#my little comfort skull man... who kills people... for a living.

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Bloodhound. (A Ghost x AFAB!Reader fic)

Act One, Chapter Six: Reluctant Admittance

Omg! Who is this?! I'm back and I'm bringing home the bacon! Exams are over and I have about of month of aimless wandering so… yeah :D. I'm currently in the process of decompressing and the effects of stress are finally manifesting after being dormant during exam season... yay.

I hope you all enjoy! I'm trying to get back into the groove so apologies for the lack of eventfulness. I'm also going to apologise for the fact that I very much got into my feelings writing this so brace yourselves.

We all know English is my mortal enemy (despite being my first language) so sorry for grammatical mishaps, I did do me best but things do slip under the radar.

Warnings: Heavy discussions surrounding trauma (particularly surrounding men- I know! I'm sorry!), heightened emotions, threats of violence and strong language.

You were staring at her like she had three heads. It was a tough decision to make: whether to push to continue this conversation or let Laswell be. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you rifled through the various outcomes you had predicted to the different things you could say. You hoped you could be sensitive enough to allow her to open up. She was the only one who understood what you had gone through and vice versa, and you prayed to find something else out of that other than the comradery that came with mutual suffering.

She looked right back at you, knowing full well you wanted to say something, the words dancing on the tip of your tongue, itching to be spoken but chained down by your desperate need to interact correctly. Sighing, she folded her arms and waited for whatever you had cocked and ready to fire her way. 

“Kate,” you began, nervously fiddling with your fingers, praying you had rehearsed this enough times in your head for you not to falter over your words, “have you ever wanted closure? To just, maybe, talk it through with someone?”

Her face softened. She hadn’t expected that… Laswell had anticipated a lecture, a cliche roundabout diatribe which overstayed its welcome, a bout of preaching that was just the other person’s way of saying ‘get over it’. Sometimes things in your head are too heavy for others to handle, too sensitive, they can gross your mates out, and years of that had made Laswell feel like a freak, made her feel disgusting. Occasionally, she’d wondered if what she had gone through had ‘built character’, made her strong, and was the reason for her competence. She had cherry-picked what she liked about her time in the Foundation, the skills it had given her, and had repressed the rest. See enough people pale, enough people grimace, enough people stare at you with their mouths hung open, unsure of what to say, and it makes you feel awfully discouraged to be an open book. If Price knew what she had gone through as a teen, she was afraid he might see her no longer as a colleague but as something else. Something weak. 

She drew in a sharp breath at the thought. 

Men had an awful tendency to want to save, to protect, and seldom listen. Yes, it was a sweeping generalisation, but it was for her own protection. She was genuinely afraid things could change between them. All of them, in fact. 141, most people in her life, were best kept at a friendly but reasonably far distance. 

Closure had been off the table for a while now. 

“Y/N, these things are… difficult to navigate. Right now, it’s all fresh to you. You’re currently running about, hoping anyone, anyone, might hear you out, sit down, and listen to all your pains. You’re craving hope, praying that some guy out there can put your faith back into them…” She let out a shaky sigh. “No one out there ever sat down and listened to me. What we’ve been through is horrific, too much for people to bear. If you find that someone, I’ll be amazed and immensely happy for you but… let’s be realistic, Y/N. We’ll never get closure.”

She put her arm around you and drew you close to her, walking you both back to your beds. Mild anger bubbled away inside you, her infantilising, drab words leaving behind a sour aftertaste.

“We keep practical, and we keep vigilant. Remember that.”

“I get where you’re coming from, Kate.” You turned to face her. “But I don’t entirely agree with you. You and I both know that we’d kill for a confidante, and you could have one! You could have several if you wanted to! I bet you haven’t even tried having a conversation with these guys about your past.”

She sighed and shook her head, removing her arm from you, as you both entered the murky dark of the barracks.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Y/N.”

“Good night, Kate.”

With a slight pout and furrowed brow, you watched her make her way to her bed and fall into it, completely shattered. 

***

You idly prodded at your porridge with your spoon as you did your best to avoid Laswell’s eyes. Soap and Ghost had taken you hostage, placing you firmly between the two of them, across from the CIA Station Chief, with the hopes that you’d start opening your mouth and agreeing with them and that would then lead to Laswell opening up. However, at the end of the day, it was two ordinary men up against an experienced lamia, and what they hadn’t quite caught onto yet was Laswell barraging your mind with messages of strong encouragement to keep quiet. It was extremely tiring, but Laswell thought it was the right thing to do and that was sufficient justification to keep going.

You swallowed hard, continuing to move your food around your bowl, watching blueberries you had once buried under the slop of oatmeal and milk resurface and sit atop their stodgy sea. The silence was so loud, your brain unable to think coherent thoughts as the buzz of underlying aggression filled your skull with apprehensive static. No one was explicitly angry, and that irked you. There was a conversation sitting here that was dying to be had, all someone at this godforsaken table had to do was spit a few words out and get the ball rolling.

Eventually, you found yourself glancing at Price, hoping that maybe the captain could put his authority to good use. The old man wasn’t an idiot, he knew something had happened last night which had yielded breakfast’s… painfully awkward results. Gaz could tell too, but, seeing as yesterday had been a bit rocky, decided it was best to not fan the already hot embers and bring about flames. Price brought his thermos to his lips, eyes narrowing as he watched Soap bore holes into Laswell’s skull. She was returning the favour, of course, sternly looking at the Scotsman, her lip turning upwards at the sight of him bringing you closer to his side.

Ghost was there too and was most certainly a presence that wasn’t overlooked. One could tell that he was positively fuming under that mask, taking a large bite out of his apple as he continued to try and out-stare Kate. The echo of his crunch reverberated throughout the canteen. Despite the backdrop of friendly chatter and clattering cutlery, any sound that came from 141’s table seemed to be thrice the expected volume. Perhaps it was the silence amplifying noise’s presence when she’d occasionally grace the group, or perhaps it was because they were exaggerating the volume of their actions to prove a petty point. Either way, Laswell was not going to go down. Period. She was going to ensure they’d stop their little investigation before it had even started. They didn’t need to know anything about her, bar that she was on their side and that was that. Anyways, it was not like she knew much about them! Especially Ghost. There was a double standard here. He could go about his business being all mysterious and alluring but as soon as he found out that there may be more to her than meets the eye… he felt betrayed like he was Caesar on the Ides of March, and Laswell’s newfound information was nothing but a poorly concealed dagger in his eyes.

“Right.” Price suddenly broke the silence, setting his thermos on the table. “What happened?”

No one spoke a word.

He chewed on his lip, taking a deep breath through his nose.

He looked at Soap.

“MacTavish, speak.”

Soap looked at Kate with a sneer.

“Laswell may be able to provide more information than meself.”

“Fine.” Price nodded, swivelling around to face the woman sitting beside him. “Kate, what happened?”

She shrugged.

“Ghost’s usually the most reliable reporter.”

Price muttered an exasperated curse under his breath, before turning to meet Ghost’s menacing glare.

“Lieutenant, you’re up. Tell me what happened.”

“I left halfway through; I think you should redirect your inquiry back to Laswell.”

Price grumbled to himself, stroking his mutton chops as he slowly looked back at Kate. Her lips were tightly sealed. The silence returned and Price allowed for it as he briefly contemplated on what to do. He could feel Gaz staring at him, awaiting his response to all this as he took a loud slurp of his tea.

“Okay,” the captain announced, “I’m not having any of this. Someone here is going to tell me exactly what is going on and that someone is…”

Like a turret spinning around to select its target, Price’s gaze shifted from Soap, to Laswell, to Ghost and then to you.

“Y/N, why are Soap, Ghost and Laswell eyeing each other like they’re in a Mexican standoff?”

You gulped, looking at all three of them for help on what to do next. Soap sighed and kept his eyes on the floor while Kate was shaking her head, hoping you would keep quiet.

And then, there was Ghost.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to make eye contact with him, knowing full well that he was staring into your soul. He cast a dark shadow over you, his company hovering ominously above as he, whether consciously or not, taunted you with his intimidating presence.

Oh, what do I do?

You chewed on your lip, covering your nervous gesture with your hand as you looked at Price for some form of encouragement.

The urge to spill the beans was building inside you, like a rising scream, making its way up your throat. From a logical perspective, it seemed like the right thing to do, for the benefit of everyone, seeing as 141 needed to be as together as possible in order to remain under the radar and you needed to not surround yourself with bloodthirsty lunatics coming for each other’s throats… for once.

You sighed, setting your spoon down, not even bothering to give it a parting gaze as it sunk into your porridge.

“Basically,” you began, much to Laswell’s chagrin, “Ghost and Soap found some of my, uh, things and it told them some stuff about myself that I wasn’t quite ready to share. It also told some stuff about Kate, here, that she also isn’t quite ready to… share.”

“But it is stuff we need to know,” Ghost added, folding his arms.

“Kate,” Price turned to her, softening his voice a little, “should you and I have a private chat over a cuppa?”

“It’s nothing, John.” She moved away from him.

Price looked at both Ghost and Soap.

“Did you boys have a scrap with just her or also Y/N about whatever happened last night?”

Ghost and Soap exchanged looks before Soap volunteered to speak for the both of them.

“We didn’t have a scrap, sir, we-”

“Was this just between you and Kate?” Price’s voice was harsh, and it took both Soap and Ghost aback.

Was… was he scolding them?

“Pretty much, sir.”

“Okay.” Price nodded to himself. “Suppose this gives me all the more reason to iron whatever the fuck happened last night out.”

That announcement was met with tense silence. Great. Just great. The captain was frustrated by everyone’s reluctance to cooperate, but he couldn’t deny that he was also surprised… particularly surprised by Kate. This was out of character for her, to be stubborn, slightly petty and begrudging: undeniably soldier-like. He turned to face her.

“Kate, if this is something serious enough to make my boys distrust you, we need to hear it. I can’t be having any infighting, especially given our situation.”

Was it that serious? You pondered on that question as you watched Price attempt to have a conversation with her. What had Kate said last night about them… about Soap and Ghost’s reactions?

“They’re just upset that I’m not satiating their curiosity. Anything and everything about me is ‘need-to-know’. And right now, they don’t need to know.”

Regaling her life’s story to them would be indulging them… and that was the last thing an ex-lamia would want to do, indulge them, especially men.

You understood that anger, the resistance burning away in her eyes: she was trying to cover an old wound that had just reopened.

They wouldn’t understand. How could they?

But you could.

“Kate,” you suddenly said, “I can tell them who I am. You don’t have to.”

Her face softened.  “No, you don’t have to. I know you don’t want to. Y/N-”

You smiled.

“Kate. I… I can do it. I want to. If it’ll ease the tension, I’m happy to be an open book. I don’t want my baggage to jeopardise your pack- I mean, group.”

You could tell she disagreed with your diplomatic approach, because, though you had dressed up this action to be something which you were doing on your own terms… in reality, it wasn’t. It didn’t matter to you; however, this was what your life had been, this was pretty much all you had known. You had been bought and bred to be everything and anything the Foundation wanted.

She’d let you off this time, seeing as it was clear you were still shaking off your shackles.

Price was… pleasantly surprised to say the least. He gestured for you to begin. 

Your heart was beating away in your chest at a rate of knots. All eyes were on you. How would you begin? How detailed should you go? 

This could be your chance to prove to Kate that conversation about this worked. You could already feel, despite your slightly unsteady nerves, a part of that weight pressing down on you was being lifted. You weren’t some desperate little child, running around for someone to be your therapist like she had suggested you were last night. You were just brave enough to do something Kate was still working up the courage to commit. 

You exhaled quietly and then opened your mouth to speak. 

“I’m from a place that I can’t exactly disclose… Ugh! Fuck it! I’m from the Foundation. It’s a private facility that houses mercenaries and hires out soldiers like me. I’m what you would call a ‘lamia’. Lamias are an all-female class of soldiers. I have been in the Red Room programme for… over a decade. I’m equipped with the latest standard hepta-plate armour that enables me to stay indefinitely camouflaged… when in working condition.”

You chuckled nervously as you beheld a crowd of blank faces. 

Oh no… They looked like they were expecting more. What else could you say?!

“My blood-source is from the… Kraus line. And, um… Oh! I’m the most recent model of lamia.”

You smiled, hoping that would be sufficient information. Soon, however, that proud grin on your face would fade as the faces before you looked either confused, horrified or simply both. 

“Model?” Soap raised an eyebrow. “That makes you sound awfully like a machine.”

He pointed his spoon at you with curiosity.

“Err…” Your voice got a little shaky. “Well, that’s what I am. I don’t really… I guess I could say I’m the latest version?”

You could tell that wasn’t the response he wanted. 

Price exhaled through his nose, the air whistling a little out of his nostrils. 

“Y/N, you’re an escapee from this ‘Foundation’. Are the people there after you?”

“Most likely.”

“Will they be after us, too?”

“No,” was your blunt reply, “You’re regular military folks, they could care less about you provided you stay out of their way. But I can’t guarantee that which is why I’m not staying here for too long.”

It stung a little but, to Price, in a weird way, that was music to his ears. If the Foundation was feeling like it, like they didn’t give a shit about him and his boys and did not bother them, he could live with that. Although, something felt off about the way you had spoken, like you were an android, reciting a sales pitch to get a customer to buy you. He couldn’t deny the fact that didn’t sit well with him. 

“So,” Gaz tilted his head to one side, “I’m guessing you’ve been at the Foundation since you were a kid?”

“Yep, ever since I was a kid.”

“Have you been… a soldier since you were a kid?” Ghost sounded uncharacteristically tender like he was almost reluctant to ask this question. 

You nodded. 

A shudder ran through him. 

“I’ve been hired out since I was about… I want to say fifteen?”

That shudder ran through him again and looped back. 

You smiled weakly, a little unnerved by the way he gawked at you.

“I’m assuming Laswell was in a similar position to you, now,” Soap remarked, hoping you’d confirm his assumption.

You looked over to Kate. She had a desperate plea written all over her face for you to neither confirm nor deny. Your eyes returned to Soap, who was clearly expecting some form of response.

“Err…” Your lip wibbled a little. “I… mean… You know what? I don’t know if Kate’s story is exactly the same as mine and I’m not going to speak for her. She can… she doesn’t have to… Um… She’s a good person and she’s on your side! Yeah! I…”

You were floundering! You were floundering big time!

Shit! Shit! SHIT!

“I don’t think it’s right for me to say.”

They all watched with puzzled expressions as you shrunk away a little. It was like speaking about a taboo at the family dinner table, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak for her, lest you’d vomit.

Soap shrugged.

“You mentioned lamias being only female,” Ghost muttered, before turning to look at you again, “Are there any male soldiers?”

Murmurings of approval from the group suggested that this was apparently an astute question. To you, however, it made you incredibly sick to your stomach for some reason.

“Oh God!” you blurted out, warranting a few chuckles from 141.

You smiled with them, finding some form of relief in the way they had taken that as a joke. Soon, although, curious silence would return and the burden of having to answer that question had wrapped its fingers around your head; beginning to slowly crush your skull, the pressure building with every passing second you left that question unanswered.

“Yes, there are male soldiers… Um…”

For some reason, you found tears pricking your eyes.

One rolled down your cheek.

You chuckled nervously, wiping it away. However, more trickled down. It was strange. You weren’t exactly feeling anything that was strong enough to bring about tears. And yet, here you were… embarrassing yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You did your best to keep smiling, catching as many tears as you could and swiping them away.

What’s wrong with me?

“Y/N,” Laswell began, reaching from across the table, “you don’t have to say any-”

“Kate, I’m-”

In the blink of an eye, Laswell got up and promptly whisked you away and out of there. Ghost watched your figure shrinking into the distance before you vanished round a corner.

Kate sighed and muttered to herself, shoulders slumping.

You were just like her. A tragic, shattered reflection which, if pieced together, would form her portrait. Every lamia was the same in that regard: the same story, the same stupid story. Enduring the same stupid things, doing all they could to avoid them, but still somehow, being unfortunate enough to end up hurt.

Price’s face screamed concern.

Soap looked over to Ghost, who just stared blankly at the table, feeling immensely guilty.

He had been selfish. Before she had left, he had caught Kate’s eye briefly and quickly avoided her gaze. What if she had been through something similar? He should have known better. He had thrown a pathetic temper tantrum, rolling around in his own trust issues when there was clearly something bigger going on here.

Eventually, everyone had left the breakfast table, the awkward silence growing too much. Everyone but Ghost. He sat there with his head in his hands. He had been there for a while, scolding himself for being an idiot.

“Simon.”

Ghost looked up to see MacTavish was back. He took a seat beside him.

“You alright?”

The lieutenant remained silent, shaking his head, sighing into his hands.

“Simon, you didn’t know. We all didn’t know. Gaz is proper beating himself up about this in the barracks.”

Once more, silence.

Soap bit down on his lip, peering around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon’s masked face through his hands.

“Mate, we’ve all been there. Asked the wrong question. It was just a mistake. I’ve done the same with you.”

“I know, Soap. I know.”

MacTavish moved to place a hand on Ghost’s hunched back.

“Have you seen Y/N? Are they okay?” Riley shyly asked, his voice muffled a little by his hands.

Soap shrugged. “I don’t know. I heard crying but…”

Ghost let out a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Simon! It’s okay! I’m sure they’ll be fine. They probably know you didn’t mean anything by it. I heard Kate having a long convo with Price and it sounded fairly casual. We haven’t done anything bad. Just then or last night.”

“I feel like an idiot.”

Soap laughed.

“That’s a first!”

Ghost turned to him, batting the man away playfully. However, that melancholy feeling returned promptly.

MacTavish sighed quietly.

“I’m gonna go and check up on Gaz. See you in the barracks in a bit?”

“Yeah.” Ghost nodded, “See ya.”

***

“23, you can’t even balance the camera properly!” 72 chuckled, folding her arms as she watched the younger lamia attempt to precariously sit her trusty camcorder on a makeshift tripod of twigs.

“Trust me! It’ll work! Plus, if I make this throw, I’ll have a record…” 23 looked about before lowering her voice to a whisper. “… 89 said that she can keep the SD card safe from them.”

“You serious?”

She nodded, feeling rather smug. However, 72’s face grew dark, a gnawing doubt creeping in.

“What if you get caught?”

23’s smile was quick to fade. She looked to the ground.

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

72 shook her head. “You and I are so lucky we’re not in Unit 4. This shit wouldn’t fly. At all.”

“I count my lucky stars every day.”

“You better be.”

72 sighed to herself, flicking a couple of braids over her shoulder. 23 chewed on her lip as she returned her attention back to her camera set up, quickly jumping to steady the camera as it began to wobble again.

The older lamia caught the eye of Phillip as he was grabbing a blood canister from a duffel bag. They acknowledged each other and the large distance between them. After a few moments of slightly uncomfortable silence, 72 took her leave, crawling back into her tent.

Under the cover of her shelter, she let out a shaky sigh. The girl had forgotten that there was a monster under there, a ravenous, destructive monster. A monster which had almost taken off her younger colleague’s leg.

Phillip felt around for the dip in his mask and slotted the canister in place. Immediately, sweet, sweet vaporous placidity filled his lungs. The man had begun to get a little antsy and knew it wasn’t wise to face Valeria with a hair-trigger temper. He didn’t need to be killing their asset, after all.

He didn’t need to be confronted with a botched job. Not after this second chance. Graves rose from his knelt position on the ground and marched up to Valeria.

“So,” he began, kneeling before her, “any ideas on how we’re going to infect our target?”

“Well, if I’m administering this through a bite, I need to get close and I also need the virus if you want me to-”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He looked down to the ground, shuddering.

“What?” Valeria asked.

“Why’d you have to… you know? I didn’t get that when they made me… this.”

She giggled to herself.

“My dear,” Valeria spoke with a condescending tone, “the Foundation clearly wants this man to turn quickly. I’ve seen it all before. My blood, combined with the filth running through your veins will… ensure their victory.”

Phillip nodded to himself, feeling absolutely revolted inside. And so, he was quick to change the topic to his initial intention for this conversation.

“Didn’t you mention that the Vaqueros are aware of you breaking out of jail?”

Valeria grinned. Her jailbreak was incredible. It was always exhilarating, to be the one with the power. Unlike now.

That had been beautifully done, well planned and really allowed her to have some fun. She had even managed to use those gifts from the Foundation, stopping a poor guard’s heart with her mind, though it did take a lot out of her. As Valeria reminisced, she realised something: lamias were extremely powerful. A mind was at the mercy of her. Think the right thought and someone could be seeing their throat closing up, their own body betraying them, pledging allegiance to her.

She could bend him to her will.

As Valeria looked at him, at that blank mask whose polished surface beheld her reflection, she saw herself pale. That damn uniform made every single one of them look exactly the same. If she looked hard enough, through the layers of armour, she could perhaps make out his face and those eyes.

Had they changed colour yet?

Had they lost their humanity? Lined with black? Had his irises expanded, leaving only slivers of sclera?

Was he fantasising about tearing out her throat right now?

Valeria’s lips thinned into a resigned grin.

No. She wouldn’t be able to get into his head. It was too risky. Press on the wrong part of the brain, induce the wrong impulse and she would find herself torn apart by a very angry wolf.

That was the problem with Arcadian Sons. They were always, somehow stronger.

Fuck you.

