it, anyway.

"Fuck, kid—," it's a jagged husk; ripped up and shredded under barbed wire. Raw, wanting, and dark. You'd never heard his voice so low, so gritty. When you peer down at him, all you see is the endless ocean in the blanket of night. Midnight blue. It makes you shiver. 

You feel feverish when he groans again, when he rasps your name in a way that sounds like it was wrenched up from the recesses of his chest. Buried under soot and ash. 

"Gonna take you there," he pants, and you know him. You know Keegan. It's not a suggestion. It's a promise. "Soon."

The thought of it makes something ugly gnarl inside your chest. A possessive thing, out of place in such a moment. Between you and him, and this awful, awful world, greed has no room to grow. To burrow its roots in deep, and yet—

Yet. 

You crave him in ways that are unattainable. That belongs to a world that no longer exists in the land you roam. 

His fingers pull away, and settle on the tight flesh of your raw cunt stretched around the thick of him. His thumb brushes over your chafed, red skin, eyes softening as he coos at you. A gentle tut when he feels how wrecked, swollen you are from the brutal pounding he's giving you. 

You think he might be lenient. Merciful. Might let you pretend you have control again. But when you lift your gaze to his, eyes blurry and lachrymose, all you see is a deep, unrelenting satisfaction cut into deep slate. His pupils ripple. Deep puddles trembling in pleasure. 

"Fuck, kid." 

He punctuates his words with a slow, full roll of his hips. Slick drenches the tips of his fingers as he feeds you the thick of his cock, feeling the way you swallow him down to the base. To the root. 

"Takin' me so good."

His words are slurred, drunk off the spread of you in his lap, taking him into your willing cunt. Eyes flashing with something that prickles across your skin. It should be a warning to you, a siren. You know him enough to tell what those little flickers in his eyes mean, the shadows hidden in the canyons of blue, but he moves before the thought can take root inside the syrupy haze that clots over your thoughts. 

His legs slide up, knees bending, spreading, as he plants his feet firmly into the mattress. 

"Hold on." 

It's all he gives before he pushes up into you, cock sliding in deeper than before. 

You gasp, eyes snapping shut when he cudgels against something inside of you that has pleasure blooming in your lower belly. 

The angle is different, deeper and fuller than anything you'd ever taken before. Even riding him, sitting flush against his hips, it didn't hit that soft bundle of nerves that has fire licking at the base of your spine. 

You moan his name again, low and broken, and Keegan responds with a sloppy snap of his hips that makes your back arch in his hold, toes curling as batters into that place that makes Nirvana bleed over your synapses. 

Keegan's hand settles on your thigh, holding you steady as he bucks into you. His other hand tangles in your hair, cupped on the nape of your neck. He tugs, his nose pressing into yours. 

"You feel so good, kid," he breathes, sliding his hand down to cup your jaw in his palm. "Squeezing me so tight. Missed your pretty pussy—"

"—Feels so good, Keegan, feels so—"

His lips steal over yours in a searing kiss. Biting, blistering. He devours you whole until nothing remains but the taste of him on your tongue, in the back of your throat. It clogs all of your senses—a brutal assault of Keegan: rich, earthy. 

Like this, locked to his chest as he pistons into you, you have very little choice but to take everything he gives you. All of it.

The sounds your bodies make when he's seated in deep, the slap of his pelvis, the wet squelch of your pussy, make you dizzy. Make you keen. Whine. Your mouth drops. Toes curl. Eyes roll into the back of your head. 

The cacophony of him fucking into you over and over again fills the empty space around you, sticking to the walls, and the moss-covered floor. It bounces against the lining of your head until it throbs, pulses, and threatens to split you in two. To halve you down the middle where Keegan presses taut to the seal of your womb. 

All you can do is cling to him, hands sliding to grasp his thick, rippling forearms as he batters into you. It's sloppy, unrefined, and you've never seen him lose it like this before. 

It edges into that precipice of pleasure and pain, both admixing into a heady cocktail of bliss that roils through you. 

He trails kisses across your blistering cheek, down your neck. His breath is warm over your skin. The flash of teeth makes you gasp. 

"You're gonna cum." 

It's not a demand, or a request. It isn't a plea, a bargain. He says the words like he's relaying the time, coordinates, his position. He isn't unaffected—his voice crumbles a little over the vowels, wobbles on the syllables—but this isn't him asking you. He's telling you. 

Keegan knows your body like he knows the intricacies of his rifles, his weapons, and he knows, knows, you're going to cum around his cock soon. Can feel it in the way your nails find purchase in the firm muscles of his shoulders, the way you tighten around him like a vice. The sound of your voice when you get closer to that looming precipice he holds you over. 

He knows. 

You moan his name as liquid pleasure leaks into your marrow, and that vertiginous edge grows closer and closer. You want to warn, to tell him, but Keegan knows. 

He hushes you, mouth moulding to yours, and devouring the whimpers that seep out. His hands tighten, holding you steady as he fucks you through it, slowing his pace to the easy grind of his cock against the seal of your womb, dragging over that soft spot inside of you that makes your head spin, and eyes cloud over with bliss. 

You moan weakly into the kiss when he slides his hand back, fingers pressing once more against the taut flesh stretched around him. It's too much—the added pressure, the feeling of him bucking into you, brushing over the seam where you swallow him down—and you tilt your head back with a whimper of his name. 

"I know, kid," he grunts, teeth catching on your chin. "Gonna cum for me, yeah?" 

You can't speak, can't talk over the rush in your head, the thick spool of pleasure clotting inside your head, behind your eyelids, in your veins. Molten, liquid. You fall into him as the world around you shatters once more, erupting into white noise, static. 

Everything that isn't him—the solid press of his body, unyielding and supine under you; the weight of his hands on your flesh; the painful crescent of his nails sinking into your skin; the stretch of his cock wrenching you open, and filling you deep, deeper than you'd thought possible; the burning heat, white-hot and balmy, that soaks your being from base to empty, empty skull—is sucked out through the broken shell, and into the vacuum of nothingness where it dissolves into embers, ashes. 

All you can think, feel, is Keegan. 

He works you through it, hand still pressed against the rim of your spasming cunt, feeling the way you pulse around him. 

He moans low in his throat, the noise cutting through the gossamer of pleasure liquifying your joints into sticky molasses, and you know he's close, too. 

You push back into him, into the sloppy cants of his hips as he leaches the lingering aftershocks of your climax for his own taking, his own rapture. 

His chest shudders. Fingers tremble when they run along your skin, grasping, clenching. Keeping you tight to his body where you fit like a puzzle, and he, in turn, fills all of the empty, barren cavities inside of you, leaving no crevasse, no fibril, untouched by him. 

You want to give him everything. Everything. 

You buck into his thrusts, meeting him in the middle where he sinks home with a grunt that echoes through the hollow spaces of your ribs, and you tremble with him. Satiate yourself on his scent, his taste, the noises he makes, the feeling of his body on yours. Sweat-slicked and fever hot. You douse the burn heat of his in the inferno of your own; incandescent with the molten press of him everywhere. 

Your head drops, nose pressed to his cheekbone as you breathe in him in greedy gulps that make your lungs quiver. Filled to the brim with him. Gorged on his taste. Saturated in his scent. 

It's good. You're delirious. Mad with it. Drunk on the elixir of his briny skin, and the way he leaks into your pores, into your being.

You push yourself tighter against him until you feel his heartbeat pulsing inside of your ribcage. 

His name is ripped from your throat in needy gasps drenched in the potency of your devotion. Shrill hymns that fans over his skin until it prickles, dampening with the humidity of your breath. Stained, then, with you. 

"God, Keegan, you feel so good inside of me—" 

Slurred words tumble from your sore lips, dipped in euphoria, in bliss, as he batters clumsily into you. 

You'll ache tomorrow—already feel like one massive, liquified contusion. He might have to carry you from Yosemite to Coarsegold where Merrick and Hesh are waiting. 

They'll know, of course, when you can't stand properly without feeling the stretch of him anew. When your knees wobble and your legs shake. 

(But a part of you wants them to.)

"Gonna cum for me, Keegan?" You mewl, nails scratching at his shoulders when he grunts your name like it's salvation. Purpose. "Want you to, baby, want you to—"

His cock jerks, twitching within you, and with a choked, guttural moan, he cums inside of your fluttering pussy. Saturates you in his release that spits, plumes of warmth, against the battered, bruised seal of your womb. 

He rumbles your name again, a shattered husk of vowels, consonants, and the ecstasy that paints his timbre sends you spiralling down into an abyss of endless blue. 

Keegan's stomach flutters. The skin pulling taut as his muscles clench, seize. You feel the drag of his flesh over your quivering belly; the constellation of scars rubbing over your slick skin. Your hand falls to his shoulder, pressing against the bullet wound left behind when he perched himself in front of death for you. For you. 

His eyes slide open slowly, heavy-lidded and bone weary with the shuddering tremors of euphoria that dance between the rucked 

The tip of your nose slides over the bridge of his, and when his skin wrinkles at the featherlight touches, it feels a little bit like the scar over his heart. 

"Fuck, kid," he rasps, eyes misty and lidded. Heavy pools of mercury you could fall into if you tried hard enough. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He grabs your hand, fingers lacing through the empty brackets until every part of you is filled with him. 

Your nail catches the burn mark—a molotov cocktail when the world wasn't in shambles. His thumb brushes over yours—hot oil, perogies, back when your dad took you around America on grand adventures every weekend, and your brother would sneakily eat your fries from the McDonald's bag. 

The other snakes up your spine, tangling in your messy hair, and then his lips are on yours. Messy, wet. He gasps into your open mouth as you rock against him, working him through his undoing, his breaking. 

You hold his shattered pieces in your hands, clutched tight against your sternum, and wonder, once again, if this is what they mean when they talk about kismet. 

"Never gonna leave you again," he rasps, the words clawing up his throat. 

The raw, pulpy mess of them sits heavy between you. A promise. Promises. Broken, flayed. A crumpled heap of everything you once were in shambles. 

You think of the anger you felt before, when the heels of his palms dug into your shoulder, and he pushed. Pushed you out, away. The bitter resentment, the festering rage. 

The agony. The sorrow. 

You missed him. His stupid face. His stupid voice. Stupid hands. Stupid humour—soft, witty, and drier than Death Valley. His stupid touch, his kisses. Him. 

The loneliness carved a hole inside of you, a crater where only he could fit. 

(You sleep better when he's beside you, anyway.)

"I won't let you."

Your lips crook into a small smile, a dawning blitz over a ruined landscape, and you lean down, pressing your lips to his pulse, sliding up until you catch his lobe between the seam. 

"Still broke you," you murmur, skimming your teeth over the downy soft hairs that cover the shell of his ear. "Still won—"

His hand moves, braces against the back of your skull, the base of your spine, and then he flexes his hips beneath you. It's quick. A fluid motion. Keegan bucks you off, and rolls you under the bulk of his body within a blink. You barely have time to choke on your gasp when he's already nestled above you, eyes shining in the milky light spilling in from the moth-eaten curtains. 

"What—?"

His hips jerk into yours, cock sticky, tacky against your skin, but you feel him thicken with each slow roll he makes into you.  

He leans down, bracing his forearm on the flat pillow above your crown, eyes burning embers that spark in the dim light bleeding between the wisps of broken fog that shroud the moon. 

"My turn, kid." 

#ahhhhhhh #so much was cut of out this #so i hope it makes sense #litro just smut #omgggg #ive been in the biggest writing slump ever #so this feels lacklustre #but i tried my best #keegan p russ #call of duty keegan russ #call of duty keegan #call of duty ghosts #cod ghosts #cod keegan #cod keegan russ #keegan russ #keegan russ x reader #keegan russ x you #keegan p russ x you #keegan p russ x reader #keegan russ mut #keegan smut #cod smut

[syndxlla]

best friends don’t look at each other the way we do

A low stakes, high reward, and self-indulgent Zelink fan fiction. Canon-compliant. takes place between BOTW and TOTK.

Unedited

chapter four: I’m better than ever

Read chapter three here

My masterlist

Song: Landscape with a Fairy by aspidistrafly

Summary: Link and Zelda start to get back on their feet, local problems in Hateno Village start to arise.

Warnings: PTSD, dealing with trauma

Word Count: 3.3k

Authors Note: sorry this took me so long to update! This is unedited so pls be kind haha. I love you all! Also I’m working on getting this uploaded to Ao3!

A few days go by, and Zelda finally starts to feel like herself again. After three days of laying in bed, drinking broth that Link makes for her, and falling into deep, dreary sleeps, she can finally get herself out of bed.

She walks downstairs, not feeling dizzy or nauseous, to find Link passed out against the table. His mouth is slack, and the smallest amount of drool dribbles out onto the cracked wood. His eyelashes are long and thick, and he has an old scar through one of his eyebrows, causing a clean-cut line of no hair. He looks so gentle when he sleeps, soft and peaceful. You would never guess he was the threat he was.