“Do you think you’d be up to… provoking them?”

“How so?” Valeria raised an eyebrow.

“We know 141 are obviously hiding out with the Mexican Special Forces. Get Alejandro to put you where you can reach Ghost.”

She couldn’t help but sigh.

“So, you want me to get captured?”

“We’ll get you back out, don’t you-”

SLAM!

A knife went flying and lodged itself in the bark, merely centimetres away from Valeria’s face. They both halted in their tracks, staring at the weapon, shivers of shock taking their time to subside.

Following the course it had taken with his eyes, Phillip’s gaze landed on the figure of 23. Her hand was over her face.

Shit!

Phillip sighed and got up. He reached for the knife, pulled it out of the bark with disturbing ease and then began to make his way to the girl.

23’s eyes grew wider and wider, her heart in her mouth. She wanted to run but was petrified in place. Phillip grew nearer and nearer, his armoured body looking bigger and more intimidating than ever. That knife was in a sure grip, and she watched, breaths growing shallow, as it swung in time with his stride. She shrunk away under his shadow, scrunching her eyes shut. The girl raised her arms in a helpless flinch.

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t aiming for you or the asset, I swear! I-”

“Here.”

Huh?

She looked up at him, confused.

He groaned at the sight of her looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Begrudgingly, Phillip took her hand and placed the knife in it.

“Don’t do that again. Go back in the tent, please.”

His voice was incredibly stern.

She nodded, taking the knife and dashing to grab her camera.

“23!”

The lamia froze, slowly turning around at the sound of his voice.

“Those aren’t made for throwin’. You gotta be an expert in order to get those to land where you want ‘em.”

She nodded.

“Go in the tent. I’ll call you and 72 out when I need y’all and when the boys are back.”

Holy shit.

Valeria watched him walk back towards her, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

What was his ploy?

***

You sighed, staring at the bowl of porridge you had left behind from breakfast. Sitting on the doorstep, the view of the woods just beyond the base directly in front of you, you took a spoonful of your food and tipped it back into the bowl. Tired eyes watched the viscous mixture of milk, oatmeal, newly added honey, and berries drip back into its container. You never thought it’d be so exhausting having to comfort someone, it made you feel guilty how fatiguing it had been to ease Laswell’s tears. 

It hadn’t even been an hour since breakfast, but it had felt like aeons had gone by.

You didn’t even bother to acknowledge who had come down to sit beside you.

“Hey,” Ghost greeted, awkwardly placing his hands in his lap, hoping you’d notice that.

He did his best to make himself as small as possible, slouching a little on his perch on the concrete step. You smiled politely before bringing a spoonful of porridge to your mouth, hopeful that your stuffed face would give him a reason not to talk to you. It wasn’t that you were angry with him or anything, it was just that you weren’t really in the mood for conversation. You felt a little delicate right now and knew that you’d very well be crying again like you did yesterday. Shame sloshed around inside your skull. It was stupid to cry. You weren’t a little kid anymore.

Adults don’t cry. Lamias don’t cry.

You kept your eyes ahead, staring into the abyss of wood and leaves, wondering if the howling you had heard last night was anything to be worried about.

Ghost looked over at you before sighing to himself.

Then, he decided to just bite the bullet, put the words into his mouth and speak.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He began, consciously trying not to sound as gruff as he usually would. “I should’ve seen you were getting uncomfortable and not pressed further.”

Shyly, he looked over to see what you made of his apology.

“It’s okay,” you said, still staring ahead, “It’s not that I was reluctant to answer, I just… I don’t know.”

Ghost nodded, studying you closely. You looked tired, very, very tired, as if you had never experienced a proper rest before. He dreaded to know what you had gone through. However, he also could tell you wanted to say something and get the words out properly, on your own terms.

“Do you…” He did his best to be as tentative as possible. “Do you want to talk about something?”

You nodded.

“I feel like I should talk about stuff. Kate thinks it’s useless, and I think maybe even embarrassing, but it’s not embarrassing, is it? Opening up about past baggage?”

“No,” Ghost replied, “I mean, when it comes to my past, I find it difficult myself, but that’s because I struggle with, um… articulating how I feel about it.”

“Maybe Kate’s the same…” You speculated, scratching your chin in thought.

“Could be. Could not be.” Ghost shrugged. “Everyone’s different.”

You set your bowl aside and leaned forward, cupping your face in your hands.

“I just feel like Kate’s the only person I can talk to, but now it’s like she doesn’t want to talk to me about lamia stuff, about the Foundation.”

Ghost understood the pain you were feeling. Everyone needs that one person to vent to and he had that in Soap and maybe… maybe you could have that in him?

Worth a try.

Yes, you wouldn’t be here for very long, but he knew it would help you big time regardless. He wasn’t a monster and sure, he may be a little cold and stoic at times but if Ghost would want something to be remembered by it was that, despite it all, he was kind. He was good at his fucking job, he was efficient and he was a good man.

“You could talk to me if you like. I know I already offered before but I’m serious, you can talk to me.”

“What if you don’t get it? What if it’s too heavy for you?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

You sighed, drawing your knees up to under your chin.

“Some parts I may not understand. But I think you’ll find; I may be able to relate to quite a few things.”

You tilted your head to one side.

“Really?”

“We’re both humans, after all. There’s got to be something we both can understand about one another.”

Human.

‘Human’ made you sound like you and Ghost were alike, were one in the same kind. It was weird. You had always been taught that there were men and everyone else. The default and the other.‘Human’ was a word that was advertised as an umbrella term but was really only reserved to describe a select few; and you had been told time and time again, either outright or from what you learned and what you read, be it through diagrams in biology textbooks, language, literature and more. Proper humans, studied humans, humans who could be understood and cared for were not who your kind were.

A shy smile crept onto your face and you watched Ghost’s eyes crease, suggesting he too was smiling under that balaclava.

#bloodhound fic #cod mw22 #cod mwii fic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod x reader #cod mw2 werewolf au #ghost mw2 #phillip graves cod #simon ghost riley is my little comfort man #my little comfort skull man... who kills people... for a living. #um anyways

[ghouljams]

Luck, after redirecting shrapnel and bullets into the major arteries of any who dared fire upon Gaz, making sure they bleed out slowly and painfully:

Like I know they're not necessarily involved in killing people like Some Demons but all I can think of is;

Gaz: I appreciate your help and all but you are pretty fucked up

Luck, twirling someone's intestines like a phone cord: so you think I'm pretty!!!

It's not in Luck's job description to kill people, but they kinda... I mean a demon's nature doesn't change just because their job changes. Luck and their crush on Gaz is so cute and fun to write, especially because it is so obvious. Gaz very much knows about it and can't complain because he's getting a little crush on them himself.

You're getting better at this whole combat thing. More comfortable redirecting bullets and explosive blasts to kill enemies, not just to save Gaz. A stray bullet whizzes past him and straight through the skull of the man he'd been about to shoot. Gaz turns and executes the enemy behind him before they can fix the jam in their gun.

Someone grabs Gaz by the neck and punches him, apparently taking a more personal approach to combat. Gaz attempts to grapple them, but the weight classes are too different, and you feel yourself shaking with anger. You can't contain the snarl the rips from your throat as you jump from the shadows to pull the man off of Gaz. You dig your hand into their back, ripping your claws through flesh and viscera. Gaz coughs, pushes himself up to catch his breath as you twist your prey and sink your teeth into their neck. The sharp points tear neatly and release a gorgeous crimson spray of blood across the room.

"Luck!" Gaz calls to you, you take a breath. There's no fight in the body under your claws. You're eviscerating a corpse. "Jesus Christ," Gaz mumbles. You pull yourself away from the dead man.

"Sorry, um, I'm-" You blink at Gaz's wide eyes. He doesn't look scared, he looks shocked, maybe a little concerned.

"No I'm- I forgot you're-" He shakes his head, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, "Thanks for the save?"

"My pleasure," You tell him. It was a pleasure too. Such a rush, you see why other demons up here can live off this stuff. Gaz raises a brow.

"You're lucky you're pretty, or I might get scared seein' you bloody," Gaz sighs, grabbing his gun and pushing himself to his feet. You feel your cheeks heat. He thinks you're pretty? You melt back to your shadows with a giggle so he doesn't see you kicking your feet excitedly.

Gaz is starting to get the hang of this demon thing, he doesn't know what Price was so concerned about. Getting you docile is the easiest thing in the world, feeding you too, no troubles or complaints here. If anything he's starting to think your feelings are rubbing off on him. You really are the sweetest, prettiest, thing he's ever seen, why wouldn't he fall for you?

#cod x reader #x reader #x oc #oc: luck #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick x oc #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x oc #gaz x reader #gaz modern warfare #gaz cod #demon!Darlings au

[sanjoongie]

𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓟𝓼𝔂𝓬𝓱𝓸~ 𝓢𝓪𝓷'𝓼 𝓟𝓞𝓥

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸collab with @daesukiii. Read her part first here

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Pairing: Choi San x Reader (f)

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Genre: Horror, smut

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Au: non-idol au

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Trope: established relationship, yandere

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Word Count: 1,275

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Rating: 18+, MDNI

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Warnings: ⚠️ yandere behavior ie sweet on the outside but would kill to protect their darling, violence, blood, death (a lot) ⚠️

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Kinks: oral (f), strength kink, wall sex, glove kink, blood kink

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Author's Note: this is dark, this is gritty, this is gorey, please be advised when you read this, it's really not for the faint of heart!!!

(♡´▽`♡)🔪🩸Banner by @daesukiii and divider cut from it

San should be focusing on the feeling of the once-hard skull feeling squishy in his hands but his anger burned too high for textile pleasures. Who did the waiter think he was to be even perceiving his darling? Let alone look down your shirt?! Your breasts, your body, YOU were his and only his. 

“Why?” San said in a growl that lifted his lip in a sneer. “Don’t you have any manners? Or know better? Stupid little rabbits like you think they can nibble clover without watching out for the fox?”

San frowned slightly, sure he made a mess of his outfit. Did he have brain matter on him or was it just blood? Finding pieces of people he killed on him later was like finding food crumbs. Inconvenient at best. 

Slowly, he ground the pulp that was once someone's head into the grating brick wall of the alleyway of the restaurant he had just finished eating at with you. His blood boiled to a loud rumble in his ears as he recalled how uncomfortable you looked discovering the waiter looking down your décolletage.

“Jokes on you, chump!” San giggled, high pitch and definitely off. “I’m the one who’s going for ice cream with her after. I’m the one taking her home and you’re never going home, are you?”

“San?”

Nothing draws his attention faster than your soft voice in his ears; his love, his life, his purpose on this earth. San shoved the body unceremoniously behind a dumpster, cleaning up and preparing for a more pleasant evening moving forward. 

The next few days are stilted yet comfortable at the same time. San studied your movements, which were the same only tainted with a hesitance now that you had seen the side of him that loved you unconditionally. He didn’t understand why you were so afraid now. 

It took him a few evenings to realize that you weren’t afraid of him; you were afraid of this new side of yourself that appreciated what he did for you. 

It started with a test. San was used to your false friendliness with others. You did this to fit in, much like himself. But he watched with his Adam’s apple bobbing, as you flirted with the convenience store clerk. That one found an untimely death on the roof with a plastic bag over his head. A man who bumped into you when you walked in the park one afternoon hand in hand ended up fish food in the pretty pond in said park. 

And every time he took care of the trash that dared bother you, he always made sure to kiss your temple and tell you he would love you forever. 

One particular night, when he was sliding through the shadows along the hallway after killing a man who he had overheard speaking about your ass, he found your soft, perfect form was in a chair in the living room. 

“San?” You called out with confidence that made San curious.

“Babe?” San straightened, automatically adjusting the gloves he ritually adorned before his kills. 

“Don’t clean up just yet,” You demanded.

San tilted his head and smiled, his eyes disappearing in his adoration for you. “Of course, my love, whatever you desire.” He stood with his hands loosely in front of him, one hand on his wrist, awaiting further instructions.

“You didn’t give me a kiss yet. You always do when you get home.” You mentioned, a little too casually.

San, without hesitation, crossed the wooden floor with quick steps, to press his lips to yours. He could practically feel the vibrations of your shudder run through your body and into his lips. What did that shudder mean? San’s hands, still gloved, whispered over your robe and automatically stroked your spine. You practically melted against his jacket, as you usually did when he attacked your most vulnerable spot. 

“Only my hands can touch you,” San murmured into your hair. Your scent enveloped him and he couldn't help but inhale deeply. 

“San, do you truly love me that much?” The question comes from a different line of thought and he was pretty sure he knew what you were thinking. You are his darling, of course, he knows everything about you.

San pushed you back by grabbing both your upper arms and then moved his hands to cup your face instead. His thumbs stroked your cheeks, eyes almost teary-eyed in his insanity. He could never dwell on just how much he loved you otherwise he’d go over a cliff he could never come back from. You needed him so he could never entertain it, even though he was sure he would have some fun along the way. 

There is blood on your robe, smeared along your face, and San thought perhaps you’ve never looked more beautiful than covered in the blood of the man who dared touch your privileged body. “If I can’t protect you, then what is my purpose?”

San watched as you fought with your logic and your beast. You knew what the wet substance was against your face and you knew what was on San. But when your tongue sneaked out subconsciously to catch the drop along the corner of your lip, San thought that he loved you even more than before. You were his to protect, his to twist, his to love forever. 

“I love you,” You whispered and San’s heart dipped and soared. 

San smiled through the tears that did actually fall down his cheeks. You, his beloved, his love, loved him. He knew you did, of course he did, but it never failed to knock him senseless when you said it. San peppered your face with kisses, sniffling and laughing, until he kissed your lips and you moaned into his mouth.

It wasn’t long before he pulled the knot to your robe to discover you had nothing underneath. With one gloved hand on the small of your back and the other cupping the back of your head, San had your back against the wall between the windows, making out with you and grinding his slacks against your bare cunt. San was fully clothed and you had your robe falling into the crook of your elbows, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

You whined against his mouth until he broke the kiss. “San, make love to me,” You pleaded.

San shook his head. “No, let me pray to you.”

San, with the help of you balancing back onto the wall, slid down your body so that your legs were over his shoulder as he braced his hands against the wallpaper. He had only the use of his mouth but it did not hinder his lips and teeth nipping and pulling at your lower lips. 

Your hands dived into his hair, holding him against you, encouraging him to make love with his lips against yours. His tongue worked against you sloppily. At first, he was more in the mind set to sweep up as much of your wetness along his taste buds than give you pleasure. His muffled groan at the taste of you made you cry out in pleasure. 

San brought you to completion as your thighs shook and he slurped up all the creamy goodness that came from your cunt. You breathed heavily above him and he let you slide down with him until both your asses were on the floor. 

San leaned over, unhinged and unleashed, and licked your cheek, where the blood had been smeared against your face. “I love you, forever.”

You giggled, an edge to yours that San recognized, having balanced on the same knife’s edge of sanity. You were so perfectly his. “I love you too, Sannie.”

#yandere!san #ateez scenarios #choi san scenarios #choi san smut #ateez smut #choi san x reader #topaz's work #recent #ღatz #red string of fate collab 🧵

[practically-an-x-man]

2, 18, 22, and/or 26 for the injury prompts (no pressure)

Oooh alright, let's see what we're working with...

2. “Someone get the medic. Get the medic!” 18. "Stop. No. Wake up. Wake up! I said wake up!" 22. “Shit. Shit, that’s a lot of blood.” 26. "[name]? [name], this isn't funny. Stop... please..."

(Injury prompts)

I'm actually thinking I want to try something for Eris this time around. We'll see how that goes, this is my first time writing a piece for them.

____ Battle Wounds

Word Count: 1.9k Content Warnings: depictions of war/fighting, graphic injuries ____

They said war was Hell.

If so, Hell was a very fun place to be.

Eris tore through the battlefield like a hurricane, all whirling blades and animalistic snarls. He was a force of nature, a force of terror, violence and discord incarnate. He carved his name in the battle lines, slashed through his enemies with a grin on his face, ripped through their formations like a bullet. He wreaked havoc.

She'd never claimed to be a good person. She hardly counted as a person at all.

"You countin', Flag?" she taunting, startling him by kicking off his shoulder and leaping forward to slice down the next adversary in her path. They didn't know which side they were fighting for - only that it was Rick's side.

"You're kind of terrifying, you know that?" he remarked, ducking back as a bullet whizzed past his ear. Eris grimaced. Guns. She hated guns.

"Yeah, cause you've got such a problem with a little blood." they fired back, plucking a throwing knife from their belt and promptly burying it in the heart of the shooter. "I think that one makes ninety-six. What're you up to?"

"You know I don't count. Those are people's lives."

Eris shrugged.

"You'd be on someone else's count if I didn't kill that guy," he pointed out. He opened his hand, and the bloodstained knife whistled back into his hand. It was out of her fingers in another moment, buried in the skull of another soldier. "Or that one."

"Truly the pinnacle of morality." Rick drawled, though he lifted his semi-automatic back up to his shoulder.

"Right, 'cause you're going for only nonlethal shots." Eris fired right back, twirling their spear in a lazy circle, "They'll all get a purple heart and walk away just fine, because that's how war works. We'll all play soccer at Christmastime and send each other gift baskets."

As he spoke, he darted out with his spear and slashed down another adversary.

"Ninety-eight."

"Metahuman!" someone shouted from across the battlefield. Eris winced.

"And thus signals my exit." he said, dropping into a theatrical bow, "Since your frail human body is a lot less resistant to bullets than mine."

"Frail?" Rick echoed, sounding half-amused even as Eris sprinted to put distance between them. Gunfire followed her, the surrounding fighters all finding a unified target as she bobbed and weaved across the uneven earth. She cut down any soldier who stood in her way, then plucked a semi-automatic from a dead man's hands and turned it against the array of shooters behind her.

The gun kicked against their shoulder as they fired. They were sure they'd find bruises from its relentless jackhammering. They hated guns. It pulled all the grace out of war, made things too unpredictable. Survival and victory became less the mark of a skilled fighter and more just a deep stroke of luck. There was far more blood and far less honor in a death like that.

He spent the cartridge and tossed the gun aside, then kept moving. His spear was back in his hand in a heartbeat, and he almost smiled at the comfort of a more familiar weapon. Eris turned, weapon in hand, and prepared to face his next opponent.

Something struck her shoulder hard enough to make her stagger back. Then came another- two, three, six, barreling into their chest and stomach. Eris stumbled, the spear falling from their hands.

Another bullet whizzed past their ear, missing by an inch. Another caught his thigh, making him drop to a knee. It was the sound of fireworks and rainfall, explosions and impact. Her body felt like a live wire, buzzing with adrenaline and pain. It hurt.

That was new.

Fresh gunfire rained down, and bodies dropped around him. Somehow Eris was still upright - mostly, though his entire body was screaming for mercy.

At least his spear granted mercy. It was a quick death. This, being pumped full of lead from these humans and their machines, would be anything but.

"Eris!" There was Rick's voice, and a clatter as he cast his gun aside. Her mind felt slow, sluggish, hardly processing the sight as he ran up to her. His hands fell to their shoulders, those amber eyes of his passing over their body in a cursory, worried glance. He had such pretty eyes...

"Shit. Shit, that's a lot of blood." he muttered, enough to make Eris glance down.

"Blood? My blood?" they echoed, dazedly, "That's not..."

Rick's rough fingers caught his jaw, keeping him from catching a look at the wounds. Strangely, Eris found himself grateful. It felt... bad. He was in pain, and felt strangely hollow, and cold...

In a heartbeat, Rick had scooped her into his arms and was sprinting across the battlefield. At least she wasn't so cold, being wrapped in his arms like this. It was almost nice. If they weren't in so much pain.

"Someone get the medic!" Flag shouted, his voice oddly hoarse. Normally he was so much more composed out on the battlefield. It was part of why she liked him. "Get the medic!"

"I don't need a.... need a medic," Eris mumbled, shifting a little in his arms, "M'a fuckin'... metahuman.... m'fine."

"You're not fine. You need a doctor." he muttered, "Who's frail now, huh?"

"Lemme go, I'll get back out there."

"Not a chance in hell."

"Rick."

He didn't respond- or if he did, it came out muffled and warped. The world was starting to blur around her now, everything going hazy at the edges. At least the pain had eased some. They couldn't feel their wounds- or anything else. Rick's face above her was hidden in a cloud of fog.

And then she was jarred, dropped onto a table, and the pain was back. Eris groaned, wanting to crawl out of his traitorous skin. Pain like this didn't happen to him. He was so careful, so skilled. He'd been shot before, but this was something new entirely.

Something bit into their skin, teeth and claws ripping into their flesh. They might have screamed.

"....sealed over... healing... have to..." Words drifted through the fog of pain. They caught glimpses here and there - a nurse in fatigues, a gleaming scalpel, scarlet and crimson on every surface. Then the pain was back, a leech burrowing in deep.

Then... gentler fingers, rough and callused, tracing down his face and over his collarbone. That was nicer. Easier. Not so bad. A distraction from the knifelike agony tunneling into him.

And then he could feel himself sinking lower. The pain, the soft touch, faded away around him. The fog deepened, welcoming and blanketing him. She wanted... she wanted to sleep...