Zelda knew how badly he needed to sleep, he had spent days restless over her. She knew he got some rest here and there, but never enough to really help. She notices his shoulder shake, he isn’t wearing a shirt. She swears he never does at home. It was cold, despite it nearing summertime. Zelda goes to grab one of the wool blankets he keeps on a bench against the wall. Before she carefully drapes it around his shoulders, she examines the scars on his back. It’s littered with cuts and bruises. Some had healed well, and were only suggesting an injury. Others were a pale shade of tissue, some were still red and pink. One even still had his make-do stitches in it. She wondered who did them for him, and what battle caused the injury. Link still had bruises on his side and bicep from the fight with the calamity. They were starting to turn a jaundiced yellow and green, his body slowly healing them. Zelda’s stomach turns at the memories of the beast.

She shakes her head and sighs, placing the blanket over his bare skin and positioning it over his shoulders. Link stirs and his breathing shifts, he closes his mouth, swallowing before continuing his dreams. His hair is out of his hair tie, and it lies loose around his shoulders and face.

His face and look is so alluring, there's something about him that’s so comforting. She could sit with him all day, just with him as he slept, knowing that she’s safe.

She uses the washroom, taking her hair out of the old braid and letting the soft waves fall over her shoulders and cascade down her back. A pit churns in her stomach as she looks at her long hair. Her hair was always a part of her identity. Something she never cut, never damaged. It was beautiful, even after the years of divine wear and tear on it. She never had a choice with her hair. She didn’t get to make hardly any choices for herself. He runs her hands through her hair, sometimes she wished she could just rip it all out. Have a fresh slate.

She changes her clothes after searching for something fresh to wear, she would eventually need some of her own clothes. Zelda does all of this being as quiet as she can be. She doesn’t want to wake the sleeping hero at any cost. She finds an old pair of green pants that hit her at the knees, they’re comfortable, but tight to her skin. She finds the matching blue tank top that goes with it, and pulls it over her head. It feels nice to have some clean clothes on. When Link wakes up, she’ll ask if there’s a clothing store nearby.

The princess starts on breakfast, pulling some bird eggs from the cool inventory and a bit of goat butter. She has no idea what she’s doing, and very quickly realizes that she’s burning the eggs. In a panic, Zelda attempts to fix her mess, but somehow makes it worse. She quietly swears and before she knows it, Link is standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her body and replacing her grip on the skillet with his own calloused hands.

He engulfs himself around her, resting his chin on her shoulder as he pulls the burnt egg away from her. Her heart flutters, skipping a beat. She wonders how he was able to do an act that was so simple, so domestic. Did he think about it the same way she did? She felt safer and warmer in his embrace, wanting to linger there forever, feeling his bare chest against her back, but it's over all too soon. He steps away and fixes her mistake.

“I-I’m so sorry.” Zelda sighs. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothings wrong with you.” Link assures, “Open the windows.” He nods to the glass. Zelda goes to push them open, and they must not have been opened in years because they creak open with a tired groan and dust falls from the frames. Her breaths are quickly followed by coughs after the fact, and she scrunches her nose.

Almost immediately, Link is making a perfect omelet, and it smells wonderful.

“How do you do that?”

“Years of practice.” He smiles. “Grab some plates.” She follows his request again, his voice is still gruff and gravely from his sleep. Zelda places the plates on the table, facing across from each other. Link carries the pan over to the plates, cutting the omelet in half with his spoon and then placing each half on the plates, being sure to give Zelda the bigger piece. Zelda sits after thanking him, and instead of Link sitting across from her, he drags the plate for himself across the table to be next to hers, taking his place right next to her on the bench, legs pressing up against one another. Zelda begs her thoughts not to be too ambitious.

They eat mostly in silence.

“Is there a clothing store nearby?”

Link nods, “Yup, two of ‘em actually.” He looks at her, his eyes still sleepy, “I can go get you some if you like.”

“I would like to go with you, if that’s alright.” Zelda nods.

“Are you feeling well enough?” He asks.

“Mhm,” She hums, “I would really like to get out of this house.”

“What, you don’t like my house?” Link asks, pretending to be hurt.

Zelda giggles, chiding him, “I love your house.” She sighs, those words came so easily. The word ‘love’ lingers in her mind. “Will you teach me how to cook?”

Link laughs, “Oh no you can’t fix that.” He teases her in reference to her antics this morning. She frowns, unamused, and he sighs, “I’ll teach you, but in return I want you to teach me something, too.”

“Anything.” Zelda smiles.

“Teach me how to be brave. Like you.” He asks after a beat.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it… and I’m terrified. All the time I am.” He swallows, scared to open up like this, proving his own point. He glances at the princess who stares at him with her beautiful, green eyes which inspires him to keep going, “I know I’m the courage guy and everything, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of things, like I’m not afraid to beat up monsters or jump headfirst into a well, but I’m filled with this… this dread. Like something bad is going to happen and no matter what I do, I can’t stop it.” He explains, never being this vulnerable with anyone anymore. He used to be with Mipha back in the day, but she was gone because of something Link couldn’t stop.

“Link… courage and bravery are two different things.” Zelda states, taking a risk and placing a dainty hand on his, the touch is electric, they both feel it. “Bravery is the ability to walk into an enemy camp with a decayed weapon and two apples. Courage is the strength to keep fighting when it feels impossible to.” She explains.

Link looks at her, and he realizes how easy it would be to just lean over and kiss her. Her lips are so soft, so pink, so inviting. He glances at them a few times. He decides not to.

“I just… I just don’t want to lose you again.” He pulls his hand away, looking down at the empty plate dejectedly.

“Hey.” She pulls his gaze again, their eyes meeting once more. “You got me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” She reassures him, and then rests her head on his shoulder. They needed one another.

He’s worried sick about her the entire time they’re in town. He can’t quit watching her, and she’s enthralled by the stimulation of the world around her. She almost gets plowed over by a kid running through the street, and she just laughs when it happens, the brightest smile on her face.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the sun on her face. The warmth of early summertime makes her cheeks a soft pink and eyelashes flutter.

“Did you have to bring that with you?” She asks, referencing the legendary sword that was strapped to his back. “It’s safe now, remember?”

Link frowns, “You can never be too-safe.” He just nods and she shrugs.