Sleep was good. Sleep meant... no more of this. No more bullets. No more guns. No more blood or knives or pain. It was only fun when it was his to dish out. This was horrible. He wanted it to end.

"Eris- stop. No. Wake up-" Rick's voice, through the fog. And then- something sharp and bright across his face, enough to make him groan. "Wake up! I said wake up!"

"Fuckin'... slap me?" she muttered, dazed and squinting through the fog.

"You're not leavin' us just yet," His voice, his drawl, that Southern twang. So different from Eris' own voice, an accent preserved for centuries. Rick's voice was so... gentle, but frightened, a strange combination. His fingers were wrapped around Eris' own, his grip tight but the sensation oddly muddled.

"Hate guns." he mumbled, his body tensing as another wash of agony rippled through him. He'd never felt this cloudy before. He wondered for a moment if he was dying. She thought she might've been. It wasn't as frightening as she imagined. She'd been alive so long already.

"Yeah, I'm startin' to hate 'em too." Rick agreed, squeezing their hand as he spoke, "Hang in there, darlin', we're almost done."

"Done with...?"

"Gettin' the bullets out," he answered, his voice trembling but oddly patient with her, "You started healing around 'em. They've got... three left, I think."

She only made sense of about half the words. Pain stole the rest from her. There was only one real thing in all the world, and that was Rick's hand in hers. Everything else had dissolved into smoke.

"Hang on, hon... almost there."

"Almost gone."

"What?" His voice had spiked with panic, bright and hot like fire, and only then did Eris realize what they'd said. Rick's hand tightened around their own. "Eris, hang on- what do you mean by that? Talk to me."

They opened their mouth to respond, but no sound escaped. The cold had returned, the fog settling deep into their bones. Hundreds of years, dozens of wars, and here they were... pulled from the battlefield for the last time.

At least Rick was here. That made things a little easier. He was the one bright spot, the one flicker of sunlight through the clouds.

"What did you mean by that? Eris?" His voice again, rough with pain and fear, "Eris, this isn't funny."

No, it wasn't funny. But it was nice enough. He couldn't feel the pain anymore, the knives and needles digging into his abdomen. He couldn't hear the sounds of the battlefield, the beeps and groans of the infirmary. Her heart began to stutter and slow, taking the chill and ache with it. The last thing was Rick's voice, all fuzz and warmth, and that was... that was a good way to go out. She was past due.

"Eris, stop... Please..."

That much shook her from the fog. Rick Flag did not plead. He didn't have that... that wavery, crying sound to his voice. Rick was strong, he was sturdy, he was reliable. He was steady, an anchor in the chaos. He didn't get rattled like this.

Were things really so serious?

It made her pause.

Just a little.

Just enough.

"Got a heartbeat!" A woman's voice. They didn't recognize it. "You're lucky they're so regenerative, or they'd have been gone by now."

"There you go, darlin', come on," There was Rick, a little less panicked. His rough fingers stroked their cheek, the touch a blazing fire against her frigid skin. Her other hand was gripped tight in his. They could feel it. Real. Tangible. Alive.

The pain in his chest had dulled to a fuzzy ache, tingling as his skin began to knit itself back together. Eris blinked, watching the world come back into clarity before him. He turned his head and found Rick's worried face, streaked with blood and dirt.

"Told'ja, Flag, m'a fucking metahuman." Eris croaked, smiling through cracked lips, "Don't look so scared."

"I hate you." he muttered- though his grip on her hand never softened.

"You don't. Couldn't if you tried."

"Watch me. You keep pulling stunts like this, and I'll..."

"You'll what, cowboy?" he taunted, that smile widening to a grin. He was feeling a little stronger now - not quite enough to sit up, but at least the fog had lifted from his mind. He caught a few glances at the nurses and found them all wearing the same interesting expression: relief and confusion in equal measure.

"Well, I..." Rick trailed off, shaking his head with a low sigh. He squeezed Eris' hand, clasping it tight between both of his own. "I don't know. But don't do that again."

#my friends!!! #answered asks #my ocs #oc eris #my writing #oneshot #ficlet #angst #angst with a happy ending #whump #the suicide squad #rick flag #rick flag x oc

[alexiela73]

So twice, within a short time, I had a dream where Reaper was chasing me and trying to find me and I was scared until the second one where he was protecting me from people from my past who were toxic and abusive influences in my life. Since then, he became my comfort character and I sleep with the plush Funko toy every night.

Idk what you would want to do with it, but I could use a little more of that scenario in my life with two of my best friends deciding they wanted to cut me out of their lives due to reasons I don't feel like getting into here. Maybe like a self-appointed guardian angel or something?

Reaper(guardian angel????)

You've only met this man three times in your life, and while history remembers him, sometimes you couldn't help but wonder if he was a figment of your imagination.

Three times, this man has saved you. Three times, in different parts of your life, has he been at the right place at the right time...and three times, this man has changed your life.

Gabriel Reyes of Blackwatch saved you when you were a little girl during the omnic crisis. Windows were shattered, doors blown to pieces, cars on fire in the streets. There was so much destruction, and at the tender age of seven, even you believed it was the end.

When omnics had started to seize your building, it was Gabriel Reyes who blew apart those that nearly killed your father. Hidden there in the closet, you could see out the crack as your father had kneeled there shaking, hands up as omnics had surrounded him...and suddenly...it was safe. The sounds of the bullets at this point were merely background noise to your little mind, as you struggled to make sense of that day, that moment.

But you would never forget his face, as he helped your father get to his feet. As your father opened the closet, picked you up and the two of you were escorted to a hovercraft evacuating the area.

The second time you saw him was in your late teens- you were working as a part time waitress for one of a diner down in the lower quarter of the city. Crime those days were non-stop, and safety procedures for small businesses like this were non-existant.

A pursuit down the road had led to a couple of low-life thugs using your diner to hide- and you as a hostage. This job had merely been meant to help you save towards college, and the idea of dying in that mustard yellow uniform was sickening.

Even as they stood before the counter, gun pointed at you...they didn’t notice the wisps of black smoke that slipped through the cracks in the door. The swirl of darkness behind them as a black cloaked figure became solid, red eyes glinting through a skull mask..

“Duck,” he rasped behind them, before the black mist around him exploded. You don’t know why, but your body obeyed and you felt yourself drop to the floor.

The bullets that flew through the air, filling holes in the bodies of the men who’d held you up at gunpoint...you saw the blood splatter, the bodies hit the floor and you kept your arms over your head. Minutes passed, before you realized the sound of the bullets whizzing by had stopped.

When you lifted your head to look over the counter of the ruined diner, you saw the figure walking out. He seemed to stop in the doorway and look over his shoulder briefly. “You’ve shit luck, kid,” he growled, before seeming to just...melt away, the smoke trailing off.

It was only later, after you’d had time to sit down and drink coffee after talking to the police that you thought for the first time in years of the omnic crisis, and the man who’d saved you. You convinced yourself that maybe they were the same, even though Gabriel Reyes had been known to be dead for a long time. 

No one believed your theories, and said it’d all been coincidence. That the men had likely owed Talon money, and that the dreaded Reaper had just managed to track him there. That perhaps he’d thought a lowly waitress wasn’t worth the bullet.

The last time you saw him...was last night. 

You were now in your early twenties, living life on your own. You hadn’t thought of him much since, and yet... 

You remember the feeling of fear that filled you last night as you’d realized you were being followed home. The way you’d fumbled with your keys, quietly whispering please under your breath over and over. The man that had come up behind you, faceless beneath his hood, taking advantage of the night and its cover.

“Don’t touch me!” you had screamed, as he’d turned you around, squeezing your eyes closed. “Help me, somebody!”

You don’t remember hearing anything except the disgusting noise of the man breathing heavily on you. No footsteps, no approach. The street had otherwise been empty, you thought.

Yet you had gasped, as the weight of the man pressing you into the wall lifted- your eyes opened in time to see him violently thrown into the street by a hooded man.

“I get sick,” you heard faintly, the disgust apparent in his voice, “of men like you. The next time you lay your hand on anyone, I will rip out your eyes and shove them down your throat. Then you can see what its like to have your guts blown to pieces,” he snarled.

There was bloody claw marks on the man who’d tried to assault you- so much blood. Even he was so terrified that he couldn’t make a noise, and he simply made a mad dash down the street in the hopes of safety.

Holding your hand to your throat, you slowly straightened from the wall, trying to catch your breath. “You...you saved me,” you said slowly. “Again...”

The man turned, red eyes watching you. Despite who you knew him to be, you felt...safe. “Like I said, kid. You’ve some shit luck,” he growled. “I suggest carrying some goddamn pepper spray next time.” 

You opened your mouth to reply, but he had started to walk away already. Taking a few steps after him, you’d blurted. “Thank you...thank you.” What else could convey the gratitude you felt for someone who’d saved you so many times in your short life?

Snorting, he looked back.

“Don’t mention it.”

Looking back on it now, you wondered if perhaps...he was your guardian angel. The thought comforted you, so early in the morning as you tried to sleep, hoping someday you’d see him again.

#Gabriel Reyes #Gabriel Reyes Overwatch #Reaper #Reaper Overwatch #Reaper Fanfic #Gabriel Reyes Fanfic #Overwatch #Overwatch Fanfic #Talon Mention #Omnic Crisis

[notmuchtoconceal]

two autumns ago, my grandmother developed pancreatic cancer.

we hadn't been close in some time.

she was as much the victim of my grandfather as my mother was the victim of my father -- though unlike my father, he was simply a decent, if foolish and sometimes selfish man with a tempestuous nature... in many ways simply a man of his time.

growing up, the house was always littered with the warmth and sheddings of the many animals she kept. cats. dogs. she would howl like a madwoman every sunday when the bears scored a touchdown, pounding the floor until that fateful fourth of july i served the volleyball which knocked her down and shattered her hip.

she would tell me my lifelong aversion to football was the result of her performing this elaborate display of devotion as she cradled me on her lap as an infant, shaking and rattling my frail body.

there were periods in my life -- where i was severed from my body.

the predominant feeling i retain from childhood is of being a mind trapped inside a skull, looking out through a porthole into a wide world, and finding myself unable to form words, stammering through pauses, as the people who towered over me told me who i was and what i should think, and my own thoughts would wither behind my eyes as i seemed to accept that the things i said were not how others thought, or the thoughts i should be thinking.

my grandmother -- prone to the stress of a husband who ignored her, who belittled and minimized her -- would at times naturally take these frustrations out on the only ones she could.

not the animals. never the animals. animals were innocent.

human beings were capable of premeditation, envy, malice.

it was never as bad with her as it was with my dad. there was never any prolonged degradation. never any being cornered as i tried to get back to my room. never any beating. never any breaking down doors. never any laughing at me as i cried after he knocked my mother unconscious seconds after he begged me to come and help him.

in some ways it still hurt more, simply because i was closer to her. the dramatic stuff tends to fade over time, as it becomes the fodder for funny stories. the dramatic stuff gets you sympathy. the dramatic stuff can't be overlooked. people feel it in the telling.

the little things -- that's not so clear.

they build up. there's always plausible deniability.

it's not something i suppose a person would expect, but the pain which lingered longest was frustratingly abstract.

i felt as though neither she nor anyone else could ever know me.

not because i was particularly deep, particularly insightful, but because i felt they weren't seeing "me" -- or rather, they could see nothing but "me" and "I' was the one who was doing the thinking.

as far as i could tell -- they didn't know "I" existed.

they thought "I" was being made up.

suppose children really have no business thinking as much as i did, unless something compels them to. my mother always told me she wanted me to just be happy and be a kid, but my not thinking would be an invitation to slavery. if i didn't think, if i took my father at face value, "I" would not have made it out alive, though i doubt anything too terrible would have happened to "me".

there was no risk of violation to my bodily integrity.

my parents wanted me to work and play sports.

the part of me which is "me" could have endured any blow. had endured many blows over the course of my first two decades.

psychic integrity was irrelevant.

"I" was invisible. "I" knew i was powerful, but fragile.

"I" just wanted a chance to be alive.

"I" had no idea why my own father wanted to kill me --

kill me and take control of "me".

why my own father wanted to live inside my body.

my mother told me she thought i was too sensitive. i guess she hadn't had a truly good mindfuck in awhile, the tread having long gone off that tire many years before i was born.

my grandmother, with her emphasis on the furry, fleshy, soft and comforting, combined with what seemed her total disregard for me as an intellectual entity, drove me to feelings of years-long dehumanization, as though i was worth nothing above the level of a beast, a man though i longed to be in every sense of the word.

i felt sick.

i felt sick, as though i could never be anything more than a pet to women who wouldn't love me.

for years, the thought of pup-play shit made me gag, i could only think about how my grandmother would stroke the ear of her timid yorky, cuddled up in her lap, crying and whining when she was gone, no different from your typical heterosexual man.

the timeframe is a bit hazy --

i was deeply hypnotized, heavily using weed, and have since suffered a subsequent mental breakdown or two.

(self-diagnostic and repair refines with age)

sometime during my descent into bodily gnosis through meatheadification, i became aware of the stark similarities between men and dogs -- their pack nature, their tendency to patrol, to mark, to retrieve, and slowly and steadily i began to integrate these qualities more directly into my conscious awareness, letting me follow inclinations and modes of thinking i'd long repressed.

so many things which had once seemed unbearable --

no longer troubled me at all.

the way in which our culture discusses human emotions, particularly at present, is biased towards how women think, as it is typically the job of a woman to help a man understand how he feels.

to a typical woman, many normative masculine drives may seem inexplicable or psychotic, and this has its origins in our hunter-gatherer roots and millions of years of evolution -- trends in social construction being additional factors on top of this, as civilization is in part refinement, simplification and subversion of nature.

men have urges they can't meet with women.

men need to know how to function in a pack to be fully themselves.

if a boy is not sufficiently confident in his own thoughts -- say, for he has no clear role models and disruptive tendencies which tend toward anti and asocial behavior -- he may be prone to problematize his own masculinity, for he has no yardstick for what even constitutes masculinity, let alone positive examples to emulate.

i'm not an isolated example.

i know dozens of men who've manifested similar symptoms.

the patriarchal mid-century american society infantilized women, who then infantilized men, who then together created an infantilized generation, and all the meanwhile technological acceleration and a trend to convenience have left many with the belief that masculinity is obsolete, men and women essentially the same, and gender itself an outmoded institution to be replaced with an asexual or intellectualized performative mode endlessly subverting itself.

as long as we have physical bodies, we need gender.

gender needn't be tyranny. gender is personality. gender is ostentation. gender is burlesque. gender is part of the basic grammar of how we present ourselves to others. gender should be fun.

our sexed bodies possess an element of terror, particularly to those who live primarily in the mind and experience visceral urges as a sharp intrusion into what is otherwise monastic harmony, but to deny what we would prefer to ignore is simply to languish in delusion.

for centuries, man experienced himself as an untouchable entity at the center of the universe, and the ascent of the natural sciences, with their revelations of a heliocentric solar system and man as the generational progeny of apes deflated our grandiose ego.

the tendency then became -- man is no different from any other animal. the animal body is a biological machine. any considerations of a soul or higher power is a foolish notion fit only for social control, still clung to by imbeciles without the strength to face a cold, uncaring and strictly deterministic reality.

this was a knee-jerk reaction. a rationalization from betrayal.

man is not the same as every other animal.

man has an indisputable animal origin. man retains his vital animal instincts. man has the capacity for violence, rape and predation.

man has also elevated himself above nature. man has appointed himself caretaker of the natural world. man is capable of tremendous reason, beauty and widespread organization and construction.

the urban centers -- at the scale they occupy -- reduce us to the level of insects. many bodies within a hive. towering cell walls constructed from materials of our chimerical making.

man is not an animal -- man is every animal at once.

man is every animal at once, for man retains a piece of the transcendent. our capacity for higher thought, the logos, of which christ was historical personification and model

(reason, peace, love)

is what the hypothesis of god describes -- it is what exists beyond our bodies, and yet which we know to be a part of ourselves; that which allows us to remake the world in the image of ourselves, for we can see the ways in which the physical world is a series of the same repeating shapes and patterns, and what we see is what we are.

no other animal can think the way we do.

no other animal can think.

man remains animal. man remains uniquely special.

(least as far as the planet earth is concerned)

my grandmother told me she never wanted me to be cold.

her own father was an asian alpha male with a gambling addiction who took full custody of her and her sisters. she would describe how she would lie awake at night, listening to him bring his mistress into the apartment, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor.

clack clack clack

it terrified her, i think -- that he was both the man she knew, and yet had the capacity for violence.

as though he were two men in one body.

intuitively i could connect this line of thinking to a previous comment she'd made about viggo mortensen's stunning performance in david cronenberg's a history of violence -- where his character, a mild-mannered small business owner, simply through the subtle motions of his eyes, flips the switch and becomes the mafia hardass he'd been in a previous life, now for the purpose of protecting his family.

on some level, she never wanted me to be a man because she never wanted me to leave or to hurt her.

i didn't know what i felt -- when i found out she had cancer.

i didn't feel anything.

i didn't know -- that my own emotions weren't mine.

i didn't think about it. it was always there.

i didn't talk about it with anyone.

on a subconscious level, i committed myself to a controlled demolition of the man i thought i was.

i knew i needed to break.

i knew i couldn't keep going on as though the way i was was normal.

at the time i had been talking to a boy i was quite fond of, who like most of my best submissives and conversation partners, often had a better understanding of who i was than i did.

i told him i never wanted him to leave me, knowing full well that would drive him away, which it immediately did.

then i was wanting for a brother cell. i was desperate again.

that i knew, on some level, that "I" wasn't the one steering my destiny drove me into increasingly elaborate rationalizations.

the increasingly stupid decisions i made, as though that other part of me was pushing me to confront my past failings by reliving them in the present moment drove me to notice lapses in memory, moments where it seemed as though "I" was speaking, but my voice seemed to be hijacked -- made me take note of a lifelong tendency shared by my brothers and i where a comment is spoken, thinking it sounds wholly innocent, followed by a pause for we realize something about our tone or phrasing marked it with a subtly venomous intent.

you can't suppress how you really feel forever.

you -- some part of you -- will find a way to make you accept.

one afternoon my father came home, fresh from the realization he had a bastard son and no obligation to care for him, and hopped up once more on getting off scot-free being worthless, told me i'd be caring for him in his old age, changing his diapers like he changed mine. he lifted his eagle and his cross, his dual totemic gods of christianity and nationalism, as if to blind me with their aura.

he was a godless man.

he didn't believe in love. he didn't believe in service to his country.

his only god was his own ugly self-gratification.

he, as a father, destroyed himself by destroying his progeny.

my father was nothing.

i don't remember the exact words that followed.

i told him he could rot. he never took care of me.

he was no father of mine.

then, spellbound, the other part of me spoke up --

i lost time.

i only remembered a few hours later what i'd said.

why can't ya please your wife, dad?

the look on his face. his impotence revealed. his simpering, childlike nature. he could only run. run far from me. run towards the woman he claimed to despise, and yet who was the only one who truly wanted him, as he was the only one who truly needed her.

my father. my mother's first and only.

the next time i saw him, fresh from a shower, naked, he lowered his head in shame.

son, he said.

i laughed at him. it was good and right.

narcissism is a shame-based distortion. an authentic narcissist is trying to be an imaginary perfect person, for they can only conceive of themselves as the sum total of their ugliest and most traumatic moments. my father was a scared, pissing little girl castrated by his own domineering mother and was too weak to raise any of his four sons -- then he blamed my mother for us being fags.

it seeped into me.

for years i could only deny all the ways i was exactly like him.

he was the only man i knew. they sent me to a school outside my district, using my father's mother's address, and i had to lie about where i lived or get kicked out, so i didn't make many friends.

after twelve months into my relationship with @flyoverkushtaka the stress of being betrayed by two resentful hangers-on i thought were lifelong friends finally got to me, and i ended up howling at him over cam for close to three hours, blistering him with obscenity after obscenity as he sat there in a state of shock and endured me.

i never wanted anyone to see me like that.

i would rather have died than let someone see me like that.

the next night -- two hours before we were to get on cam again, i collapsed on the floor of my bedroom, racked by agony as though my own nervous system were throttling me -- sobbing, mewling, yelping I WANNA DIE I WANNA DIE I WANNA DIE I WANNA DIE

he didn't stop loving me -- after he saw me like that.

i never thought -- anyone could love me after they'd seen me like that. i thought that i was broken. i thought that any slip up and i'd be garbage again. nobody would invest the time into me -- if i wasn't already their perfect and beautiful fuck fantasy.

my grandmother must have heard it.

the walls are thin. my brief high school theatrical career proved i was the rare sort who knew how to project.

she was the only one who was willing to listen.

she was the only one who would confess and apologize for her complicity in the abuse. my mother cried, denied, minimized, gave up, succumbed further to delusion. even though she had cancer, even though she was struggling through weekly chemo sessions, my grandmother was willing to listen. she was no fool. she was genuinely considerate. she was willing to endure it when i screamed at her.

on some level, she enjoyed it that i screamed at her.

on some level, i was filling her with my vital force.

rage is motivation. depression is defeat.

on some level, exposure to my vitriol, my passion, my raw animus, further mobilized her body to stifle its treacherous rebellion.

my grandmother is the source of so much of my courage, my creativity, my wit. in many ways, she's the only member of my immediately family outside my brothers i have any lasting and consistent affection for, for a part of me is truly her.