Zelda takes a hop-like step to the bulletin board posted in town to read the notices. One read that there would be a sale on milk up at the farm the next week, another was basic town hubbub, but one stood out to her. It was written by the hands of someone who isn’t very skilled with penmanship. It was a note asking for books, probably by a child. The note asked that someone would kindly donate a few new books for this young reader, leaving them on the bench outside of the mayor's home. She smiled, this was the type of kid she was.

A completely different note catches Link’s eye.

New monster spotted north-east of town. Killed two cattle. Please be cautious.

Link hums, turning the paper over to see if there’s any more information, but that was it.

“What is it?” Zelda asks.

“A monster. I would guess it's just a Moblin, but the note says it's new.” LInk frowns, perplexed. “I’ve fought every monster in Hyrule ten times over, there are only Moblins and Bokoblins in these parts.”

“Should we be worried?” She asks, her eyes blown-wide. She’s in constant fear of having to go through anything traumatic again.

Link shrugs, “I saw a destroyed fence the other day up there, I should probably go speak with the rancher.” He shoves the note in his back pocket, “Come on, let’s get you some clothes.” He holds his arm out for her to take, something he hasn’t done in a long time. He almost pulls it away in embarrassment but she gladly takes it, smiling at him as she does.

Both of their hearts threatened to burst out of their chests, but they each calmly forced themselves to stay composed.

Link leads her into one of the clothing stores, the door ringing from a bell as they enter. The shop was small, but had plenty of things in stock. Zelda pulls away from his arm sooner than either of them would have liked to start browsing. Link follows three steps behind, where he usually was.

“Link!” A woman smiles from the back of the shop. Ivee walks towards him, cheerful. “You’ve been gone for so long! I thought I heard you were back in town.” She says before wrapping her arms around him and hugging him. Link is a little surprised by it and doesn’t really hug her back.

Link nods with a smile. “I’ll be in town for a while.” He states, being friendly but not too friendly. He and Ivee have some history.

“You? Never.” She giggled, stepping closer to him, she was a bit shorter than him, and had cute brown eyes that sparkled up at him. “You can’t stay put in one place for too long, you'll get bored!” Her body language was flirty, handsy, she thought Link was as handsome as everyone else did.

Zelda is made aware of the situation and tries to keep her cool. There’s no reason to get jealous. “Well you all better give me some work to keep myself busy.” He smiles, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh I would love to.” She sighs and Link awkwardly laughs.

Zelda steps in at that moment, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” She stands a little closer to Link than she normally does, not quite touching him, but close enough.

“Ivee.” She says to Zelda. “And who are you…”

Zelda takes a harrowing breath, “Who am I?” She asks, her tone increasingly offended, “Who am I?” She asks again laughing at Link, “Well I am the Pri-“ She starts to say and Link interrupts her grabbing her shoulder.

“This is Zelda, she’s from the west. She’ll be staying with me for a while.”

“Oh.” Ivee looks visibly hurt. She then looks at Zelda with a frown, “You know, it’s bad luck to be named Zelda. That’s what the Princess who killed herself a hundred years ago was named.” She sighs, glaring at Zelda. Her gaze softens when she returns to speaking with Link, “If you need any assistance, I’ll just be up here.” She smiles and turns around, “It’s great to have you back in town, Linky. I would love to walk up to the waterfall at Nirvata lake with you again. It was so fun last time.” She winks at him before returning back to her perch.

Links cheeks burn red.

“Rude.” Zelda mutters under her breath. “What in the name of Hylia does she mean by that?…Linky?” Zelda teases, scoffing at him. Link swallows, embarrassed.

He then signs to Zelda, ‘Ivee makes up stories’.

Zelda lifts an eyebrow, not believing it, ‘She’s not very polite’.

Link shakes his head, ‘She’s young. Times are different’. He pulls Zelda into a more secluded corner of the store, not wanting to embarrass anyone, ‘You can’t tell people you’re the Princess’.

‘Why Not?’ Zelda signs back, her expression frustrated and confused, ‘I am, aren’t I? I didn’t kill myself. Do they really believe that?’

Link nods, ‘Some people don’t even believe the Calamity happened’.

“What?” Zelda verbally exclaims.

Link holds his pointer-finger to his lips, hushing her, Conspiracy theorists or something.’ He signs, ‘besides, people won’t believe you if you tell them you’re The Princess’.

‘That’s absurd!’ Zelda angrily signs at him.

Link tries to calm her down, looking at her with his understanding eyes, ‘Until we can get the Zora to confirm for the Hylians that you are The Princess, It’s best to just lay low’.

Zelda frowns, wrapping her arms across her chest. ‘Fine’. She signs back.

Link nods, “Let’s get you some clothes.”

They leave the store with a good collection of items, some shirts and trousers, a hooded cloak, socks and a pair of boots for her. She was still wandering around in her goddess sandals. “Most ladies wear skirts these days, when you’re in town, you should too.” He explains as they walk next door to a nicer, more prestigious shop. Zelda was acutely aware that he did not offer her his arm when they left Ivee’s shop.

“So they’ve regressed?” Zelda asks, back in her day, it was becoming quite popular for women to sport trousers, even in formal situations.

“Very much, yes.” Link nods. “The calamity threw the world back, technology has been put on a complete hold, there have been little-to-no scientific breakthroughs since.” Link explains. It makes Zelda sad.

“That’s a real tragedy.” She frowns, “We were making so much progress.”

“I know.” Link says, “but now everyone just fends for themselves. If there's a famine or illness in a town, it's up to that town to solve it. There was a village in West Hyrule, before the canyon that had survived the Calamity. They were doing pretty well for the first fifty or so years. But then they had a bad plague, and were completely wiped out. There's nothing but a ruin there now.”

Zelda’s heart hurts, “It’s my fault.” She stops in her tracks. Link turns around, looking at her dejected composure. He walks back to her, taking her hand with his.

“Look at me.” He says, but she keeps her gaze set on the dirt road. Link takes his hand and gently lifts her chin to make eye-contact with him. “It’s not your fault. This is not on one person's shoulders.”

“I know but-“

“Zelda.” He stops her, “We can’t change the past. It happened. But we are both still here.” He takes both her hands now, “We survived, so let's look into the future. There’s only up from here.” He reassures her.

Zelda cracks a smile, and she desperately wants to lean in and give him a quick, gentle kiss on his lips. But she doesn’t, because she can’t guarantee he would kiss her back, and she would rather suffer in silence over her desires for him, but stay close, than jeopardize their friendship at all.

“Come on.” He leads her into the store, not letting go of one of her hands until they’re inside.

Zelda leaves with two dresses now, a soft, cotton dress that’s blue, and a white one with green and yellow details on the hem of the fabrics. “Thank you, Link.” She says as they begin their walk back home. “How do you have so much money?”