-- and she didn't have to rape herself into me to do it.

she has no cancer anymore. she has half a pancreas.

it's not clear how much longer she'll be around.

i feel as though i've lost too much time.

a whole three decades spent in struggle. there is no price too steep to pay for control of your own mind.

your mind ought be a devoted and loving partner to your body.

i fought, and i pushed back, and i cut myself off from other people at great personal and social expense because freedom meant something to me. my father, though a mediocre democratic man looking only to coast, did imbue me with a love of liberty that i have no qualms about watering with blood, beautiful bloom that it is.

no sacrifice is too great to be the man you are.

so many of the things i thought i'd wanted -- i only wanted because i was desperate for contact with other people, and the only way i thought i could get that was by being something i'm not.

it don't have to be this way, bros.

people will respect you -- people will wanna be around you -- if you know what you stand for and aren't ashamed to be who you are. you have no good reason to back down so easy.

the types of people who get avoided -- they're the people pleasers.

they're the types who come on nice, yet have no kindness inside of them -- they know they're too weak to get away with being the assholes they are, so they fake nice and lie their asses off.

even if you're insecure, even if you don't know what you want, even if you need help, if you own your bullshit, people will respect that.

if they don't -- that's not your problem.

you don't need to be liked. they don't need to like you.

everyone expects the bullshit. everyone knows they want something different. when you speak your truth, you attract the people who wanna live by your truth. when you pretend to be someone you're not, you surround yourself with other people who aren't.

everyone wins -- when you become the man you're supposed to be.

pretty simple shit when i say it like that, huh bro?

#golden retriever instincts #phenomonology and the meathead #writhe for me wormboy #dog brain #woof woof

[dungeonsanddragonsfifthedition]

69 for everyone. its okay if it takes one million years

i mentioned this on disc, but while i usually answer these ooc, this is gonna be some ic stuff because i love silly goofin. no raisa here because when it comes down to it she is effectively their temporary medic and she knows she cannot judge these people, except for elegy being very nice and lel being a little bit of a dick. also if my players want major npcs. send yr own ask and i'll do it.

eirlys -

sicarii: a good friend. it's nice to have someone who understands me as well as he does around... i worry for him, but i know he worries for me too, so all's fair.

sunder: it is probably understandable why i was wary of them at first, but they're too wonderful to be frightened of. having kitty around is good for my nerves, i think. and their conviction and curiosity reminds me of better times.

nara: she's the captain! i think she is very sweet and i am glad she has a family that is supportive of her. she is also terribly brave, which i both admire and worry about.

aandine: i think he has a lot of wisdom, but he is so quiet. his comfort with death is jarring, but admirable. i wish he was a bit less grouchy, but i'm in no position to complain.

nobody -

tobu: the kindest young man. we all understand that he is to be protected. the ways my mother has hurt him infuriate me, and that recovering my name led to his exile too is something i regret more than anything. also he is rhubarb's favorite, and my favorite too.

haru: he is a well-intentioned boy, but he does not seem to be aware of his immaturity. we could be more honest with him, but he could be more accepting of us as well. i am worried that he will he unreasonable about his brother. and also his art is nice.

anton: i worry for what will happen once we kill his mother--she seems the type to tie her reborn to herself. i can't blame him for his mother, nor can i blame him for being too naïve to realize her cruelties. he is so young--i wonder how he first died? i also wonder about how his gears function, because it seems far beyond the abilities of an elemental without additional arcane training.

deliverance: i am a little bit upset that she is leaving us, because she promised we would be friends. but, zag and silas are still my friends (i think), so maybe we can be friends from far away. she is so pretty and powerful, and i wish i was more like her, but we are too different for that to be possible, i think. i'll miss having someone else who understands the workings of magic!

zag: i need to talk with him, but i worry that invading his dreams will seem too similar to our mutual acquaintance. he is large and strong and i think we are friends. if nothing else, we are bound by the monstrousness that lives in our skulls. i wish he were with us now; i miss his aura.

silas: i understand why she left, but i still think it's strange that someone as interesting and important as her is willing to be a background player to someone else. if she ever returns, i think we will have good conversations and better ways to calm ourselves. i'd like to study with someone again.

ibis: we are the same, in a way. it is less lonely to become if you do it with someone else. i think they are so powerful, and they are kind to me. i understand them, i think. their feelings for yaros frustrate me, because they can cloud their reason. they are more than they allow themselves to be, even now, and i want them to realize that potential. i think that they are very.

des -

fish: i love them. i need to find them. i would marry them again in a heartbeat.

priscilla: her wealth, however much she tries to be the ally of the working class, is frustrating. but she means well, and i'm sure she's helped a lot of people. her family seems... complicated.

la noyee: i don't miss him.

aggie: sweet, but she's kinda condescending. i don't think she sees me as an adult. cool magic, though?

titfortat: i think my dad is trying to consume them? which isn't great. i need to protect them from that, even if it's kinda terrifying.

keeper -

morgan: i want to know her better! she is so interesting but so withholding. i understand if she has issues with herself, but that doesn't mean i have issues with her. she seems so powerful, and the bees sing for the thought of her.

shepherd: he is so nice and i am so worried for him so often!!! he was such a great houseguest too. i feel bad for hurting him with my magic. the bees love him for his carrion.

metonymy: makes me a little bit uncomfortable, but i guess they're just a very attentive person. i'm not sure why they've latched onto me over shep and morgue, but i suppose it's kind of flattering?

aelwyd -

aria: i'll bring her back if she lets me. hot. suspicious, but we have similar interests, and who am i to judge?

blank: deserves better. i will protect them and help them avenge thenselves. i'm glad they trust me. i hope i can maintain that, for once.

chini: can't be trusted. kind of an asshole even before the whole dedicated to bela thing.

ira: she and i get along well. her magic is fascinating and her situation is familiar to me, in a certain way. i know she'll see sense.

kairii: adorable, but unwise. reminds me of mae in ways i can't figure out. i hope she realizes that she's doomed if she doesn't act soon.

stras: self-obsessed asshole who considers himself more enlightened than the rest of us. which he is not. takes himself too seriously, on top of all that.

stray -

clem: i hope she can find comfort in the world soon!!! i am so upset about how the church treated her and i am glad i can help her.

emile: so nice and so strong! they seem very mature and smart too. i wish she let herself have more fun, and i want to know more about her. i wonder why she left her old work but regardless i love that she has big claws sometimes.

posy: she's like me! obviously we aren't from the same place but she's really cool and beautiful and good at magic. i look up to her, but i hope that she's okay with that because i wouldn't want to intrude or anything.

ragamuffin: i wish i could feel feelings as grandly as he does! she and splat always make me smile with their performances. his clown outfits are so delicate and pretty, too.... i like the way she carries herself a lot.

xochi: i worry about him in fights a lot. he's powerful with magic but his body is not ready for the world! or at least the cold. if he has to look at the stars, i hope he likes them. he is very sweet and his jokes make me laugh.

solace: i owe her so much! i think her old god hurt her in ways that gods should never hurt, and i think that her hurt loves to eat her alive. i don't know if she understands how much i value her but i think she is so amazing and her wizardly spells are really incredible. i hope she stops hurting. i hope i never make her hurt again.

#dnd talk #that's a lot! but i was on airplane. #eirlys #keeper #nobody #aelwyd #stray #des eolen

[thefunkes]

dec 12 2023

The feeling is back. 

Maybe Brian Wilson said it best in "I Just Wasn't Made for These Times." Or maybe Bo Burnham did with "That Funny Feeling." Or maybe Robin Peckinold was getting at the same thing in “Helpless Blues.” 

I’ve never been original, always latching onto somebody else’s ideas. But if I could describe this feeling at all, It's that prickly feeling I get all over telling my body to Do Something. It's the bile creeping up in my throat signaling my body to vomit. When I lie down, I feel it pulse through my legs in waves. My heart is pushing into the back of my chest. I think it’s been with me since high school, but maybe it was just always there undetectable to little me who was focused on community building in Animal Crossing. The pain speaks more than the incoherent thoughts colliding into each other in my brain. All I feel is the wave from my skull to my toes. 

The feeling chooses when to come. It’s like the feeling wakes up and decides it needs to keep busy. We all do. Who am I to shit on someone else’s purpose? It’s not like I have one at the top of mind. With the feeling comes dread and a sense that my time is up. When I find myself in this state, I go limp. My body is in physical pain and I don’t fight back, I give in so easily, drooping like underarms. I have told no one about this pain. Becca JH wrote, “Pain eliminates language. At its most extreme, it results in an animalistic scream, an expression of utter unintelligibility.” 

I think this feeling first entered my body in high school, like a possession. But I saw The Exorcist when I was in high school and it didn’t scare me much. To combat this feeling I’ve done everything from drink, smoke cigarettes, suffocate my ears with music, go for walks, yoga, get a degree, stop eating, and flirt with guys at parties who I will never see again, amongst others. But it has no escape, it throbs every now and then to remind me, that it’s still there. Every time it shows itself, I swat at it like a mosquito, but the desire for blood is strong—it wants to kill its host.

"I don't think you know what you wanna do with your life."

In ContraPoints’ video “Incels,” Wynn coins the term masochistic epistemology: whatever hurts is true. This is to say that as a form of self-harm, people will seek out disparaging comments about themselves or people whom they identify with online to reaffirm their own ideas that they have of themselves in their head. To those who live inside my head, they’ll know I’ve been known to do this from time to time. I used to have a screenshot saved of a Reddit thread where a man posts, worried that he is stupid as he fails to complete everyday simple tasks. I didn’t care to screenshot the replies. I don’t need comfort, I wanted to reaffirm that yes, there are people who are incompetent and deserving of very little. Not of course, that I would say that about that man. To him, I would say that he is loved by his friends and family and to move towards the light in his life. I don’t go on these online adventures anymore. Because once you’re an adult with a degree people you won’t have to seek out cutting comments about yourself through a stranger, sometimes somebody will look at you square in your deer-in-the-headlights dumbass face and say your worst fear about yourself to you.

"I don't think you know what you wanna do with your life."

The other night I was at a party with people all older than me whether it be by a few months or almost a decade. Everybody seemed so eager, so willing. Our bodies were close together, I could feel the legs of another man touching mine. My heart fluttered. I forget. I drink. I forget. I remember, then say something I shouldn’t have. I forget. Then I wake up at 3 AM.

"I don't think you know what you wanna do with your life."

#writing #essay #text

[sfiltron]

I wish to have a life like the one I have in stardew valley; not for the farm work or getting killed on skull cavern, but for the other things: having a work that can provide a stable (economical) life, that lets me space to save money for whatever I want; to live in a small community where I can get to meet people and know them or just ignore them if I want with no repercussions; to be able to just random ass shit like waiting outside someone's house for hours just because I want to gift them something; to be literally able to destroy the big capitalism on a small town (even if I can't destroy the small capitalism); I want to go to the wizard tower and get a transition speedrun for only 500 G, and be the friend that gets his things from his ex's house (entering illegally, lmao); I want to live a comfortable life outside a city, I want to pass out at 2 AM in some mountain and then wake up in my bed because one of my friends founded me and cared for my safety, I want to be stressed in a manageable level where I know I can end my tasks, and that if I don't it is actually not a big deal.

I want to live, man, I want to live outside a city and have the certainty that the worst thing that can happen to me is to not be at my house by 2 AM or to get beat up by some funky monsters in a cave, but that, at the end of the day, I will be okay, and have friends who live close that I can visit daily, and that I can stop caring about everything outside my little town.

#I'm tired. physically and mentally #also. I really want the videogame hability of never getting magically sick because of the universe luck #anyways. do you guys think that the wizard does drugs? because the magic potion to read magic people lenguages felt like drugs #also. the capitalism is haunting me. I need to stop thinking about it for a while before I go nuts #I'm not big tagging because this is kind of venting #Hope whoever who reads until this point have a great day. I love you for taking the time to read ;] /platonic

[moonlit-reveriee]

Baby Blue

technoblade x fem!reader

concept: techno is scared of ‘corrupting’ the reader, but the reader’s kinda into it...

content warning // NSFW, virgin!reader, very minor angst?, small argument that gets resolved

listen to this while you read: BBBlue (Single) by Olivver the Kid

(this fic was heavily inspired by the lyrics of this song, so i highly recommended giving it a listen!)

───※ ·❆· ※───

When Techno found out you were a virgin, he was terrified. Not necessarily of the thought itself, but of the implications.

He’d never forget the look on your face when you told him. You tried to be casual about it, but he knew you well enough to spot the dusting of pink across your cheeks. You nuzzled yourself closer into his side. Whether out of embarrassment or something else entirely, he couldn’t tell. All he could feel was his heart dropping as the voices chanted at him to “ruin her”

Of course you, his pure sweet angel, would be a virgin. He once again crumbled under the idea that you had chosen him. How on earth could a person like you even think of being with a beast like him. Yet alone, giving up your virginity to him.

He hated how horribly turned on he was by the thought of taking it.

The voices had been relentless about it ever since. They were hyper focused on your every move, twisting every thought of his into something promiscuous. When you rolled out of bed in the morning and stretched, a small sigh escaping your lips, it was endless cries of “make her do that again” “you should fuck those moans out of her” “make her scream”

While making breakfast together in the morning, they wouldn’t stop telling him to “bend her over the counter” “take it right here”

Even at times where he was alone, the voices preoccupied him with endless thoughts of you. He was fairly certain they had forced him to imagine every possible way in which he could have you. “imagine fucking her against the wall” “you can be gentle for the first time y’know” “she’d feel so good writhing underneath us” “press her face into the mattress instead” “make her get on her knees and suck you off” “she’ll be such a pretty little slut for us”

He tried to take care of himself as often as he could, but it was becoming impossible to keep up with. There were only so many times a day he could jerk himself off alone behind locked doors. He was desperate, and sexually frustrated to say the least.

He felt disgusting for it.

After a week of this torment, he could barely even look at you yet alone touch you without the voices and his own guilt pounding against his skull. You couldn’t even think about broaching the subject again, because he was avoiding physical contact like the plague. He wouldn’t come to bed until he knew you were asleep, and would leave long before you woke.

As much as he tried to hide it, you could tell he was tired. Something was wrong, but you knew that he’d never just tell you about his problems unprompted. Techno was insufferably stubborn in that way. After several days of avoiding your gaze and leaning away from your touch, you chose to confront him.

“Techno”, you called for his attention quietly, trying to sound stern while remaining gentle with him. He didn’t turn to fully face you, but he glanced at the spot on the wall just above your head.

You struggled to find the words you wanted to say, so you settled on telling him, “Techno, you look tired.”

He turned his attention away from you. “Just a lot of work around the house this week. I’ll be fine after I rest.”

“Then come to bed with me.” You saw the way his body tensed and tilted away from you at that simple suggestion.

“I just need to write a couple letters first. You can go ahead of me.”

“Techno...”, you whined, daring to take a step closer to him. He gave you an almost panicked look, “why does it feel like you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t been avoiding you”, he responded quickly, trying to look through you instead of at you.

“Yes you have”, you responded firmly. A flash of guilt washed over his face at your tone. “You haven’t kissed or touched me for nearly a week now. I don’t even know for sure if you sleep in the same bed as me anymore. Fuck, you barely even talk to me.”

Angry tears threatened to spill down your cheeks, but you wanted to hold them in. Techno felt his chest tighten at the sight of it. He instinctively turned and reached out to comfort you, but forced himself to freeze.

“There”, you said, gesturing towards him, “just like that. You’re stopping yourself. Why are you doing that?”

He repeatedly opened and closed his fists at his side, wanting to have any conversation other than this one.

“[y/n], there’s just a lot going on in my mind right now”, he said. It wasn’t a complete lie. “I just need to work though it.”

“Then let me help you.”

“No”, he responded a little too quickly, “I- I mean, I just don’t want to talk about it with you yet...”

“Why not?”, you retorted, trying to squeeze any information you could out of him.

“I just don’t, okay? It’s uncomfortable, I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“... is this about me being a virgin?”

“I never said that”, he replied, but the tension in his shoulders was enough to tip you off.

“Ah geez Technoblade, if it was that much of a problem for ya, you should have just told me”, you said sarcastically, “instead of avoiding all physical contact for a like week straight!”

“It’s not a problem, [y/n].”

“Certainly doesn’t feel that way.”

Techno huffed in frustration, grabbing a fistful of his hair at the root. He wasn’t sure if he was more upset with himself, or the fact that a few of the voices were still begging him to “please fuck her already”

“Love, I wasn’t avoiding you because I didn’t want it. They”, he tapped a finger against the side of his skull, “they want it so badly. It’s driving me insane.”

He breathed in and out shakily, trying to gauge your expression in the brief moments before he continued.

“I’m a monster. I’ve spilt more blood than anyone every should in a single lifetime. My appearance is more beast than man.”

He looked up briefly to find you staring right at him, a tight-lipped frown upon your face.

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

“I- ... I don’t want to corrupt your innocence”, he admitted.

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“[y/n], you’re so perfect”, he answered almost breathlessly, “you’re so kind and so pure. Just living with me does enough to taint your reputation, I don’t wanna-“

He cut himself off to swallow thickly. He almost seemed scared of the words he was going to say next.

“I don’t want to ruin this part of you either...”

A heavy silence filled the tiny sitting room of techno’s cottage. In those few seconds, your eyes widened ever so slightly as his words suddenly clicked in your mind. This hulking boar of a man, an undisputed war criminal, was scared. He was scared of damaging you, your reputation, or your recently revealed ‘innocence’. Compared to himself, he saw you as a pure being who could be tainted by unwholesome thoughts.

If what he said about the voices was true, then his actions of the past few days would’ve made sense for him.

“Oh techno...”, you muttered softly, tentatively placing a hand on his jaw. His posture was curled inward, making him look small despite his size. He was stiff at first, but allowed you to lift his gaze to meet yours. He searched your eyes desperately for an indication of your reaction. You gave him a reassuring smile.

“Do you remember when we first met?”

A small wave of confusion washed over his face, but he nodded anyways. “It was at the festival...”

“That’s right”, you said, moving the hand on his face down to rest over his shoulder, “and do you remember what I did that day?”

“You threw an axe into Schlatt’s shoulder”, he answered, watching as the scene played out in his memory.

You lived with Niki in her bakery at the time, and witnessed firsthand the injustice she faced during Schlatt’s presidency. As the chaos after Tubbo’s execution occurred, you took the opportunity to hurl your axe where Schlatt stood upon his podium. The blow wasn’t fatal, but that wasn’t necessarily your goal. You just wanted to see the man in pain.

“It was a lucky shot really”, you admitted, “I wasn’t even aiming properly.” That managed to draw a small smile onto Techno’s lips.

“And do you remember”, you continued, “when I tried to confront the Butcher Army by myself?”

He grimaced at the thought. You had told him you just needed to make a quick trip to L’manburg for some supplies, leaving him at home alone to recover from the previous day’s events. You returned that evening with a sprained wrist and a couple large bruises forming on your body. None of them were trying to kill you, but you took a pretty good beating from Quackity just for trying to confront them.

“Why are you bringing all of this up now?”, he asked.

“Because”, you said, “this is the evidence that will support my next point.”

He looked bewildered by that statement, but continued to listen.

“I’m not a perfect person”, you resumed, “I have blood on my hands just like you do. I know it’s hard to compare to you, but I’m not devoid of my own sins. I can be mean, I’ve hurt people. I’m not a pure, angelic being who would quiver at a single inappropriate thought. I think you forget that sometimes.”

He let your words swirl around in his head; he couldn’t deny the logic in them. The evidence prevented him from denying the truth of your statement. He could almost be mad that you’d talked him into a corner, but he was more overjoyed at the fact that you knew him well enough to do so.

“And you know...”, you spoke quietly, letting your hand fall down to rest on his chest, “if you did somehow ‘corrupt my innocence’ as you say... I really wouldn’t mind that.”

Techno’s breath hitched in his throat. There were a brief few moments, maybe minutes, where he just stared at you. Then his lips were on yours; sudden and clumsy, but passionate. You gripped the fabric of his shirt as he grabbed at your waist, desperate to have you in his arms again.

“I’m sorry, I had to”, he muttered, his lips left hovering a hair’s breadth away from yours.

“You’re so silly sometimes”, you sighed affectionately, rubbing small circles into his collarbone. He gave you a gentle smirk before pressing another kiss into your lips.

“I’m sorry darling, I really am”, he said as he drew you into a tight hug. He took in your scent and the feel of your skin for the first time in days. It felt like he could survive off the feeling of your arms wrapped around his body alone. He wondered why he ever let himself be depraved of this.

“You know I trust you, right?”, you spoke with your face pressed into his chest.

“I’m not sure why, but yes.”

You decided not to reprimand him for saying that. You could help him unpack all that later. Instead, you brought your head up to whisper in his ear.

“You have my full and unconditional consent to take my virginity whenever you’re ready.”

Techno inhaled and held his breath, though for what, he wasn’t sure. It took a while for the full weight of those words to sink in. He leaned back to stare at your face, bringing one of his large and shaky hands up to cup your cheek.

“Are you sure?”, his eyes were wide with trepidation, practically pleading with you to tell him the truth. You leaned into his palm, indulging in the feeling of his skin on yours.