“Talus.” Link nods, not giving anymore context. Zelda shrugs, catching up with him.

They spent that evening cleaning, Link finally took care of all the junk he stored there, discarding old weapons and starting a burn pile outback to get rid of scraps and wooden bows. Zelda takes a big broom and dusts out all of the cobwebs, sweeping out piles of dirt, and taking care of the sand pile that had accumulated from his treasures found in the desert. She noticed how her heart twinged at the idea of the desert, the idea of Urbosa. She shakes the thought away, focusing on the task.

Dusk falls on them, and Zelda is wiping down the walls with an old rag while Link is sitting up in the rafters, dusting the wooden beams the roof is built on and trying to reach a bird's nest that had been built up there. He straddles a beam, shirtless, barefoot, and dusty.

As he sits up there, he peers down at the girl who kneels twenty feet below him, her long hair tied back into a bun and secured with a stick shoved through the center of it. Her feet bare and dirty, toes poking out from under her bottom as she sat on them. She couldn’t see him looking at her, couldn’t hear how his heart beat twice as fast when he thought about her, wasn’t aware of how his pupils grew at the sight of her.

She hummed, and he could hear it. Humming a song he didn’t know, but felt vaguely familiar, like he knew it in a past life. Link wondered if the past incarnations of the Goddess and the Hero ever loved each other. Surely they did, to some degree. Maybe platonic, or the type of love you have for someone you work alongside and deeply respect. He wondered if any of them ever loved each other the way he wanted to love his Zelda. Did it ever work? Had he been a king in a past life? Did their past selves ever have children? His stomach flutters at the idea of having a family with her.

She must have sensed his gaze because as soon as he begins to fantasize about Zelda having a baby with him, she looks up at him, and smiles. He’s so shocked by her sudden gaze, terrified that she could read his mind and almost loses his balance on the beam, falling his chest onto it and holding on. He smiles back and laughs. Zelda giggles at him.

“How’s the view? Up there?” She stands up and does a silly little dance around herself.

He sighs, and laughs, “the view is perfect!” He shouts down, “A little dusty.” Coughing a bit.

She asks, “Are you alright up there?”

Link smiles, “I’m better than ever.”

—

Chapter five

#fan fiction #tloz #zelink #zelda #botw #legend of zelda #the legend of zelda #link x zelda #zelda fandom #zelda tears of the kingdom #botw zelink #totk zelink #zelink smut #zelink totk #zelink fluff #zelink fanfic #zelink thoughts #zelink angst #zelink pining #totk #Zelda x link #zelda fanfic #link zelda #hurt/comfort #Zelink hurt/comfort #fanfic #botw totk #totk spoilers #botw tears of the kingdom #botw fanfic

[minecraftbookshelf]

MOS: Specific Breakdown of Language Barriers Between Couples

So I do have the posts on what languages everyone speaks, grouped by Oceanic, WRA, and Fae squad and about 98% of that is still accurate, I just kind of wanted to do a post that summarizes how language plays a role in each marriage/relationship within the AU.

In Chronological Order:

Lizzie & Joel: At the time of their initial marriage they had absolutely zero languages in common. They are one end of the language barrier spectrum. Joel began learning to understand (even if he couldn't really speak) Oceanic out of pure self-preservation. One of the early overtures in their marriage was actually Lizzie chasing down Pixlriffs and demanding he teach her some Mezalean. (Pix has been way more involved in several relationships than he was ever really interested in, send help.) By the time it gets to "current day" they are both fully fluent (within physical capability) in each others' native languages and also share several other languages in common. They absolutely use these powers for evil.

Joey & Xornoth: At the time of first meeting, they didn't have much in common linguistically. Joey was fresh out of isolation with only a few words of Mythlandic that he'd picked up from his first encounters with Fwhip and Xornoth had no knowledge of the language of the Lost Empire. Joey basically force-formed a sort of pidgin of mostly Mythlandic and his own language for them to communicate in, though as time goes on it acquires more Elvish words and structures. He mostly flirts in his own language, which does mean he can get a bit more...graphic in public than he would otherwise be able to be, because most people don't speak it outside the borders of his empire. Xornoth is suffering. They're learning each others languages but also this is a pretty new relationship so they are still very much in the learning stage. Joey does also struggle with Xornoth's accent in particular.

Jimmy & Scott: Technically they have a language in common, as both of them have at least a decent fluency in Mythlandic. However they learned their Mythlandic in very different ways. Scott has learned his entirely from reading books (with occasional help from Xornoth on pronunciation which means some of his words have a bit of a Helianthian twang to them) so he tends towards more formal speech and has a very strong accent on top of that because he hasn't interacted with native speakers and is guessing half the time. Jimmy had a little bit of a formal education in the language when he was small, but most of his fluency comes from border trade, border skirmishes, and yelling threats back and forth with Sausage (and Fwhip). They'll get there eventually, but it'll take them a bit.

Katherine & Shrub: Shrub is a completely blank slate, linguistically, when they first arrive. Zero languages in common with anyone. They meet Joey and Katherine and begin learning. Katherine, in addition to teaching Shrub both Silvan and Mythlandic, is also learning Gnomish from her. By the time they start tentatively approaching a relationship, the language barriers are mostly gone. It just means they have to focus on some new vocabulary they hadn't really had a reason to encounter before.

#rain rambles #marriage of state au #shadowbeans #jornoth #flower husbands #nature wives #smallishbeans #ldshadowlady #xornoth #joeygraceffa #smajor1995 #solidaritygaming #katherineelizabeth #shubble #shrub berry the gnome #linguistics #mos: worldbuilding #mos: shadowbeans #mos: jornoth #mos: flower husbands #mos: nature wives

[caecilian-king]

Ok. So, i read some more Wuthering Heights today and this one paragraph really struck me- like it got to me just as much as lines like ‘whatever our souls are made of his and mine are the same’. But I don’t think this part is probably talked about as much, because its about 2 of the supporting characters and its not a poetic romance quote.

I’m talking about this paragraph, where Nelly Dean is walking outside and is reminded of her childhood:

“all at once a gush of child's sensations flowed into my heart. Hindley and I held it a favourite spot twenty years before. I gazed long at the weather-worn block; and, stooping down, perceived a hole near the bottom still full of snail-shells and pebbles, which we were fond of storing there with more perishable things; and, as fresh as reality, it appeared that I beheld my early playmate seated on the withered turf: his dark, square head bent forward, and his little hand scooping out the earth with a piece of slate. 'Poor Hindley!' I exclaimed, involuntarily.”

The reason this got to me so much is that this is exactly the way I’d been thinking about Heathcliff. ‘Sure, heathcliff’s a jerk!’ I’d think to myself, ‘but in the earlier chapters when he was a kid he was so cute and loved cathy so much! He was so unfairly treated!! He had moments where he laughed and played!!’ Not that i excused Heathcliff’s wrongful actions, but i sympathized with him, just a bit. Deep down i want him and cathy to have a happy ending, even though they’ve hurt and will hurt so many people.

(somehow, having many of heathcliff’s future actions spoiled for me by reading through the WH tag so often has not made the book any less enjoyable to me. This book is that good.)

Hindley, however….Up until this point I had always seen him as nothing more than a monster. We see very little of his childhood. We see him cry about his toy being broken, and then later we see him being racist towards-and then physically abusing- Heathcliff. After that, he’s a young adult/adult and is just consistently even worse to Heathcliff (and everyone else at Wuthering Heights) than he was before.

Nelly, unlike the readers, saw hindley’s whole childhood. She saw the moments when he was good, when he smiled and laughed. She saw ways that he was treated unfairly (his own father liking this new adopted son better than him and not hiding that bias at all).

Does this make hindley suddenly a good person? Of course not! But it really put into perspective for me how similar heathcliff and hindley are, and how i was biased way more towards one because I had seen his good side. Heathcliff and hindley are both incredibly violent, grumpy, abusive people who crave money and power. I’m sure I’ll continue to find similarities as I read more.

My three main takeaways from this paragraph are:

1) i think that hindley not only serves as a catalyst for heathcliff becoming a bad person, but also as heathcliff’s narrative foil. (Wikipedia says: ‘A foil usually either differs dramatically or is an extreme comparison that is made to contrast a difference between two things.’ I think this is a perfect description of how heathcliff and hindley work in the narrative- hindley is perhaps how we would view heathcliff if we hadn’t seen his childhood.)

2) i think this paragraph serves to remind the reader that everyone is a human who has at one point been innocent, and that this fact doesn’t excuse bad behavior, and that you should be careful about sympathizing with heathcliff so much that you begin to excuse his actions. I also think the fact that this paragraph comes so soon before isabella’s letter to nelly is incredibly important and intentional. That letter she writes about arriving at wuthering heights really highlights how bad of a person heathcliff is.

3) i am now slightly sympathetic towards hindley, and view him as a bit more of a complicated character than i took him for previously. I am also now a bit more conscious and critical of my sympathetic reading of Heathcliff up until this point.

All this being said- heathcliff is still (for lack of a better term) one of my blorbos. I am obsessed with his stupid edgy personality and his sarcastic comments and his over the top evil plans. I am ESPECIALLY obsessed with his relationship with cathy. I know it wouldn’t actually be romantic in real life but, man. I could write a whole ‘nother post about how much i love their relationship. I want to put him in a microwave and watch him spin around. the former-AP-english-student in me is aware that he is a terrible person but the silly drama-loving side of me cant help but just find all of his terrible actions sort of equal parts funny and badass (i feel like this will stay true even as he does some of the more horrifying things i’ve heard about later). silly side of me wants him and cathy to do whatever evil things they want and ride off into the sunset laughing maniacally together.

(JEEZ i did not think i would spend an hour writing like a full essay when i started this post. this is what adhd does to you, folks.)

#wuthering heights #wutheringposting #heathcliff #wuthering heights heathcliff #heathcliff wuthering heights #hindley earnshaw #nelly dean #emily bronte #my WH posts

[fieldsofbats]

simon riley x waitstaff!reader

thank you to those who liked my first post <3 i am still v new to this and haven't quite figured out my preferred writing style so all feedback is welcome (be respectful tho).

part one

part two

right so at ur work it’s real common to have military folk there bc it is a military town, close to base, training facilities etc. 

first visit was just to the bar section of the place. price thought it would be good for moral to go out and have some chill team time, watch a football match and just hang out.

soap ordered some food and you brought it over to them. simon did not notice you bc he was watching the game, but then he got a whiff of soaps food and decided to grab something.

cue you coming back over with your sweet smile and handing him his food and cutlery before wandering back to the resturant bc its a quiet night.

mans is hooked.

second time ghost comes in it’s at night again but the restaurant is slammed bc it’s family week, everyone is getting dinner the night before they gotta head home. 

lbr, simon didnt think about you until soap wanted to go out again: "where are we goin'" "that place with the pretty server", knows exactly where they are going.

but still, your smile and warmth towards everyone is so kind and customer service is through the roof. yet he watches as you race around in and out of the kitchen with crazy ease and grace

like dude is impressed at you staying calm and steady despite how fuckin busy it is and people with their insane requests and demands for food (inpatient pricks)

he wants to stick around and watch u but it has become way to loud and busy for him so he bows out and goes back to his quiet room

simon strikes me as someone that likes to have as much regularity in his life as possible, why do you think 141 are literally the only people he has relationships with???

but mainly forms this routine bc he gets to see you, and he knows you will be there bc you’ve old him its your regular shift.

"you basically live here."

"haha no, i just make sure i get the shift with you."

the restaurant would make the booking for him in advance cause he never does but you know he is coming anyway so have it under ‘y/n's man’ (hasn’t told you his name) and ur coworkers think its super cute and funny

but he would make the effort to come in when it is quiet and has the chance to actually listen to you talk and see you interact with others on a more relaxed level BUT he wouldn’t be opposed to seeing you rushing around tables and weaving between guests who haven’t sat down

ngl he would find it hot watching you manage several orders and memorising different peoples requirements, all while keeping that sweet smile and polite manner

you can carry three plates?! this man is sweating under the mask

he doesn’t do a lot of the talking, only when you really prompt him or he is feeling a bit more extroverted that day. Doesn’t wanna talk about military shit with you but that’s all he does so he prefers to listen to you.

knows all the drama and gossip of the restaurant. glad to hear you are not dating the guy behind the bar and that you also don't like the receptionist because he perfume is to strong.

he will hang around and wait for it to die down to be able to talk to you. if it gets too loud for him he might just try and see you at the till as he leaves but has pushed through once or twice to talk to you.

something about you makes him feel more real, that he isn’t just some shell of a man, that he has a purpose. he likes that you treat him normally, the fresh slate you give him is like clean evening air.