“I want you, techno. I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

Techno was lost in your words. The sudden absence of guilt left his heart light and airy in his chest. For the first time in days, the voices were only a gentle murmur.

“she’s so beautiful” “she wants you” “make her feel good” “show her how special she is” “make her smile” “she’ll be so pretty” “she’s always pretty” “be gentle, no need to rush”

“make love to her”

“... I think I’m ready now.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

ayyyy guess who finally finished writing something!!!

parts of this feel a little rushed but ehhhhhh i was just excited to finally post it. i looove writing techno as an extremely self-conscious character who’s too caught up in their own head to see how ridiculous they’re being. so, this was a treat for me to write

i hope you enjoyed :D

-moonlight

#c!techno #red:moon #mcyt x reader #techno x reader #technoblade x reader #mcyt smut #techno smut

[gaiuswrites]

Original Sin | Darksaber!Din

Pairing: Dark!Din x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ older for the love of all things holy)

Word count: 3.4k~

Summary: Things change after Grogu leaves. People change. No one is exempt.

Warnings/tags: DUB CON?¿, masturbation (m and f), inappopriate use of darksaber, sex toy (...), Dark!Din, Dom!Din, sacrilegious references, really dark shit, i am so sorry

Update: This should go without saying, but as it turns out, it’s in need of being said: every word written in this fic is my own; any likeness to any other work is coincidence, regardless of how bizarre. I don’t mean to offend anyone or raise suspicion, as I am certainly not a plagiarist (literally couldn’t be even if I tried: I am equal parts too incompetent, too busy, and too lazy to steal from someone else. Fellow writers can attest, I’m an absolute garbage reader and fall behind on almost everyone’s work. There’s an embarrassing amount I haven’t read.) Please reach out to me personally if you have any concerns. I respect everyone here like you wouldn’t believe. Sending love to you all. Be well. ✨

Notes: When I go to hell (it really is only a matter of timing, and not so much a question of if anymore), this fic will rank number one on the list of reasons why I’m sent to my eternal timeout. This... I'm twisted. I have issues. God help us. Seriously, this is basically a horror show. I bow down to the Darksaber!Din content creators who came before me, and the original artwork that inspired me to write this— thank you for lighting this (descending, dirty) path. I HAVE TAGGED A FEW PEOPLE HERE WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE INTERESTED but really— REALLY— there’s absolutely no pressure. Cheers friends x ( gif credit: @skyshipper )

Masterlist | Read it on Ao3!

The days stretch long like morning yawns—hours passing on creaky bones, slow and congealed inside the metal womb of the Crest.

It wasn’t always this way.

They used to be filled with pitter pattering— with wily antics and vanishing acts that could baffle even the most veteran of illusionists— with prying frogs from tiny, green hands and giggling as blocks and baubles floated through the hull. Laughter. There used to be laughter here.

But that was then. The child is gone now. The Razor Crest is quiet.

Time fills itself like this; there’s little for you to do now but wait. Wait for the dusk to blur into the dawn. Wait for your food to cook. Wait for the shower to warm. Wait for the parts you ordered to arrive at the port. Wait for Din to come back—to come home.

Home. You used to be so certain—you’d bite the head off anyone who questioned otherwise— but you’re not so sure this is home anymore. Its not that anything has changed. No, the galley, the carbonite pods, the cockpit, the deck—it’s all still here. The scuffed walls, the durasteel, the littered crates and packed arsenal. But—

It’s different. It feels different. Something is...

off.

You can’t quite put your finger on it. Its intangible, but it’s everywhere—like gas. Invisible to the naked eye, but encircling you all the same. Choking you.

Killing you.

There’s no good explanation for it. You feel eyes on you when there are none. You find yourself glancing over your shoulder, knowing full well you are alone. Something keeps snagging you, pulling at an unseen thread. The corners of your peripherals tugging at you. Beckoning.

Was that a shadow? No.

Is someone there? It’s just you.

There is a tickle at your ear - a constant - dancing along the shell of it. Wherever you go, it follows.

Home home home. It only feels like home when Din is there, safe and sound at your side. But even then, even Din—in all of his plated exterior—even Din has succumbed. Even Din has

changed.

The truth is, Grogu left and a part of Din left with him. There’s less of him now— more, too: there’s less where it matters, and there’s more where there shouldn’t be.

You don’t remember when it started—when he first disappeared. When the spark in him died, and he was reignited anew.

When this Other became.

On multiple occasions you’ve caught him murmuring into the bellied dark of the Crest with a bent spine, hunched over himself as if he’s shrinking—enveloping in in in as far as the beskar along his chest will allow him to cave. You can never pick up what he mutters, but you catch the sounds of his teeth and lips brushing together, hissing. It’s not Basic; you’d recognize it if it were. You don’t think its Mando’a either. It’s too sharp— too vile. There’s none of his language’s elegance in it.

“Did you say something?” You asked once, poking your head around the doorway, eyes resting on the shine of his helmet.

A beat—and slowly, he unfurled, rearing to his full height and like a sentinel he swiveled, pivoting to face you.

“No.”

Your throat bobbed. “Oh, I-I thought I heard-”

“Come here, mesh’la.”

And you did. You always do.

The darksaber appeared on his belt one day, shortly after the child went away. It came, only once, and there it stays. Indistinguishable - inseparable - there is no dismembering the two. It accompanies him in all things; when he pilots, when he hunts, when he eats. It sleeps by him.

By you, too.

Din has always been stoic—of scant words and physical timing—but now he is a golem. A silent, shrouded figure. His Creed is broken, and you wonder maybe - briefly - if Din is broken as well. He is never unkind to you. He is never threatening. But he is never him. His eyes— the oaky comfort you once found in them— have blackened. He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man.

And within that pit he has born rage. Immaculately, it has sprung from him as woman did by Adam’s rib. Like mold growing upon stale fruit does he have this—this wrath. It crept through him. It stalked along his soft flesh— his tawny hide—and it waited; patient, there in the shadows, it waited for him. Waited for him to turn his back, to close his eyes and drop his guard— leeway, an entrance— as to slip in undetected.

To inhabit.

The virtue and love that once thrummed within the heart of him has burned away. Charred. Only this of him remains; this insatiable lust— for blood sport, for the promise of split knuckles and fractured bone, for you.

For all of you.

Now, Din goes out on bounties like he needs it—like it’s oxygen. He lives off it. He’s sustained by the rush, by the adrenaline laced chemicals pumping through his arteries. He’s gone for days and weeks on end and when he returns, he fucks you like he’s been starved. Out in the wilderness without a morsel to eat, he devours you. He’s ravenous as he tears his way across your body—all too pliant for him, all too willing—letting him feast on the nectar dripping from your heat.

You can feel it in his foot steps as he storms the ship, the bassy echo of it. You can see it in the pitch of his visor. You can feel it in his cock as he slams into you, night after night after night—ceaselessly. Tirelessly. Unnaturally. The number of orgasms he wrings out of you is countless—his need so incurable, you have to fight to stay above it all; you have to war against your urge to slip away completely.

Din is one grey choice - one hair trigger - from coming undone.

And you should be scared. You should be terrified—he should terrify you. Like scalding water, you should flinch away at the mere sight of him—at the warning steam that rises from his pauldrons. This predator, unhinged and off his leash—a great, crushing beast at which you are at the mercy of.

But— you aren’t.

You couldn’t place it at first: the gnawing. The gnawing at your insides like maggots festering upon a grizzled carcass hanging limp at a wet market. You couldn’t name the tremor in your gut. You gave it epithets as best you could, you gave it placeholders - fear, worry, intrigue - all until one day it spilled. One day it seeped past the tremble of your stomach and sank lower, lower,

lower.

It settled in your cunt—the gnawing. And you named it Want.

You want him. You want this—you’re addicted to it. This sin like led-lined velvet, you want to roll in it until it poisons you, until you’re smothered with it, just like it’s smothering you now— blanketing you as you mewl naked in your bed, knees knocked together. Your eyes roll back into your skull as you frantically work circles into your clit with the all consuming thought of him: his teeth at your shoulders, his hand around your windpipe.

You’re nearing your finish, the promise of that tight coil unraveling there - there - right before you. You’re so enrapt in it—in this dizzying, wanton act—you don’t register the ramp lowering. You don’t hear the carbonite chamber whir, his quarry freezing over, or his foot falls sounding their way to your bunk.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You gasp, frightened eyelids wrenching open as his baritone timbre crackles through the hull. The Mandalorian stands there, backlit by the glow from the galley and he looms—expressionless. Haunting. You blink at him rapidly, batting away the desire that’s glazed over your eyes.

“Y-You’re back,” you stutter lamely. You try to smile. You try to distract him. “I uhm, I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you wouldn’t be back until, u-until..."

Your excuses fade, mouth parched dry. The film of his visor gives you nothing. He is unknowable, but you feel it - sense it - that energy—unbridled and rippling off of him in sick, suffocating waves.

“I’ll ask you again,” Din starts.

“What-" he steps towards you, darksaber hanging heavy at his hip, “do you think-" you shimmy up your cot, shoulder blades digging into the steel sidings, “you’re doing?”

Your heart thunders against your chest, beating until you’re sure it’ll burst.

“I’m-"

I’m sorry you almost say, and you have to force yourself to gulp down the apology. You know he doesn’t want it, and he knows you wouldn’t mean it even if you offered it to him.

Your brow wavers. “I-"

He rips away the sheet you had drawn up over you and reflexively you jerk back, revealing the gloss on your fingers and the patch of hair above your mound, shimmering shamefully—exposing you, mocking you under the dim lights.

“What’s this?” he asks, and fuck he’s patronizing you. He’s smirking—you don’t have to see it, you can hear it in the curving lilt of his voice as he drinks in the sight of your very obvious indiscretion, laid bare before him. You can’t bring yourself to answer him—you can hardly look at him—and you bristle, hair on your arm prickling up.

“You fuck yourself speechless, little one?”

Your cunt throbs, burning and contracting around the orgasm that was snatched away from you and fuck, you’re drowning in him. Din is tar—he’s an oil slick, and you’re plummeting through it—gasping for air, for the surface, for sunlight. He’s everywhere—his broad frame, his voice, his scent like copper and smoke. You can barely breathe through the thick of him.

“Answer me,” he growls, leather croaking at the clench of his fist.

“Yes—yes,” you utter, proceeding with honesty, no matter how pathetic. “I missed you,” you squeak out.

Din cocks his head, a smug look scowled onto his visor. “You missed me?” he purrs through a sneer and you nod, precious and small, worrying the inside of your lip.

He sinks one leg and then the other onto your bedroll, just between your parted feet, kneeling before you. The flimsy spring mattress squeals under his weight—all of that armor, all of that boiling soot trapped within him.

“How much?”

For a moment, you must look confused. Puzzled. Your eyebrows furrow as Din unclips the saber from his belt, rolling it over in his hand. You rake your gaze up from it, dilated pupils landing on the unforgiving black panel there.

“You claim you missed me. Prove it.”

Your cunt bottoms out.

He crouches over you, tracing along your inner thighs with it's steel shaft and you bury your fists into the cot. You don't know which to look at: Din or the rod in his hand. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you trust me.”

Fuck, it feels like you’re going to rattle apart. There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t humming—isn’t seizing up wild. “I-I trust you,” you mouth softly. And you do, whether you should or not—you trust him with your life, to make or ruin.

“Fuck, you’re wet mesh'la,” he appraises darkly, leaning in to run a leathered digit through your seam, parting your curls. Your legs twitch, heels of your feet digging into the bed. “So ready for me. So eager."

Your eyes dance frenetically down to the handle and back up to him as he aligns the saber with your pussy. The blunt end of it touches your lips and you shudder, instinctually fidgeting away from it. Din splays his hand on your knee, anchoring you in place. “Shh,” he coos, rubbing a thumb soothingly into your skin. It doesn’t feel sweet. It feels sickly, cloying— like arsenic.

You don’t dare breathe as he prods the shaft into you, inch by terrible inch. It doesn’t matter how slicked and wet you are from touching yourself, your walls strangle the foreign intrusion. Your body resists.

“Fuck,” you sob. Your throat, your pussy, all of it— it’s all compacted. It feels so fucking tight, both words and air fighting to get out and in all at once—everything inside you constricting.

“Show me,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Show me how much you missed me.” He drags his gloved digit over your clit, pressing down onto it until you see stars, fizzing in front of your vision. “I know you can take it, sweet girl. Be good and show me.”

Be good. Be good for him. Be his only vice.

He continues to swirl at your bundle of nerves and you’re nearly thrashing with it— with all of this— hair fanned and mussed against the pillow as you writhe, swallowing his saber to the hilt. Fuck, you’re so full. Maker, you’re stuffed with it; with the cold, uneven edges, the ridges woven into the grip of it— and he slowly - tortuously - delves the handle in and out of you, hitting against your cervix with every thrust.

You can only mumble. Your lips have gone slack, your mind is cavernous. All you can do is quiver and beg— beg for release. Beg for it to end.

Beg for more.

“Oh gods, oh g- Maker, please—”

Your bleary eyes shoot open as you’re silenced by the grip of his gloved hand.

“No.” Din pinches your jaw in the web of his palm, fingertips dimpling your cheeks. “No, your God isn’t here,” he seethes, low and deadly, graphite venom dripping from his lips. “Pray to me.”

Fuck.

Trembling, your lips pucker ugly and sloppy as you babble uselessly in his stony grasp, chin crinkling with a whimper. “D-Din.”

He inhales sharply, mouth snaking into a wicked grin behind his helm. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

He’s deboning you as he would a fish. Practiced, he plucks you into messy pieces—gutting you through your open maw. His ministrations are crawled. They’re slothed and carnal with arrogance and pride and it’s not enough—its all together too much, but still—it’s not enough. You’re hungry. You paw at him, scraping over his breastplate.

“Din, please—more," you gasp feverishly, eyes blown wide.

A blip of static huffs through his modulator. “You want more, you filthy little thing?” He gives you another squeeze, indenting scorch marks into your face.

You nod—you try to, his grasp is too firm, rooting your neck to still. “Yes.”

Din groans, all but obliging you as he begins to fuck you harder, pistoning through you as he thumbs your nub with his rough pad.

“Din-”

You’re whining now, tinny and depraved. It’s wrong. Every part, every second of this, is wrong. Immoral. But you can’t stop the way your body convulses at his every touch—you can’t stop the heat roiling in your core.

“Din, Din baby- fuck fuck fuck-”

It’s like he’s trying to split you in two—all of you. Your pussy, your mind, your soul—he’s bisecting you. Divvying you up to bits of nothing. It’s only then that horrid realization occurs to you, winding through your addled haze as he fucks you deep and splintering: you’ll never be whole again.

And scarier still—you don’t think you want to be.

No, you want to be these loathsome shards. You want to be broken glass. You want to draw blood.

You want to be possessed by him.

“Fuck yourself,” he pants, his cock straining violently against his trousers, begging for relief. “Be good and fuck yourself. Let me watch.”

Be good be good be good

He leaves your clit and you whimper at the loss. Your face is stained with tears. The salty trails cascade down to mingle into your hair, into the sheets. You’re vibrating, but you do as he says and you reach down, recoiling when you touch the chilled metal tip. Tentatively, you pad along it, settling on the end that’s peeking out from you.

A pained sound rumbles through Din as you wrap your fist around the saber, and your eyes flit up to meet his, hidden somewhere behind his helm. Hurriedly he unbuttons his pants in a flourish and removes himself from his constraints. He’s pulsing and proud, flexing up against his stomach, the veins choked to bulge along the angry, silken shaft of him.

Finally, you begin to move the hilt—finding an aching, undulating rhythm and he can’t fucking take it. He rips his helmet off, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Din,” your pray, “Din, I think I’m going to-”

You’re wrecked – fried like a livewire– as you look for him, as you search and search—for that warmth, for a trace of him left there. The Din you knew, the Din you agreed to fly with all those months ago, the Din you love. You think you see it sometimes—in the slant of his mouth, the bridge of his nose— but here, now, he is gone.

He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man, and you want nothing more than to fall. Standing on the ledge of him, staring down into the abyss—you want this. You want to fall. You want to jump.

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me, sweet girl— tell me.” He’s fucking his fist raw, humping into his palm as desperate as an animal.

“I’m yours,” you mewl. Furiously rubbing your clit with one hand and spearing yourself on the rod of his saber with the other, your hips buck and spasm. You snap. A blinding light sears through you, ricocheting off every scrap of muscle and tendon sewed up in your body. “Just for you,” you cry, “I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours—”

Your ragged sobs mix with the lewd slaps of skin as Din pumps himself, hot ropes of his release spitting onto you— painting your pussy, the divot of your navel, coating along the slope of your tummy.

“Look at you—fucking, look at you,” he moans throatily, easing through his rough strokes as he softens.

Your chest is heaving and you feel dumb, empty—like a puppet, arms and legs moving on phantom strings. Din removes the handle from you with a wet squelch; a viscous strand of your juices clings on, obscenely connecting your pussy to the base of it, and you rasp—the wind punched out of you with its gaping absence. You gush. It dribbles out the slit of you, leaking past your abused hole and soaking into the bedroll.

When he unsheathed the saber from your scabbard, he took a part of you with it. You’re so fucked out—you’re practically a parsec away— it went unnoticed.

Undetected.

It brushed past you. You didn’t feel it—you didn’t recognize the whisper that has slithered in in it’s place, nestling within your swollen folds.

Breeding there.

“Beautiful,” Din murmurs, placing it on the mattress beside your head, the chrome of it gleaming with your slick. He bows his head to lick a path up your cunt, laving you clean as he climbs higher and higher, tonguing off his seed from your stippled skin. “Fucking beautiful, mesh’la,” he growls. “Mine—all fucking mine.”

You’ve gone heavy. You’re too heavy to keep your eyes open—you’ve been hollowed out and you’ve got nothing keeping you tethered here. You start slipping under in slow motion—intervals between languid blinks lasting longer and longer. You’re spooled in a knot of tangled limbs with Din’s mouth, fervent and needy, flaying you open as he sees fit— with his hot mouth and teeth, suckling your breasts, biting at your nipples and bruising your pretty neck.

It’s not long before you hear it again, as you have before— as you always do: the faint caressing of speech, of lips forming language you cannot understand—made indecipherable in your strung out high.

“D’you say something?” you mumble, half conscious—half dreaming.

Din laps a long stripe up your throat, his stubble sanding your skin. “No.”

You sigh, breathy and girlish, as his fingers find your mound, dipping into you once again. He makes you cum twice more that evening. You barely have the strength to watch him do it.

/

Finally, when he’s satisfied—when he’s spent with driving you mad, making you rile— he grants you respite. He permits it – generous, charitable - and you sleep like the dead, soundly through the night until—

until you don’t.

Eyes. You feel them somewhere— there are eyes on you. You stir, stuttering in your sleep to squirm in the dark. You don’t know what you’re listening to at first. It’s a sound of some kind, a noise. There is a hiss—

A frigid hand seizes around the bloody organ pulsing in your ribcage.

No, not a hiss—it’s a voice. It’s— no-

You pat around for Din beside you but he’s gone—he’s long gone and his vacant spot has grown cold without him—and your nails dig into the sheets, desperately clawing into the fabric.

Inside you.

The voice, the sharp hush of it—it’s inside you. It speaks from inside your own mind, its forked tongue fluttering against your ear.

‘Wake up, sweet girl.’

/

Tags (IM SO SORRY): @djarinsbeskar @pedros-mustache @krissology @keeper0fthestars @read-and-rec

#darksaber!din #dark!din #dark!din x reader #dark!din x you #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando fanfiction #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian #star wars #sw fanfic #darksaber #Im so sorry #dom!din #haunted!din

[imnotgonnafightyou]

An Apology

Y’all I’ve been killing myself trying to turn this into something longer and not really wanting to or knowing where to go when I remembered that I can literally just post it as a oneshot and get over myself. So here it is, a little somethin’ somethin’ as a continuation of this post, inspired by a lovely ask from @chenetic. Hope you all enjoy. Cheers!

-----

“Dingus,” Robin’s voice sounded through the divider. “Someone’s here for you.”

Steve groaned, lifting his head from where he was laid back on the counter, missing the cool metal on his cheek as soon as it was gone. “I’m on my break man, come on.” 

“You’re not gonna want to miss this,” came her sing-song reply. 

“Fine,” Steve grumbled to himself, sliding off the counter. He ran his hands through his hair, which felt futile at this point. It refused to cooperate once he’d worn the stupid sailor hat. He headed through the swinging door calling, “Henderson, your free ice cream could’ve waited until after my-“

Steve stopped dead in his tracks. Standing at the fucking counter of Scoops A-fucking-hoy was Billy motherfucking Hargrove. This had to be some sort of joke. Steve hadn’t seen Billy since he had bashed his skull in. Well, that wasn’t technically true. He had seen him around the halls at school. Or dodged him really. It wasn’t too hard to do. They weren’t in any of the same classes, and it was easy to predict when Billy was coming. You could hear girls sighing about 30 seconds before impact. But he certainly had not seen Billy Hargrove in any way that meant anything. They hadn’t talked or anything. Other than the occasional jibe thrown Steve’s way by the blond. There was definitely no reason for Billy to be standing at Steve’s work, apparently to see Steve. 

“Is this some kind of joke Robin? What the hell?” Steve shot angrily at his coworker. 

“What are you talking about asshole, he said he was here to see you,” Robin replied snottily. “How am I supposed to know who is and isn’t your friend. You’ve got people coming through here all the time like it’s a revolving door.”

“Everybody and their mother knows I’m not friends with Billy fucking Hargrove, Robin. What did you live under a rock this year?”

Before Robin could rebut, she was cut off. 

“Watch the language Harrington; you never know how many kids could be lurking around,” Billy said with his trademark smirk. 

“What do you want Hargrove?”

“Wanted to see what all the fuss with this place was about,” Billy said, with a devilish grin. He took a long moment to look Steve up and down. “Now I know what it is.”

“Look I don’t need this, so if that’s all you wanted.” Steve turned to head back out of the store.

“No!” Billy started. He looked less sinful, more sincere. “No, I…I wanted to talk to you actually.”

Steve searched the blonde’s face, hunting for a lie or a trick, but saw nothing. He nodded slowly. 

“Alright. Follow me.” Steve jerked his head towards the back room before making his way back. He slid back onto the countertop while he waited for Billy to follow him. They sat in silence for a moment, Billy making himself comfortable against the far wall.

“So, what’s up?” Steve asked.

Billy shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I realized that I probably should’ve apologized to you after the whole trying to beat the shit out of you thing last fall, so I came here to do that…so yeah.”

They were both quiet again for a moment.

“You really came here to apologize? Because if so that was a pathetic attempt.”

“Fucking whatever man; I just want us to be even okay. Truce or whatever.”

“I think we broke even after Max almost nailed your balls to the wall.”

“Yeah, well, that little shit bird has gotten me in loads of deep shit because of that night so the way I see it, she owes me one and I owe you one. And I guess you probably owe her one because I would’ve killed you.”

“Well, believe it or not, I already thanked Max because it doesn’t take normal people seven months to apologize.”

“Shit Harrington alright. If I’d known you were going to be all pissy about it I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Fuck you, man. Get out of here.”

Billy made to leave and then perhaps thought better of it and turned back to face Steve. 

“Look man, I really am sorry. I know it took me however long to say it but I mean it. My dad was riding my ass to find Maxine and I was itching for a fight with someone and you just…happened to be there. Wrong place wrong time.”

Steve looked at him for a moment, thoughtful, before saying, “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“Really? That’s it?” Billy asked incredulously.

“That’s it. I’m not one to hold a grudge anyway.” Steve smiled, shrugging.

“Oh sure, Saint Harrington,” Billy mocked. 

Steve flipped him off, laughing. 

“So I’ll see you around? Maybe come back for the ice cream next time?” Steve wasn’t positive but he thought Billy looked almost…hopeful?

“Sure man. That sounds good.”

A soft smile graced Billy’s face. “Cool. Bye Harrington.”

Billy quietly headed back out to the front of the store, pausing briefly to look at Steve with that soft smile still on his face, before vanishing.

Steve leaned forward until his head hit the countertop, muttering quietly to himself, “what the fuck was that?”

#harringrove #harringrove fic #billy hargrove #steve harrington #harringrove headcanon #stranger things #stranger things fic #st fic #billy x steve #steve x billy #fightwrites

[keilemlucent]

long days for bad people

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~6k

Being a prized, adored possession was far better than you thought it would be.

warnings: light daddy kink (no age play, just the name in mostly jest), spit kink, crying kink, degradation, brief descriptions of blood + violence, kidnapping (consensual?? read a/n), brat taming, light sadomasochism, mind break, praise kink

------

here it is, mafia au, villain hawks, dom, brat tamer, soft(?!) hawks. what more could you want? 

there’s briefly described kidnapping at the beginning of the fic but it is reiterated throughout that this is consensual! no yandere/stockholm stuff in this fic. 

i’ve been working on this one for a while and i’m happy to finally share it. hope y’all enjoy!!

||||||||||||||||||||

You shouldn’t have fucked around with the League.

God, it was common knowledge in the parts of town and circles you inhabited. Of all criminal syndicates, mobs, to fuck with, the League wasn’t one of them. They were known for their complete cruelty and violent delights. The League had such a reputation due to the fact that they openly left bodies carved up and burnt as they pleased.

But, you were a fucking idiot and got involved anyways.

It was a small loan, Giran almost seemed to scoff when he gave you the cash. You and your almost-stranger of a roommate were just very late on some bills and were going to lose a lot of material items if you didn’t scrounge up at least two paychecks in about three days. 

You swallowed your pride and took the first and easiest loan you could get. That just happened to be with gap-toothed, wide-grinning Giran of the League. He, you knew from what you’d heard, was somewhat fair in matters like yours. 

You had two weeks to pay him back.

...

You didn’t make it in time.

You were close to the amount, notably. You scrounged and clawed your way into getting the cash back. You weren’t much of a pickpocket, but you snagged some odd jobs around the apartment building that you and your roommate were still fortunate enough to keep a room in.

After one particular job, a nasty carpentry gig that you weren’t qualified for, you returned home tired and worn.

Sure, you were a day late on payment. But with this last gig, you were so close. The League would have to pity two, stupid, stupid young girls?

They didn’t, you realized, as you stepped into your apartment.

Your roommate's slain corpse was laying over the arm of your cheap couch, eyes vacant and mouth dripping blood onto the old beige carpet.

You dropped to your knees, horrified and completely stunned.

“You should’ve known better,” it was a hum from across the room, from a figure you didn’t even know was in the room until then. “Really, you’d expect folks to be smarter.”

Your mouth dried as the figure moved from the nighttime shadows, flashing a dazzling smile and ruffling crimson wings.

Hawks.

You’d heard of him, everyone had. Terrifying, fast, precise, and cutthroat. He took orders and didn’t ask questions other than snark. He talked too much, fucked too much. 

“W-wait,” You didn't know why you were pleading, but you had to try, right? “I’m so close, wait—”

Hawks sauntered up to you wielding one of his feather blades, the red of blood mixing with the filaments of his feathers.

He crouched down in front of you, tsking, “I don’t like begging, angel. I’ll make this quick for you. Your friend there?”

Hawks jerked his finger behind to your dead roommate.

“She fought, pleaded, begged, all that normal shit I don’t like hearing when shitheads like you two don’t make payday,” his voice was slow, talking about death like some casual thing. “I’ll make this nice and fast if you don’t run your mouth anymore, how about that?”

You swallowed, nodding.

The small percentage of your brain that was fully functioning figured dying quickly was a much better way to go than whatever the hell had happened to your roommate. There was far too much blood for that to be quick.

Hawks hummed, the tip of his feather blade tipping up your chin so you were forced to meet his gaze. You vaguely heard the pitter-patter of your tears hitting the carpet below. Blood rushed in your ears as you stared death in the face.

Hawks appraised you.

You watched the metaphorical cogs and wheels turning in Hawks’ skull as he looked you up and down before flashing forward, gathering you in his arms and flying from the apartment. 

Your first thought was obvious as you clung to him in the open air:

He’s going to drop you and kill you.

When you screamed, tears growing thicker, he slapped a gloved hand over your mouth, “I’m giving you an out, kid. Trust me. You’ll prefer this over death.”

 ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 Your new existence was certainly better than death.

If you were ever caught and convicted of any of the illegal things you participated in, you’d be fucked, thrown into prison until you rotted, until you were just dust and bone.

But, until then, you worked for the League.

You had groveled at the feet of their leader, Shigaraki, hands clasped on your lap, claiming your worth, or maybe lack thereof. Not many attachments, not many people who’d miss you, a semi-useful quirk. 

With a boot shoved into your skull, he sneered that you’d be the League’s new errand dog. 

The real reason they accepted you was due to the threatening air Hawks was exuding and the fact that their old ‘errand bitch’ had died the week prior. They needed a new body to act as a civilian and do things that only an unsuspecting-looking ‘civilian’ could. You fit the bill, and Hawks had taken a liking to you.

 Oddly, working for the League was actually pretty okay.

You got your own room. It was small, but you only had to share a bathroom with the somewhat unhinged Himiko, but she was fairly nice once she warmed up to you. Everyone lived in the League’s HQ and went about their business, getting drunk at their bar front each night.

Most of the mess happened at night, but it was important to put on a nice veneer and keep spirits high. Not to mention that no one would dared to fuck with the League, anyways. The cops and federal government had long been paid off due to the resources that the League had acquired for them. 

You felt somewhat untouchable.

A lot of this confidence was due to the fact that you had become Hawks’s... Keigo’s...

‘Songbird’

As he liked to call you, anyway. 

Keigo was the general, loveable annoyance of the League, but his connections were invaluable and his skills were unmatched. Despite how he could grate on people (read: Dabi and Shigaraki), he was respected and feared just as much as everyone else was, if not more so. And being his metaphorical and literal pet had its perks.

Sure, the first time he had you come to his ‘office’ and he fucked you against the window until it was smeared with cum and blood was a bit surprising, but god, if you didn’t fucking love it. Being Keigo’s personal fucktoy came with protection, pleasure, and a surprising amount of genuine attention. The dude was lonely, and so were you. The two of you made a good ‘couple’, if you could even call yourselves that. The sadism he doled out was always counterpointed by affections that did seem genuine. 

Keigo was fond of you, and you of him. Maybe your brush with death had twisted something in your head, to even allow yourself to get close to a man like Keigo, but you couldn’t make yourself care. 

You were comfortable and content. 

...

[bird boss]: hey babe ;^) get to my office in the next thirty minutes 

[you]: what if i don’t

[bird boss]: do u really want to find out

[you]: ...

[you]: im just curious 

[bird boss]: don’t get cheeky songbird 

[you]: u make me wanna u know

[you]: i know it gets you riled up

[bird boss]: tread lightly kid

[you]: oooo i gave you some guff over text

[you]: what’re you gonna do about it?

[bird boss]: use your imagination

[bird boss]: 25 minutes now, songbird

[bird boss]: don’t make this worse for yourself <3

 You set your phone on your cheap duvet, quickly primped yourself to see Keigo. He wasn’t too strict about your appearance but wearing dark clothes and some of the more expensive gifts he’d gotten you over the months he’d been screwing you never hurt. Something about ownership with him always got him hot and bothered. 

You tried to remind yourself frequently that Keigo saw you as some sort of possession, but a possession with feelings.

Meandering through HQ was always a bit daunting, despite your protections. Your skimpy outfit choice and hardly-hidden lingerie made you feel a bit more like an object than you liked too. 

There were hardly hungry mouths around the League, they kept you all fed, but god, were there starving eyes. 

Dabi wolf-whistled as you walked past him through a common room, shouting something about how Keigo was collecting his pound of flesh for the day. Maybe a line or two about being a whore, but that was all flavor at that point. Keigo called you far meaner, more sinful things. And hell, it wasn’t like Keigo hadn’t... shared you on more than one occasion. 

Maybe you were a little fucked up for enjoying your lifestyle to the degree you did, but why not indulge where you could? Life was far shittier scraping paint off old fences and picking up cans to just scrape by. 

Opulence was a breath of fresh air. And if you were Keigo’s fuck toy? Then, god, you were Keigo’s fuck toy.

When you arrived at Keigo’s office, you knocked gently on the door, quickly adjusting your skirt and blouse. 

The door opened, though no one was behind it. Only a single one of Keigo’s feathers allowed you entrance. 

His office seemed daunting and extravagant for a man who did most of his ‘work’ in far-shadier, far-bloodier places. The walls were covered in mirrors and old paintings, something out of vanity and pride, knowing how Keigo saw himself. There were several black leather couches scattered around against walls, some stained by your various... activities. There was a broad desk parallel to a back wall made entirely of windows. 

Night had fallen, leaving the room lit by a few lamps and warm fixtures. 

“Hey, boss,” You hummed as you stepped in, shutting the door behind you just before the lingering scarlet feather flicked the lock on the door.

And the other one.

And the deadbolt.

You swallowed thickly. 

As much as you enjoyed a lot of the perks of your... position, it was also daunting.

Keigo was daunting, all bloody colors, vanity, and hunger. 

He sat behind his desk, wings puffed up, and partially extended over the back of his chair. The desk chair was massive, specifically acquired so that you would have enough room to properly straddle his lap for hours on end if he so wished. 

Keigo idly clicked around on his desktop computer. He leaned slack and back into the chair, legs spread wide and exuding casual confidence that reeked of his own ego. 

Keigo normally wore a mix of black and red, as edgy as it was. He liked to seem clean, hide the stains of sanguine that undoubtedly lingered on him no matter how he tried to cleanse himself. His black slacks were pressed, the seams pristine. The black shirt he wore was rolled up to his elbows, the buttons of his red vest undone as well. His black tie hung half-undone and limp around his neck. His tousled gold hair was mussed as normal, ruffled by his flights. His feathers might’ve needed preening, but you doubted that that was the reason he called you to his office. 

And based on the deep set of his brow and the sickly smile on his lips, he was already on edge and in a mood. 

“Songbird, come over here, will you?” Keigo sat back from his typing, watching you from across the room. He took you in the same way a parched man sucks down red wine, greedily and soon to be fucked. “On my lap.”

You complied, despite your earlier attitude. You padded across the room, going around his desk. 

As you moved to straddle his lap, worn hands gripped your waist. His amber eyes gave you a warning, crinkling at the edges, “Not like that, sweetheart. Do daddy right.”

Oh, so it was one of those moods. 

Maybe you were Keigo’s sexual punching bag so he could exert control on something he could later kiss better and patch up. 

Sure, he was going to fucking ruin you, but part of the fun with him was that the more it hurt, the nicer he was after. And, all things considered, with some of the... other folks the League brought in to satiate its member’s desires, you fared far better. Keigo cared about you, in his own particular way. 

You tried to lean over his lap yourself, but his hands and feathers positioned you perfectly as he wanted. With the tight grip he had on your waist and shoulders, dragging you just as he liked, it was easy to see his need for control. 

Your head hung off of one of his thighs as you squirmed in his lap. His bulge already pressed into your ribs, a wonderful reminder of the reward you’d reap later on. Keigo’s hands gathered your hand to the small of your back, a feather replacing their grip a moment later.

“Sit with me while I finish this shit,” Keigo grumbled, going back to clicking the desktop. His leg bobbed absentmindedly, his free hand rubbing over the curve of your barely-covered ass. “Be a good girl, (Y/N). If you can stand that.”

He laughed under his breath. 

You let your head dangle limply downwards, blood rushing to your cheeks. 

You’d thought you’d be in for more of an ass-kicking, but it appeared Keigo was taking things unusually slow. You knew better than to complain, but kicking up a bit of metaphorical sand couldn’t be that bad, right?

“I dunno,” You hummed, kicking your legs lightly. “I don’t think you like it when I’m a ‘good girl’, daddy.”

“Watch it.” A single, sharp smack to your butt was hardly enough to shut you up, but Keigo did so all the same, rubbing over the covered flesh a moment later, “I’m not in the mood.”

“Are you sure about that?” You wriggled, intentionally pushing up against his growing erection.

His breath stuttered, a smirk pulling at the corners of your lips. The hand on your ass didn’t rear again, rather Keigo kept thumbing smooth circles as he continued to click around on the computer. He might have been actually doing work. Or, he was ignoring you, egging your sass on. 

“If you didn’t want anything, why’d you call me in here?” You asked, way too cheeky for the way Keigo’s body was practically vibrating underneath you. Pissing him off had consequences, of course, but you weren’t in the mood to play ‘good girl’ that day.

“I told you, I want you to sit with me,” Keigo pinched your ass. “But, you’re too mouthy to do just that one thing. You’re usually better than this.”

“Am I?” You played innocent, craning to give him a wide smile. “Hadn’t noticed. What I am noticing, is your already-hard cock, dear.”

“Oh, ‘dear’?!” Keigo paused on the computer. “Cheeky. Cute.” 

Keigo would just dig in more, lean in, before ‘snapping’, if you could call it that.

You gulped as his hand swatted at upper thighs, his nails almost knicking your skin.

“Up and don’t get smart about it.”

Oh, you were going to be remarkably smart about it.

You rose but hardly stayed upright for long. Sliding down to your knees, you pushed at Keigo’s legs, “Wouldn’t you prefer me down here? Just for a treat while you finish your work?”

Keigo clicked his tongue, gaze flickering down to you, “Fine. Behave yourself.”

Yeah, right. You both knew that that wasn’t going to happen. 

You were already tucked underneath his desk, undoing the fly of his pants. 

You pulled his cock from his trousers, pumping his cock to full hardness. Smearing around preek for a bit of extra flare before inching forward.

Wrapping your mouth around Keigo’s dick was somewhat of a feat— he had a decent girth to him, so you usually took the opportunity to warm him (and yourself) up with a bit of tip-kissing and kitten licks.

But, you were feeling bold.

You spit on his dick, a move that normally would have earned you plenty of verbal snark, but anything Keigo could’ve said to you was swallowed as you took his cock down to the back of your throat.

You sucked around it, massaging the vein on the bottom with the flat of your tongue. Drool began to pool at the side of your lips as you let the head bump your throat, gag reflex be damned.

All the while, Keigo had stopped moving above you. The fabric of his trouser balled up in his ringed-fingers as he gazed half-lidded down at you. 

You smiled around his dick, looking up at him innocently as you began to slowly bob your head. His wings fluttered, twitches and air stirring around you. 

Keigo stifled a laugh, a hand tangling in your hair, “All that talk earlier and now you’re treating me to a blowjob without even me having to tell you to? Dove, you’re too much.”

You pulled off of him to reply, “I can only try.”

Before he could reply, you spit on his dick again, and went back to slurping around him.

You held the base of his cock in your hands, twisting and spreading spittle. It almost felt like your actions were for show, but Keigo’s eyes were rolling back in his head all the same.

You smirked.

A drool pool from your mouth, puddling in your lap and soaking your skirt. Not like you weren’t already dripping from the sinful sounds Keigo stopped trying to hold.

“A-ah, that’s it, angel,” Keigo fucked into your mouth with his hold on your hair. “Just like that.”

Your hand rose to play with Keigo’s balls, teasing at the sack as he cried out a high moan above you. 

Considering the performance you were giving, it was unsurprising to feel him tensing above you. You’d been on your knees for him hundreds of times; you’d learned to see the little twitches and puffs of breath he’d give when he’d get close to coming. 

You pulled off his cock with a pop, detangling the hand from your hair in the motion. It was all fast enough that Keigo couldn’t have stopped you in his hazy, pleasure-filled state. 

Based on the look of rapid disbelief he was giving you, your trick had worked well. Knowing Keigo’s... tendencies made you hesitant to push him too much in the past, but for whatever reason, you were feeling stupidly bold. 

Consequences.

“Sorry, daddy,” You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Didn’t feel like swallowing today.”

Keigo’s disheveled appearance was more than gratifying. Knowing how easily you made him come undone by that point was one of the perks of your position.

His hair was more than ruffled, strands and tufts chaotically curled around his cheeks and ears. There was a bright blush on his face, spreading from his nose to the apples of his cheeks, down his deck. At some point, he’d popped the buttons at the top of his shirt. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, half-panting and based on the darkness in his brow and the far-too peachy smile on his face, Keigo was fucking pissed.

His wings stood on end.

You gulped from below him.

Maybe you pushed your luck too far.

Maybe. 

“You’re playing real cute today, aren’t you songbird?” Keigo didn’t move, but his feathers twitched above him, wings flaring out even farther. “Real fucking cute.”

You were fucked.

Good.

A few feathers flew from Keigo, one snagging at your wrist, wrapping around it, and pulling you up from the desk.

You wobbled as you stood, dragged across the room as Keigo leisurely followed behind you. When you tried to set your own pace, Keigo swatted your ass with a huff, “You never learn, huh? I thought I’d trained you better than this.”

You opened your mouth to spit some dickish retort, but you were cut off as Keigo’s shoved you onto one of the leather couches.

“Don’t.” Keigo’s tone was acidic as he stood over your, wings still flared out. “I told you I wasn’t in the mood for your cute bullshit, dove, and you still decided to test your luck, huh?”

You kneeled on the cushions, sucking down air, shaking with anticipation.

“You don’t feel like swallowing today? That’s fine, I can work with that,” Keigo shrugged easily from above you.

Keigo had an... active sexual imagination, and you could tell by the crook in his lips that he had something devilish planned as retribution.

A sharp slap came down on your cheek, Keigo catching the opposite jaw and keeping you from recoiling too far. You blinked as the pain spread around your skull like licking flames against a frostbitten body. 

You wanted more.

A little grin stretched against your mouth as Keigo rubbed at your cheeks with his thumbs, “Aw, you always get so sweet like this, dove. You can be a good girl if you try, can’t you?” 

His actions carried candor and his words absolute torment. 

Despite how Keigo was trying to goad you into submission, you had a bit of spark left in you. 

Plainly, you spit on him.

The glob of saliva landed on Keigo’s cheek, under his eye.

He blinked at you. 

You continued to smile.

His own expression grew strained.

“Oh, songbird,” Keigo damn near lamented, wiping away the kind gift you’d given him. His voice was smooth without any bit of waver, all of the sexually-charged anger rolling just beneath the veneer. “You’re just being pain slut today, aren’t you?”

You were, absolutely. You could feel your arousal wetting your panties, the heat of the strike from your cheek beginning to boil something in your gut. 