ANYWAY it would take him ages to ask you out, like more than six/ seven months, and he would be so nervous (not to the point of stuttering or shaking bc this man is military he has been in worse situations, but his heart would be running a marathon and the self doubt would be just as loud)

but also protective ghost omgggg, he would be seething watching the old men be creepy and shit

knife and fork are down and he is up behind these men leering over them “excuse me, I just have a question about my meal.” just would say anything to get you out of that situation and back over to him. Or would just stand by the register staring down these men (this happens a lot more often than simon would like to admit)

always checks in when he is leaving to make sure he didn’t over step or make you uncomfortable by accident

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #x reader #ahhh my first proper fic #thank yall so so much #pls be kind.

[kadajsbitch]

Fresh Air

Pinocchio x Fem!Reader

Warning: Smoking a cigarette, other than that none for the most part.

I kind of want to turn this into a series, idk yet. This may be a bit OOC but for the most part, the character is nameless as for the little mentions of her family and things, I still for the most part kept it a clean slate for the readers to make that themselves. If I do make this a series, I’ll probably give them a last name or something but as of now, it’s pretty much a blank slate so enjoy. 😅

•*•*•*•*•*•

It was late. Way too late for a lady of her status to be outside even if it was just to stand in front of the building she resided at.

But then again, those things didn’t matter anymore… not with the rogue mechanoids patrolling the streets of Krat looking for any potential human or even puppet that hadn’t been affected with whatever was turning them haywire, to ultimately slaughter. It also didn’t matter anymore considering she no longer lived under her families rule anymore. For all they knew, she was dead and despite that being a cause for concern to most, it was one of the things that felt like a grand weight being lifted off her shoulders… therefore, her status didn’t matter anymore.

She pulled her robe around herself a little more tightly for the sake of keeping warmth. Due to the fires that were beginning to spread around the already apocalyptic city, the winds had picked up, causing for it all to appear slightly foggy, and in all honesty hard to breath… which made for what she was about to do seem stupid.

But one thing was for certain and that was that Krat was now in an apocalyptic state and even if the puppets were to one day just stop their tumultuous assault against everything within their line of vison, it would take years before Krat could be in a state of repair… and years before it would be fully repaired.

She reached into her robe pocket, keeping her head up and alert as she looked around once more, wearily taking a few hesitant steps away from the door. While it had only been a few days since her arrival to the hotel, she felt as if she was trapped which to her was slightly ironic because before she had arrived, she had told herself if there were people there who could help her, she’d never leave the building for the sake of her life.

To get to the hotel had been a challenging and a perilous journey itself. She had been on her way back to the station, not willing that was or sure but having only been in Krat because she thought she’d be able to hide out there until her family got bored with looking for her…

She let out a frustrated huff, as she quickly moved to check her other pocket, and to both her satisfaction and annoyance, she finally grasped the thing she had been looking for… the box of cigarettes.

Straightening herself as she hesitantly glanced down the bridge and around her once more, making sure she was indeed alone. Her attention fell back to the little box. She had grabbed it off a corpse when she had been running towards the hotel… she guessed it had been a simple cream white color before it had been splattered with blood.

It felt wrong to grab it off a dead man’s body, but then again it wasn’t like he would be using them. She for one, definitely did not them nor have any true need for them considering she had never smoked before in her life. Yet she did it… and she despite the overwhelming feeling of regret having to do with her actions, she felt a peculiar sense of excitement by it due to the fact if her family could see her, they’d surely throw a fit at catching her smoking.

She carefully slid the little box from the bloodied sleeve that held its contents, before pulling one of the carefully hand rolled pieces out. Quickly, she placed it between her lips before pocketing the box and shoving it back in her robe pocket and finding her matches.

Speaking of her family….

She came from a wealthy one. One with lots of influence on those within in London and neighboring countries, yet no one would’ve guessed considering she never had her debut into society the proper way due to the fact she had ran away. She knew what would come of the day… Her mother had wanted to throw a debutante ball and hold it at their manor, like they had done for her sister and cousins, and so on.

While from the outside, it seemed like a grand affair, some girls who were the stars of their balls and those they attended, loved it and looked forward to them, she knew it was just an excuse for her parents to go window shopping for a husband for her. The very thing she did not want.

So, she waited a week before the event, the night of her escape she had changed into one of the puppet servants clothing and promptly ran away. She had been fifteen then… and she had been very ill-prepared for how the world outside of first class society really was and yet, she wouldn’t trade it for nothing in the world because at least she had one thing her parents seemed to have not wanted her to have at all, and that was free will to live her life according.

Of course, her family wasn’t just going to allow her to leave on her own terms. Over the years she had narrowly escaped men who had chased after her, no doubt privately hired by her father who promised them wealth and money to find her. Three men in which, continued their pursuit of finding and bringing her back to her father alive and in one piece for the award they were no doubt expecting from the man.

And they would’ve succeeded this time too, if not for the puppets at the station going haywire and attacking the men who were all but trying to drag her in the train and those around her…

Feeling her hand grasp the small box of matches, she quickly pulled it out, her head whipping around to ensure her safety once more before she looked down, bringing the now lit match that she had repeatedly hit against the striker until it was ignited.

Quickly she brought the end of her cigarette to it before shaking the match out, and taking a shaky inhale. While she had never smoked before, she had been told if she ever tried, to inhale with her mouth first before fully inhaling with her lungs to avoid the embarrassment of hacking up said lungs. She pushed the smoke out through her nose, making an audible “Oh.” Sound before, she brought the cigarette away from her mouth as she hesitantly looked across the bridge, her face fixing on the figure she hadn’t noticed before.

She froze for what felt like minutes before she slowly made her way to the hotel door. However, she got the need to look back once more, in which she did, and luckily it wasn’t a puppet like she had assumed… it was him.

He was halfway across the bridge now, his eyes fixed on her. He wore a simple chemise top that had a loose frill collar, and simple black breeches with his flat shoes and socks. A stark contrast from the uniform she was use to seeing him in…She suddenly became aware of what she had on, as the skirt of her chemise night dress and train of her robe blew slightly in the harsh wind, again reminding her that she shouldn’t have been out. If not for the fact that by societal standards, she was a woman, it was the fact that she was dressed indecently especially considering she was alone.

She pulled the silk robe a little bit tighter around her chest area, looking down to make sure it was still secured in place by the silk belt of the robe before she hesitantly stepped away from the door as he got closer.

“It’s late. You could’ve smoked through the window.” His voice was surprisingly deep yet it wasn’t so guttural, and held a softness to it. It was both pleasing yet odd coming from him considering his features were somewhat soft. Despite this, he didn’t sound particularly upset or worried about what she was doing. More so stating the situation, and a solution that would’ve been better than her coming outside.