“You just need a bit of special attention today, right? That’s all.” Keigo tsked, fully removing the tie from around his neck. “You just need a little reminder.”

“Reminder of what?” You asked, tilting your head quizzically. 

Keigo flipped you, feathers pushing and bracing you as needed while nimble hands tore off your clothes without reverie.

“Plenty of things, especially with this attitude you’ve got today,” Keigo’s tie looped around your wrists, binding them together at the center of your back. 

“You definitely need a reminder of who’s the boss around here,” Keigo shoved you forward, stomach flush with the back of the couch.

You reeled from the pace of it all, shifting your knees for any bit of stimulation you could get. Keigo’s feathers were slicing and pulling your clothes from your body faster than you could keep track of. It was overwhelming, making your mind swim in the best possible way. You throbbed. 

“Maybe a reminder about who fucking provides for you,” Keigo’s own clothes were shaken off, dropped to the floor and forgotten.

It was true. Keigo always made sure than you were taken care of, in more ways than one. Despite how fast-paced and laid back he could seem, he was always on top of making sure you had more than enough material and immaterial pleasure whether than be in the form of food, fucking, or otherwise.

You yelped as a smack fell across your ass. A feather caught the elastic of your panties, snapping a moment later, leaving you fully bare before him. 

Keigo’s worn hand came to press at your throat and jaw, tilting your head back as he climbed behind you, “Maybe, you need a reminder about who keeps you safe.”

This phrase was softer than the others, a sweet kiss pressing to your cheek and his voice a bit more gentle. It was jarring at the skin still stung from his earlier strike, but you cherished the heat besides. 

Once again, true. The folks in and outside of the League were greedy. There were plenty of unwanted souls that stole glances at Hawks’s prized songbird. There were starved eyes that tore into you whether you were dolled up for Keigo or not. There had been some... close calls, one could say, but Keigo always was there, in the end, unafraid to get his hands dirty. 

“You know what the most important reminder is, dove?” Keigo rolled his hips against you, cock wedging between your thighs.

“N-no,” You stuttered, brain turning gooey as Keigo’s arms snaked around your waist, sharpened nails leaving indents in your hips.

He nosed at your neck, leaving a few love bites in his wake.“‘N-no’, what?” 

“I don’t know,” You leaned back into Keigo’s chest, rubbing your thighs around his cock. 

 “Oh, songbird, you sweet thing,” He chuckled, all teasing and self-indulgent. “I’m the one who makes you feel good.” 

He was so right, wasn’t he?

With the way he’d learned your body over the last few months, he’d had some undeniable pursuit to make you feel the best. 

Keigo was inquisitive by nature. He had kept you on your back for hours while he finger-fucked you, watching every twitch and roll of your hips to figure out just the right ways to break you. He’d kissed and sucked and slapped every inch of you, sussing out the perfect ways to make you writhe and cry for him. 

Sure, you were an absolute terror to him sometimes. Not to mention that Keigo jumping you covered in the blood of that day's targets was as macabre and horrifying as it sounded. 

But, fuck, if he didn’t know how to bring you to ecstasy that fucking ruined you in the best way. 

Keigo got off on watching you shatter for him. It was the reason he’d torn you from that cheap, bloodied apartment in the first place. A kind, naive little morsel that he could play with as he wanted. You didn’t complain. Fuck, you reveled in his attention. You gave it back to him, like the fucked up, semi-divine being could be any more debauched than he already was.

Corruption spreads, but you’d never complain. If being plucked from struggling for pennies to being fucked stupid by a man who could kill you at a moments notice, a man who would kill for you, somehow poisoned you?

You’d die with a bitter taste on your tongue and a smile on your face.

 Keigo rubbed at your clit, nipping at your neck, and rolled his hips greedily. His cock was covered in a mix of your slick and his own preek, easily sliding between plushness of your thighs.

“You love pushing me, acting all tough,” Keigo chastised, clicking his tongue. “I mean it when I say it's cute.”

You don’t have any more quick retorts in you, not when his fingers are down your throat, gagging you as spittle dribbles down your chin onto the leather below. It was sure to leave a mark.

“Behind all that bark and snark, you’re just a good girl, aren’t you?” Keigo punctuated his words with a bite and nip to your neck. “Just needed a reminder, right, dove?”

You whimpered against his fingers at the praise, grinding against Keigo’s touch needily. 

His fingers pushed pinched your tongue, breath curling over the shell of your ear, “What are you?”

You mumbled against his fingers, “A g-good g-girl.”

It was humiliating in the best way. Keigo’s light laugh at your attempt. The way he nuzzled his nose into the sweat at the crook of your shoulder was just aloe on the burn.

“I misspoke, if you can believe that,” Keigo’s cock pulled out from your thighs. “Songbird, you know what I meant to call you?”

You squirmed at the loss, but he was quick to hush you. His fingers left your mouth with a thick trail of spit. 

“You’re my good girl.” 

You melted in his arms.

Falling back against Keigo’s chest, you craned your neck to lock your lips to his. 

Maybe that was it, why all the filth didn’t bother you. Because you had worth. Maybe it was insecurity, or maybe it was self-aware in the face of your lived experience. Before being taken, the life you’d lived made you just a rusty cog in a dying machine. You wouldn’t have amounted to anything, probably. 

But with the League?

You were the prized, beloved consort of an angry god. 

Keigo owned you, body, mind and soul, and you let him. That’s not even to mention how you had him wrapped around your finger. He adored you, under all of it.

Fighting with him was for sport, not blood.

Keigo licked past your lips, pressing his cock to your cunt teasingly. You whined against him, wriggling in his arms.

“What does my good girl want?” Keigo loved making you beg for him, claw for any bit of stimulation. He liked it even better when you were already soft for him.

Stray tears pricked at your eyes, “Y-your cock.”

He pinched the meat of your thigh, shaking his head, “Not good enough. Speak properly, dove. Clear and correctly.”

You swallowed, searching for the words in your own haze.

Your words were willed to be solid.

“I want your cock, daddy.” 

It was just enough.

Keigo pushed forward, the head of his cock already stretching your cunt. Consider the girth of it, the lack of preparation stung and burned more than you would’ve liked, as good as it felt to finally be filled.

Keigo cooed at your soft tears, keeping your face to his with a firm hand on your jaw. He shushed you, far too sweetly while licking the salt from your cheeks, “Relax, angel. Big breaths.”

You nodded, sputtering as he speared into you. Keigo’s free hand went back to toying with your clit, encouraging the tension to drain from your body.

As he bottomed out, you shuddered, falling back into his chest. Keigo’s wings fluttered, twitching in wait. Hot breath fanned over your face, Keigo groaning and locking his jaw. 

The stimulation was overwhelming. You had expected Keigo to be meaner, considering how mouthy you’d been. 

Yet, it made sense. Keigo had figured out one of the better ways to make you break was softness. 

(Truthfully, it made him crack in the same way, but he’d never tell.)

“Feel that?” He asked, just barely rolling his hips. 

Keigo released your jaw in favor of wrapping a hand around the front of your throat, tugging you as close he could manage.

“Uh-huh,” You panted. 

You could, the kiss of his cock head against your cervix was almost uncomfortable. The delicious pressure and sensitivity already had you reeling in his arms, unsteady and wanting.

“I fill you up so good, don’t I?” Keigo praised his own ego, his cock, but he wasn’t wrong. The curve of his cock rubbed against all the right spots. He stretched you just right, the burn ebbing away into a need for more, more—

“Please, Keigo—” You gasped. Your legs shook as Keigo slammed into you, shoving you forward and into the wall.

His pace was brutal. Hands and feathers kept your back in a harsh arch as he rearranged your insides to his liking. He was kind enough to keep stroking at your clit, bruising your hips and babbling filthy nothings. 

“I’m the one who makes you feel this good, only me, right, dove?” Keigo growled into your ear with a particularly hard thrust.

You nodded against the wall, aware of the drool slipping down your chin as your mouth lolled open. Your insides were hot like white flames, searing any ability to use coherent speech. 

Keigo snickered at your state. Slowing, he gripped your ass cheeks. You yelped, inside jumping as he pried them apart. You flinched, hole twitching as he spat down, the liquid cool against the flushed skin.

It was little moves like that, Keigo just subtly making your shudder and feel dirty that got you the most fucked up and fucked out.

You pressed back on his cock, panting against the wall and keening. You would’ve spoke, if you could, but anything that you had the ability to say would’ve been torn apart by Keigo’s sharpened, silver tongue. 

“My filthy little dove, huh?” Keigo sneered, watching you try to bounce on his cock the best you could. “Such a glutton when you get broken down like this, needy whore.”

The pleasure of Keigo’s cock tearing up your insides was all you could focus on through the fog of your mind, desperate and wanting and greedy.

“Y-your,” You corrected, the words bubbling from your lips, disjointed and messy. “Yours.”

Keigo may have been avian, but he purred like a damn cat at your admission. He held you like a possession, cock throbbing as he fucked you just right. 

“God, you’re sweet, angel,” He nipped at your jaw before wrapping his hand around your throat. “Even all fucked up, you know who you belong to so well, don’t you?”

You nodded, rolling your hips back. 

Keigo must’ve taken pity on you, squeezing at the sides of your neck. Cruel as he could be, he must’ve noticed the way your thighs and knees trembled against the leather. Keigo knew the cloud in your eyes well— how to get you hazy and how to fuck you perfectly through the fog.

He fucked back into your dripping cunt, pace harder and faster than before. You were helpless to do anything other than fall forward into the wall, cheek squished against the scarlet. 

“Who’s brat are you?” Keigo squeezed a bit harder at your neck as you swallowed against his palm.

“Y-yours—!” You squeaked out, mind going numb from the stimulation and pressure.

A wicked sneer curled against your ear as Keigo’s movements grew sloppier. His tongue lolled over your shoulder, messy kisses and slobbery bites and marks left in his wake. He was close, but you weren’t far off easier.

“Little bird,” It was sweeter, closer and hotter. “Can you come for me? Come all over my cock?”

You nodded.

“Not good enough.” Keigo bit down, nearly breaking the fragile skin of your neck. “You know I like words, angel.”

You gave him words, plenty of them. 

Nearly incoherent pleads and cries poured from your bruised lips as Keigo pounded into you. Each blabbering wail was met with Keigo groans and grunts, condescending little phrases spitting over you without release.

Your lack of leverage and use of your arms made you thumping against the couch and wall, vision darkening on the edges as the pressure in your gut and the hold on your throat remained. 

You were breaking in his arms, tears rolling down your cheeks as you held yourself from cresting. The exertion of it all was taking its toll, legs jellied and chest beading with sweat. 

Keigo sensed it, shifting his hips to hit the spongy spot in your cunt, “Come, dove.”

You let go.

A sob shattered in your throat as your climax crashed through you. Keigo released your throat, holding you by your bound arms as he bottomed out. His own harsh cry panged against yours as he stuffed you full. 

Surprisingly gently, he rocked his hips against your own, letting the ambient throb of your cunt milk him dry.

You came down, rolling and spinning as you sucked down air a bit too fast. Keigo panted behind you, though the sound seemed dull.

The pressure from your wrists released, soft thumbs rubbing at where the fabric had bitten into your forearms, “Hey, angel, you with me?”

You could only nod weakly, exhaustion and aches creeping in. 

Keigo repositioned the two of you, setting himself against the arm of the couch, wings up free to drape and splay over the floor. He dragged you with him, pulling you to lay on his chest. The stickiness of his spunk, your slick, and general sweatiness might’ve been uncomfortable, but you weren’t quite lucid enough to care.

“How are you feeling? Still feeling a little mouthy?” Keigo teased, already knowing your answer. 

You muffled a groan against his chest, shaking your head against the sweat of his chest. 

“Awww,” Keigo chuckled, fingers brushing over your cheeks, “Is my dove a little fucked out?”

“Keeeigo, b-be nice.”

Your voice broke, parched.

Keigo snorted, pressing a kiss to the side of your forehead, “I guess I can manage that. Just for you, though. Can’t let the others see me get all soft.”

You wouldn’t; seeing Keigo warm and gooey, both of you mutually fucked-out, was a pleasure only you got to indulge in. And you loved every moment of it. 

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

taglist: @sinclairsamess (msg me if you’d like to be on it!)

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo #hawks x y/n #hawks x you #takami keigo x y/n #takami keigo x you #mha smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #hawks #hawks smut #hawks fanfiction #takami keigo smut

[woopboopboop]

heaven is a place on earth; hell is too

a/n: i just like the idea behind the prompt so i thought i’d write it. and to @harrysgloves​, thank you for the encouragement sent early this year! happy reading everyone! :)

content warnings: strong language, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of drug.

[usually, in the story, the gang leader will kidnap a person, right? this time, it’s the other way around]

“Are you a demon?”

She stops twirling the handcuffs in her hand and put it on the wooden drawer next to the bedroom doorway. For a beat, she doesn’t quiet know what to say because it is not the common “where am I?” or “who are you?” or even him trying to escape. But, only for a beat. Then, she straightens from where she is leaning at the door.

When he asks the next question, she pretends to not hear and calls for Ezra. If it is not for the real intention behind this, she probably would entertain his question and tell him if there is any angel in the room, if she is one, it would be an incarnation of Lucifer.

The younger boy comes as quick as she calls him and stands beside her at the doorway, waiting for whatever she has to say.

“He’s still in the cloud,” she says, eyes still assessing Harry who is lying on his back on the bed before turning her attention to the raven haired boy next to her. “How many did you use?”

“Just like you wrote in the note,” Ezra answers. 

She hums and returns to look at Harry who is now looking at his hands, inspecting for who knows what and mumbling something. Well, she did want the drug to make him forget a little bit. But not to the point where he is delirious. In this condition, there is no way he can give her what she is looking for.

“Are you sure?” Her eyes return to Ezra’s confused ones. There must be something wrong somewhere. He did what she told him to. Maybe not in a way she had instructed it. “You do know there’s a point before the number five, right?”

When she said that the confusion in his eyes shifts to realisation and it dawns on him. That would explain it. He did not forget, obviously. He misread it. He should’ve given Harry a half of the vial, not the whole thing.

She let out a sigh, thinking how there is no undoing this now. She can only hope the effect of the drug will wear off soon. Besides her, Ezra looks like he is trying to say something but the words don’t come out. He gives up then, head drooping slightly, the tips of his ears are red. 

“It’s okay, Ezra.” She gives him a small smile, trying to ease his silent guilt as he knows this plan is important to her. The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes but he doesn’t want to say anything, afraid that it will make the situation worst. Instead, he says his apology before leaving quietly and quickly after she dismisses him.

“Am I… on a boat?” Harry slurs.

At first, she answers him by shaking her head, hand grabbing the abandoned cuffs on the drawer while she strides over to him. The colour is muted in the room and she figures he can’t see much but the faint cold blue of the evening that is falling like a dusky curtain of the room. So when she stops a reasonable distance away from him, she answers him curtly, “No. Not anymore.”

The sight is a great pity. It is almost like seeing someone on the edge of falling off the pedestal. Who would’ve thought that there will be time when she can see a person who is deemed organised and calculated, feared in the underworld, be so weak. Unguarded. His once pressed, white dress shirt stained with dirt and blood.

Seeing how vulnerable he is in that moment; she can just end him then and there. That was the job after all. And she did pull the trigger that had sent brain pieces to fly everywhere before Harry landed face down on the flour sacks stacked on the boat with a thud, leaving white powder dancing in the air. Not really a way to go for a notorious gang leader if you ask her but the woman and the two men on the other side of the canal seemed content which made it another job well done.

Except that the brain blown was not Harry’s. And as far as the world, especially the Abramo who had delivered their order to end Harry’s life and insisted on witnessing it, is concerned, he is a dead man.

“Am I in hell?” His voice snaps her from her trance. She thought he slips out of his consciousness again when he went silence seconds ago.

This sod. She tilts her head, looking at him and shrugs. “Depends.”

There is something in his eyes and she knows he is trying to make sense of it all because she feels his resistance when she tugs his wrist closer to the bed post above his head. A part of him resurfacing, despising to be in such position. But his brain might still be too hazy to think through so he just let her cuffs him without much struggle.

“Oh! Kinky,” he teases, neck straining to look where his cuffed wrist is at which makes her scoffs. He then looks at her like he is taking note of her face, eyes narrowed.

Maybe he is remembering how she looks like so it’s easy for him to instruct his men to hunt her down once he gets out of there. If he is able to walk out there alive that is. 

If he wants to. 

If she lets him. 

Because, even though as organised and calculated of a man Harry is, this time, she has the few steps ahead.

///

“Now, really,” Harry starts. Sitting up becomes more of a task when one of his hands is cuffed and his brain feels like it is rattling against his skull with every move he makes. “If you wanted to see me so badly, we could have just meet up.”

When he woke up minutes ago, he thought he was in his bed until his senses kicked in and it hurt almost as his throbbing head. Since then, he has been trying to get out of the restrain that tied him to the bed post on top his head and figures out what is happening, where is he. Out the window, it is pitch-black.

He probably is in hell; his brain had decided to land him there.

In retrospect, it is as surprising as it is expected. To be in hell, that is. After all of the deals making, bloods spilling, life taking, fists colliding, he knows there is a place for him here. Only that he expects that it would be overwhelmingly hot and full of screaming human, or what’s left of them. Where he is now is opposite of that. The cold nips his skin and the silence is unnerving. Maybe hell is not all fire and brimstones.

“I tried,” the woman says. Her voice is smooth.

That smooth voice is a good sign. It shows that this person is still able to tolerate whatever deal that he can make out of this. But it is not necessarily safe.

“You are a busy man.”

In between the lack of conversation, he tries to place her somewhere and everywhere but he has never seen her before. Moving up to find a more comfortable position, the movement has caused a dull throb behind his head that makes him wince. Somehow, it also unlocks a sound of gunshot and his gaze flicks to her. At the foot of the bed, she is unfazed.

“You shot me.” His voice rumbles lowly; somewhere between amusement and danger.

“That what was asked for.” It is stated oh-so-matter-of-factly and he accepts it.

He is in no place to make a fuss about it since enemies, like friends or business partners, are made along the way. If anything, he is a little bit bewildered at the attempt of keeping him alive and he doesn’t like not knowing what brought him here. Well, aside from someone ordering this woman here to kill him, but he is not dead though, which makes the motive behind whatever this is, is more questionable.

“Am I dead? I am in hell?”

The questions are supposed to be echoed in his brain but his slightly hazy state betrays him which caused the words to left his mouth unfiltered. The words then hang in the air and it makes him internally cringe. Her unamused face certainly doesn’t help with the situation. “What?”

“I never really thought people like you believe in afterlife.” To be fair, he never really thought about it himself. He is too busy living his life here. Not the one after. “And that is the second time you ask me that question,” she continues.

“So, I am alive.” He swears his mouth is really trying to destroy all the reputation he has been building all these years of being a gang leader. Fearless, self-assured and all that but he conceals the uncertainty in his voice with a smirk. “Why? They didn’t pay you enough for you to complete your job? Maybe you are afraid my men would take revenge on my death?”

She raises one eyebrow, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and he takes that as a sign to probe further, “Sentiment, perhaps?”

“They paid enough. A vendetta is the least of my concern. And no, it’s not sentiment.” With every answer to his question, she takes a step closer until she stops at his side.

“Then you’re holding me for ransom? It would be a huge amount of money, although, I don’t think my accountant would be so happy with that much money flowing out –”

“I have more important purpose for you than death or money.”

If it’s not him or his money, so it might be for her own benefit. The thing about Harry or he would like to think so in this way about himself is that his concern when it comes to being in a situation or making a deal is he will be leaning unto anything that benefits him the most. He tolerates as long as he is presented with a mutually beneficial outcome. In this situation, it is no difference. She wants something from him and he wants her to let him go.

“Interesting.” A smirk on his lips is now blooming into a full smile as he tilts his head. “Maybe you can uncuff me first and then we can carry on with our business?”

If she hears him, she is purposely ignoring his question and diverts her attention to reaching whatever it is in her trouser pocket. When she pulls something out of it, she holds a picture of a man at an arm length. Its creased lines showed that it has been folded and unfolded multiple times.

He is about to take it from her hand to inspect something scribbled at the corner of the picture but she retreats her arm half way, still holding it between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you know him?”

“You know, we could’ve discussed about this over a meet up or dinner. The cuff is really unnessa –”

“Just answer me.”

If she has been quiet this whole time, passive, this is the first time he sees her reacting. The smoothness in her voice now has an edge to it, her eyes are hard and piercing; a presage of storm. He presses his lips together and answers with a nod.

“I need you to talk to him,” she says. The picture is folded and put in her pocket again.

He cocks one eyebrow towards her. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“I know only you can reach him.”

That is true, to a certain extent. The last question he has now is that will doing what she wants him to do benefits him too, so he asks in the way that he usually does. “What if I won’t?”

Like a fired bullet, her fist catches tight in the front of his clothes and then her hand finds his throat, knocking his head hard against the headboard. He juts his chin up almost defiantly and grabs her wrist with his free hand.

He pushes her wrist away but it is a futile effort as he can feel how her fingers reach near the particular throbbing part at the nape of his neck, digging in. 

“Fir – first the cuff. Now, you are tr – trying to choke me? Take me, fuck, take me on a dinner first, at least.” He grins despite his choked words and his ragged breath.