She sighed softly, exhaling the smoke as she turned to look behind him and towards her right. “Yes, it is and I could’ve but I needed some time outside of the hotel… I know the air isn’t particularly fresh out here, but it’s nice to be outside.” She said, her eyes finding his to search his expression.

He tilted his chin down slightly keeping his eyes on her as his eyebrows furrowed in an expression that seemed to be questioning her reasons.

“Nice to be outside… in these conditions.” He turned his body slightly to look at the scene beyond the destroyed building that stood closer to the hotel as his eyes shifted from one collapsing building to the few giant clouds of black smoke rising in the air from fires that brewed.

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head slightly as she took another drag of the cigarette, now feeling a little more comfortable to inhale it. “As thankful as I am for Antonia’s benevolence and allowing me to stay under her roof for the time being, staying inside for too long can be a bit stuffy. No matter how many windows you open.” She said, watching as he turned to look back at her, his eyebrow raised slightly in a questioning matter while his gaze seemed to hold a look of doubt.

“Besides, it’s not like we can really have many windows open… while it does seem like the puppets tend to ignore the inside of the buildings, if they catch wind of seeing anything within, they’ll do what they usually do.” She says frowning. When she had arrived to the hotel, she had felt safe enough to relax and be as loud as she wanted due to the fact she was staying in the highest part of the hotel… that’s until Antonia informed her that some of the puppets were climbing.

“How attentive. You’re observant enough to know that if they think they can sense humans within the building, they’ll tear it down in a means to get to us. Yet it’s alright to stand outside and smoke because you’re in need of fresh air?” At this, she narrowed her eyes at him slightly before rolling them watching as a gentle grin found it’s way on his lips.

“We haven’t been formally introduced. My name’s Pinocchio.” At this, her exspression shifted to one of curiosity. “Like the fairytale?” He nodded before holding his hand out for her to shake, an action in which she carefully repeated as they became familiar with one another.

“(Y/n).” She said, a little to stiffly for her liking but hoping it was believable. She had been using the false name for years after she had ran away, yet it never felt right coming from her lips.

She didn’t miss how the corner of his mouth slowly withdrew, his eyebrow raising more as a smirk found its way to his face. “Lovely name. I haven’t met anyone with a name like yet.” She smiled, withdrawing her hand from his as he did as well.

She had seen the man walking around the hotel every now and then, but she had never interacted with him due to the fact he seemed to only really come inside the hotel to maybe get supplies and talk to Eugenia, Antonia, and the man who resided in the study.

And almost immediately, he’d leave afterwards. She had never seen him eat or drink anything, which in turn made her believe he ate when she was either in her room considering the fact it’s where she mainly stayed now unless she was speaking with Eugenia, the girl who ran the weapons shop she had became friendly with.

After a moment of silence and looking at one another, he turned to face the bridge to look at the scene in-front of them.

“You shouldn’t stay out too long. They rarely come up here, but every now and then there’s two or three that are sauntering infront of the door when I come or am exiting.” At this, her face fell from the relaxed, almost pleasant look to one of shock. Not really by the fact that they would come close to the hotel, that much she assumed but she hadn’t even bothered to check the windows before she so much as opened the doors.

He glanced at her from the side before smiling gently, turning back towards the doors as he opened one. Before he entered however, he looked over to her, clearing sensing her sudden unease. “Are you coming inside too or, do you wish to enjoy the outside air more?” He asked. Again, his tone was gentle yet you could see an almost teasing look in his eye as she stood there waiting for his response.

She didn’t hesitate however. Quickly, she knelt down, quickly stubbing the cigarette out as her other hand held her robe together tightly to keep modest before she stood up, and quickly went inside. Nodding at Pinocchio who averted his eyes to the ground to watch his step, once she was inside as he moved to follow, closing the door behind him.

#pinocchio x reader #lies of p #lies of p x reader #made him a little sassy lol #kadajsbitchlol #not proofread #I’ll edit it later to fix any typos lol #currently is four in the morning

[jazeswhbhaven]

I started whb recently and frankly I’m glad I found blogs like yours that focus on headcanons, lore and writing. This sounds dumb but I find the actual WHB MC from the game really unrelateable but I think it’s not because they’re a blank slate(which would be better in this case), but they’re just two things: Solomon descendent and 24/7 horny. Nothing else, no sense of self or decision in anything. It feels railroady with zero choice in dialogue.

Like we’ll use Raphael’s first story because that was available for preview: I personally wouldn’t be happy that Beel gave us very….interesting items as a gift. The game makes you elated to have them but like that isn’t my cup of tea yknow? I mean that section would have been perfect for a dialogue choice to show that you love it or are weirded out, which could make the story interesting because you end up using them on Raph so it’s like, better use of the present sort of scenario. I get this is a h-oriented game but not everyone is into certain things, or hypersexual and that’s where I feel the story falls flat and I just ignore the mc and pay attention to everything else. I hope that makes sense.

Hi anon, welcome welcome!! I hope you find everything you need with the blogs you interact with, including my own because believe it or not I understand what you mean here about the MC. I rarely run into MCs that are relatable, and when I do it's such a breath of fresh air. In this case, this is why I made my own because the MC for WHB is just...phew idk they disappoint me sometimes and then the 'choices' we get in the game are barely there. In the exmaple you provided, I literally made this reaction when I found out he gave that to MC

because like Beel, honey...did you even check to see if MC even likes anal beads? Or even wanted a sexy outfit when everyone else got like wholesome gifts that matched their interests? But...Beel is Beel and I'm sure that's why Bael is always stressed out in the first place lol. Back to your point though, MC just brushes it off and made the best of it, which fine, but I would of liked to see the option of rejecting the gift because I really wanna see how the Kings react when you tell them 'no' and who actually respects boundaries. Just like I got excited when MC showed a bit of backbone with Satan telling him "he's done worse" when he got all pissy at them for interrupting him without meaning to. But they backed down at the end and I was like NO KEEP THE ENERGY TELL HIM ABOUT HIMSELF. I would. I know what's happening later for being mouthy, but still he's gonna hear it. I think I'd like MC more if they were like "I'm literally only doing this because I wanted my friend back alive, so I'm not just gonna roll over because you're demons." and then use the fact that their the descendant as further proof that no one else can do this or break the bonds but me, so ya'll act up if you want to I've got time. You know? I went on a ramble anon, sorry but I totally get it.

#jwhbasks❓ #whb #welcome anon! #i totally get it