“You fucker,” she spats, eyes darken, “this is all a game for you, isn’t it?”

The storm he predicts reaches him and he is trapped in it as she pushes him impossibly further into the headboard, her fingers tightening around his neck while his loosens up around her wrist. He is whirling little by little, the full smile reduced to a tug at the corner of his lips.

“The Abramo was right when they come to us, to me, to launch their vendetta. You are a cocky piece of shit and the only place you deserve to be at is at the bottom of the cold, murky canal with a big gap behind your head!”

“Do you regret… no – not killing me?” He chuckles but it sounds strangled.

“You are making it really easy right now,” she snarls.

Maybe it is the restriction of breath or the warmth of her breath fanning out over his face against the coldness of the room but there is a glint in her eyes. He had been in near-death’s hold before but this feels like he is being thrusted into one without warning as he witnesses a sinister gleam in her face. She has been waiting for this moment. However, before she can end it or start it, she let go of him and strengthens herself up.

“Although,” she sighs, backing away. “I believe your mum and sister won’t find it that easy.”

It takes him minutes to be able to focus on her again, blinking and gasping a little. Her eyes are still boring into him. In between relief and dismal and the ringing in his ears, he notices her settling into the unfazed demeanour she was in before until –

“Dotty and Dusty will probably going to miss you too when you’re gone.”

His stills.

Nobody. Nobody knows about the cats. 

Rivals targeting his family is a part of his work hazard and he always makes sure they are under his protection. It is such trivial matter. It is only cats’ names. But to know it specifically holds a certain power against him because it either means that she had been in his house before or it means that she has been in close proximity with either his mum or his sister to know about that much information.

And at that moment, whatever security he puts his family under, it is not safe anymore. His stomach bottoms out and she is delighted to see him in that way to say the least.

“What do you want?” He grits his teeth, moving forward to fight and the cuff clinks against the headboard because of the sudden jerk.

“There’s only one thing that I want.” Her voice is smooth. She is back at the feet of the bed again, now, with a faint smile on her lips. “But I need you to be able to hold up a proper conversation first before we continue with the business.”

It is not much of a mock or provocation but he still feels a squeezing of terror and of anger. His jaw clenches. “I am talking to you now, don’t I?”

She is already walking towards the door, leaving him struggling to stand up behind her. The bed legs scrap against the wooden floor as he pulls the bed along with him when he tries to grab her arm or shoulder or hair but she is already far away from his reach.

“Not enough,” she says while sparing him a look over the shoulder.

When he realises he is not going to go anywhere, not when he is still restrained to the bed, especially, not when the wood under his feet begins to warp, he fell back on the bed, eyes squeezed tight to block the sharp pain of his head. Defeated.

“Get a good rest. I need you fresh first thing in the morning,” she says before the door shuts. 

Wherever he is, be it in the real world or the after, this is hell.

#writings #gangleader!harry #gang!harry #gang!au #Harry Styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #one direction #one direction imagines #one direction preferences #one direction imagine #one direction preference #mafia!au #mafia!harry #gangleader!h

[itsthestutterforme]

Becoming Mine (Vincenzo)

Summary: Y/N is working with Vincenzo and a loyal ally from Italy. Han seok captures her and tortures her for information. She holds out longer than he hoped and wants her loyalty for himself.//SMUT WARNING, MINORS DNI

--

Jang Hanseok sent Ms. Choi to get her hands dirty and oversee the torture of Y/N for information. Y/N and Vincenzo grew up in the Mafia together. They taught each other everything.

He has asked Y/N for help with taking down Babel and she said yes without any questions asked. And now she has to suffer the consequences of loyalty.

First they started with electrocution. They tied her to a metal chair and put spark plugs on the back side of the chair. They would send a jolt, each longer than the last. "Go to hell!" She yells at Ms. Choi after the jolt that lasted 20 seconds.

Then they moved on to cutting with the thinnest daggers. Death by a thousand cuts, she always thought it was a cliche thing to use. But hey, to each their own torture method.

Her hair sticks to her forehead and the sides of her neck as he digs his knife across her collar bone. "Fuck!"

Ms. Choi walks into Hanseok's office with a grimace. "What's wrong?" "She's not breaking. She's a lot stronger than I thought." Ms. Choi says, linking her hands behind her back. Hanseok stands from his chair and rounds the desk.

"What tactics have you used?" He asks. "Electrocution, cutting, waterboarding, fire and even bludgeoning and she still tells me to go to hell." Choi rambles.

"I could use someone of her loyalty," Hanseok states. "I want to meet her," he adds. "With all due respect, sir, she'll never agree to that. She's endure days of torture for Vincenzo, she isn't going to give him up or betray him. She's willing to risk her life for him." "Will you risk your life for me?" He asks, searching her face for a response.

"I'll kill anyone you tell me to, sir," "That didn't answer my question. I still want to see her." He says. Ms. Choi drives him to the warehouse where they keep Y/N. She was currently unconscious from the pain she has endured. Hanseok's face grimaced and he says, "You took get your hands dirty a little too literally."

Y/N gasped as she regain consciousness and she groaned softly. She looked up to see Jang Hanseok and he smiles. "Who the hell are you?" She asked before spitting out some blood in her mouth. "Hopefully, I'll be your new boss." He says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "In your dreams, tough guy." She snarks.

A man punches her across the face and she looked at him with pure annihilation and vexation. That look gave Hanseok butterflies in his stomach. The feeling was beyond the norm and he had no idea what the origin was. She opened her mouth to say something else but Hanseok intercepted.

"Touch her again, and I'll have you thrown off a building." He threatens. Hanseok watched as the man stepped away from her. "You, cut her loose," He adds, pointing to another man.

"Sir, are you sure about this?" Choi asked and he didn't answer. She was cut free and the first thing Y/N grabs is the man's throat before breaking it.

Another man came at her and she ducked under the punch before punching him twice in his armpit before punching his throat. She limps over to the table where her weapons were and grabbed her smaller knives.

She tossed them in the air and within seconds, three men dropped dead with the knives in their skulls. Which only left Ms. Choi and Jang Hanseok.

She grabs a gun from one of the corpses and aimed it at them. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you both," "Do that and my men sets that entire plaza on fire with everyone inside."

"I'm calling your bluff lady, you're just trying to save your ass because you know that I'll put bullet in your head without blinking," she says as she cocks the gun and applies steady pressure on trigger.

"Wa-" she pulls the trigger and sends a bullet straight through Ms. Choi's head. Hanseok chuckles wryly before saying, "Now I'm in need of a new lawyer and strategist," he says, his hands still stuffed in his pockets.

"Who are you?" "The CEO of Babel," he answers nonchalantly. "So you're the one who started all this,"

"Well I can't take all the credit. She had her fair share," he says, referencing to Ms. Choi. Red dots appear on Y/N chest and she notices. "I have this place surrounded. One move to shoot me and you'll get shot to pieces. Just take the easy way and work for me. It'll be a lot of fun." "Right, like killing innocent people is fun,"

"It seems like you enjoy killing people." "Only those who deserve it," she snaps. "Regardless of your intentions, my guys wills drop you before you can fire. Question is, do you want to live and be treated like a queen?"

She doesn't respond and he adds, "Or I can kill both you and your mother. She loves to visit a little shop in.. Siena, right? What's it's called again?"

Her grip tightens on the gun before tossing it across the room. "Kill her and I promise to kill you and every single one of your sponsors," "Looks like you and I have more in common than we thought. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." He walks out of the warehouse and she hesitantly follows.

Y/N's POV

You sigh softly as you stepping into the cold, crisp in contrast of the warm, misty air in bathroom. You had pulled your hair into a loose ponytail before you put on Hanseok's shorts and t-shirt. You hate to say it, but his clothes were extremely comfortable. He promised to take me out shopping tomorrow for clothes.

"I didn't know what you liked so I bought everything," he says, referencing to the various plates of food on the kitchen counter. Your eyes settle on kimchi jiagae and you make your way over to the table.

You a grab a few bowls to try some of the kimchi jiagae, bulgogi, dakdoritgang, dakgangjeong and mixed rice. You set them on the tray sit on the pillow he prepared for you.

"You like spicy food, huh?" He says and you nod. "Yeah, my brother likes spicy food too." You wait until he comes back with his tray of food to dig in. You hum lowly as you eat your bulgogi and you feel a hand touch my chin. You pull away and look at him with confused.

"What the hell are you doing?" "I'm sorry, I just.. you look.. you're beautiful," "If you think that you can someone convince me into sleeping with you, you have another thing coming,"

"What? I can't appreciate your beauty without something in return?" He asks innocently. "Hell no," you sneer. He chuckles before saying, "I'm going to have some fun with you."

Over the next few weeks, he has bought you a whole new wardrobe, shoes and jewelry. He's even made sure my hair and nails are done with complementary spa days.

He's been pampering you ever since you were a part of his life. You've been enjoying it but you've developed a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It also raises questions. Why did he choose you? How long will this pampering thing last? Is your mom still held hostage? What is he planning on doing with Vincenzo?

"Hey, kitten." You roll your eyes at his new pet name for you. You have no idea where he got it from because you are nothing like a kitten. You were playful or adventurous, but you were high maintenance.

"How many times do I have to tell.." you trail off as you see him in a light blue three piece suit with white leather shoes. His hair was combed to the side with gel and you could smell his cologne from where you sat.

"Why are you dressed like that?" "Do you like it?" He say, nearing you slowly. "No," you lie and he smiles at you. "You sure about that?" He leans his hands on either side of you and ducked his head to be at your eye level. "I bought you a matching dress. Get dressed, we leave in an hour."

He nudges his nose against yours before leaving the room and leaving you hot and bothered. Ever since you walked in on him lifting weights without his shirt, your mind came up with various, filthy scenarios that made your panties soaked.

You stand up from the chair and walked into the bedroom to see a goregous silk, light blue dress with diamond seam around the midrange of the stomach.

You take a shower and apply your favorite lotion and perfume before you slide on the dress. You latch on the sparkly, light blue heels. You put on your robe and sit down to apply some foundation, highlight and mascara on to your face.

You were just about to clip your hair up and leave a few curls out but you hear Hanseok say, "Leave your hair down." You look at him through the mirror to see him leaning his arm on the door frame, pulling his dress shirt taught around his solid biceps. He eyes you with a soft smile on his face. "You look beautiful," he says as he nears you once again.

"I know." You stand up and meet him half way across the room. "Shall we?" He says , offering you his arm. "Let's just get this night over with,"

**

You two return at one in the morning and you were infuriated. He spent the whole night flirting with random women at the gala. "You make no sense to me, Jang Hanseok." You say, taking off your earring and tossing them on the dresser.

"What makes you say that?" He asks, sitting on the bed to take off his shoes. "You pamper me with all these gifts, clothes, jewelry to convince me to stay in your life and then you spend the entire night flirting with every one you could lay your eyes on." You snap.

He takes off his vest with a sigh and loosens his tie. "I wanted to see if you cared. Cared about me and my attention." "Well, do you?" He adds. "If I didn't care, do you think I would have said anything?" You snap.

He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you inches away from his face. He tightens his grip and says through gritted teeth, "I've had enough of your attitude, just answer the question."

"I just did." His fingers dig into you neck enough to cause discomfort but not enough to break skin. "Do you care about me?" He asks. "Unfortunately, yes." "Why unfortunately?" "It only makes it harder to-" "

"To betray me?" You push his hand away and say, "What the hell makes you think of something like that? I was going to say it makes it harder to say no but you always think everyone is out to get you. It should be me asking the qu-"

He stops your rant by slamming his lips on yours. One hand rests on the back of your head and the other smooths over the dip of your back.

Your fingers work on unbuttoning his shirt as you walk him onto the bed. He sits on the edge and pulls you into his lap. You pull his shirt off his shoulder and leave kisses up his chest in it's wake.

He moans softly and you could feel his hard on press against your inner thigh. You tug the rest of his shirt off and push his back on the bed. You buck your hips against him and a soft whine leaves his lips.

You quiet him by tenderly biting down on his bottom lip. His lips latched onto yours and presses your core harder against him.

He pulls your hair gently to evade your attention from his lips. He rolls you on you stomach and stands. "Han seok, what are you-" he rips the dress open from the back, making you yell out in surprise.

"Damn it, I liked that dress." "There's plenty more where that came from kitten," he smooths his hands up the back of your legs and squeezes your ass.

You pull off the rest of your mangled dress, leaving you in your white lace set. "And don't you dare rip-" he rips the lace underwear in two and pulls you so your knees are on the edge of the bed. "I'm going to kill you, Han seok."

"I've been wanting to get a taste of you since I set my eyes on you." You let out a squeak when you feel his hot breath agaisnt your core.

You've never been in the position before so you have no idea what the expect. He licks up the stripe with slow, deep licks, each lick lasting longer on your clit. "Oh God," you grip the sheets with a white knuckle grip when he curls his tongue along the upper wall and caresses a g-spot. Your legs started to shake and loud moans leave your lips when he slips in two fingers and curled them hard.

You tried crawling away from him, feeling overwhelmed of the pleasure but he holds you back by your thighs. With a few more licks, you release yourself on his tongue and he hums with satisfaction.

"You taste a lot better than I thought, baby." Your body already started to twitch and you could tell that this was going to be a long night.

You roll onto your back and chills roll down your spine when you see him licking your juices off of his fingers. Pushing yourself backwards, he pulls you closer to him by your ankles. "Han seok, please. It's too much."

"You're doing great, kitten. Just relax and let it wash over you." He says softly, pecking your lips before settling himself between your legs once again.

He spreads your legs wide before he sucks on your clit harder and faster than the first time, sending shock waves through your body. "Fuck! Oh my God!"

Looking down at him, he locks eyes with you and he completely devours your bundle of folds. He alternate between licking side to side and up and down with a curl of his tongue.

Your back arches and stars cloud your vision as you come down from your second high. He pulls away from you with his lower face covered in your juices. "Come here," he lifts your trembling body and dropping it into his lap. He smooths his hands over your ass before unbuckling his dress pants.

He pulls down his boxers and his erection stands up tall, making your whimper. He's going to destroy you. "I'll be gentle," he whispers, lifting your chin to meet his gaze.

You nod your head in agreement and lines himself up at your entrance. Throwing your head back as your walls expand and contract around him. You wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his neck and he bounces you in his lap.

Time slows a few seconds when you meet his gaze. "Oh God," you chant as the knot intensified in your stomach. "I'm close, Han seok."

His lips locked with yours and your boys jolts forward when his thumb rubs hard circles on your clit. Your entire body spasms as he cums inside of you but he continued to rub circles until you came.

He stayed buried inside of you while you sat in his lap as you both catches your breaths. Resting his forehead against yours, he says, "I love you. You believe me what I say that, right?"

You nod and holds the sides of your face. "Say it," "I love you," "Good girl," he pulls out of you and slides you both under the covers.

You lay directly ontop of him with a thin sheet covering the both of you, sighing as he draws circles on your back.

#kdrama fanfic #vincenzo #kdramas #smut

[stardust-kenobi]

Stay

Din Djarin x reader

Summary: You had been traveling with the Mandalorian for weeks now. He’d saved your life, inevitably creating a stronger bond between the two of you. One evening, Din opens up to you.

Warnings: just fluff (“no smut?” yes! I am just as surprised as you are), Din being starved of affection

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: In this fic, the child is not with him (don’t kill me). this has not been proofread yet, might be some grammatical errors.

I have requests sitting in my inbox and I’m so sorry for pushing them to the side right now but I got hella inspired to write for mando and could not wait. I’ll get to them soon I promise 💕

gif is not mine

He saved you.

Three weeks ago, he broke his metaphorical tough exterior shell and saved you from an impeding doom.

He didn’t have to, in fact it was probably easier for him to leave you there, but he placed himself in that same danger to rescue you.

You were standing there, suddenly surrounded by troopers, some with artillery questionably beyond his defense capabilities. Mando had escaped, he was fleeing successfully, but he returned when he realized you weren’t with him anymore. 

Never had you seen a human being destroy so many armed enemies so swiftly in the realization that he may lose you without even a single scratch upon your skin. Prior to this occurrence, you didn’t believe he cared about you at all. You were just temporarily valuable to him.

You joined him on his adventures after meeting him in the cantina on Sorgan, with the promise to present him with information on a bounty if he provided you shelter from people who wanted to harm you. You told him it was complicated, and you couldn’t go into detail about the situation. He was reluctant, and even told you no initially. You weren’t sure if it was the motive to collect the bounty money or his secretly warm heart that changed his mind, but you were thankful nonetheless.

After your rescue, you gave him the information he sought, he captured his target and gathered his reward, but still, three weeks later, you remain a passenger of the Razor Crest, and he hasn’t insisted that you leave him. 

After it happened, there was a lot of silence between you two. Gradually, though, he spoke to you more. To your surprise, he initiated most of the conversations. He wanted to know about you. Unfortunately, your past created a wall, a barrier, between you and anyone who tried to get too close. You bonded with him slowly, and you were appreciative of his company. Against your strong intentions, you were starting to have romantic feelings for him. Feelings you had tried to ignore for the sake of having your heart inevitably broken in time. Feelings for a man you’d never even truly seen with your own eyes. Somehow, though, the mysterious nature of the Mandalorian was all the more interesting to you.

He was lonely, living in the vast galaxy all alone. No matter someone’s lifestyle, surely that becomes hard after some time. You wonder if his loneliness drove him toward you. He was kind, that much was obvious, but even with his warmth, he seemed to block himself off from you as well. You’d call him a friend, or an acquaintance at the very least. The new feeling of being able to trust him with your life added a thick layer of depth to your friendship.

Tonight, both of you were rested opposite to each other around a crackling fire located in the distant forests of the lusciously green moon of Endor. The air was thin, and a slight breeze sent chills down your exposed arms every now and then. Mando wanted to stop here as peaceful place to rest for the night rather than sleeping on the Crest again. A change of scenery is certainly nice, you thought.

“Its quieter here than I imagined” you break the silence. 

“Wasn’t always quiet here” he mumbles, looking up at the stars beginning to peak into the evening sky.

“That is true...” you agree, remembering the events that took place here only a few short years ago in the days of the Empire.

Mando brewed some tea on the fire. You’d both grown to enjoy the soothing heat of the tea before you went to sleep.

“Do you want some?” he called out to you, pouring a cup for himself in the process.

“Yes, please”

You walked over to him, the fire warming the skin on your arms as you passed it. You attempt to look him in the eyes, only to be met with the reflection of the small flames staring back in the shine of his helmet. You smile softly, still aware that he could see into your eyes.

“Thank you” you nodded to him, accepting the mug from his gloved hands. As you move to return to your seat across the fire, a leather encased hand wrapped around the small of your wrist and pulled lightly toward him.

“Stay, please” he gently pleads. You were surprised, he’d never been so forward before.

“Okay” you responded, turning back toward him.

“I need....someone” he released his hold, spilling his words out uncomfortably.

“I’ll stay here, I don’t mind” you comfort him, noticing in his tone and shifting body language how shy he was becoming. You sat next to him, your knee barely brushing against his.

“Thank you” he spoke quietly, dropping his head.

“Are you okay, Din?” You asked, uttering his name out loud to him for the first time since he’d told you his real name. He looked toward you again, likely warmed and charmed by hearing you address him correctly.

“Yes. I’m okay. I’m just..” he started. It was obvious he was struggling with his words.

“Lonely?” You filled in his sentence for him. He audibly exhaled, indicating that you hit the nail on the head with your assumption.

“I guess you could say that” he mumbled.

“Din, I’m always with you” you consoled him.

“I know. Sometimes I just need more than that” he said sadly. You knew he didn’t mean sexually. You knew he wasn’t implying that he wanted you to give him anything.

“I know what you mean” you admitted.

“You do?” his tone was hopeful.

“Yeah...sometimes you just need the touch of another human being” you said, moving your hips- toward him. You were as close to his body as you could be.

“Sure” he agreed immediately, thankful that you formed the words for him.

“Have you always been alone, Din?” 

“Not always, there were more of my kind that I was close to, years ago” 

You dared not question what happened to those people as you were certain it would upset him.

“I thought, after what I’ve been through, that maybe I wanted to be alone” You began. “But, its growing old and I’m growing lonelier”

“You’ve probably wondered why I’ve let you stay with me this long”

“Everyday, I wonder why...every single day”

“You’ve grown on me, y/n” He said after moments of silence. “I care too much about you now to leave you in danger. I realize that may be overstepping some boundaries” he was gentle in his words. A smile was plastered onto your face. Never had the Mandalorian dug so deep into his feelings for you.

“I care about you, too” you reciprocated the gesture. He snapped his attention to you, certainly not expecting this from you either.

“Its not something I’m used to. Being cared about” he said, looking down to the forest floor again.

Your heart was shattered at the sound of his confession. This gentle giant was deprived of affection and was turning to you for comfort.

“You are just as deserving of love as any other being in this galaxy” you blurted suddenly. You realized the weight of your words, and you worried none for how he’d respond.

He was without words and you expected no response.

“That’s...that’s kind of you, y/n” he says. You could hear the blushing smile he possessed.

You planted your palm on top of his hand that rested upon his knee. You slowly, and hesitantly, leaned your head onto his shoulder. The beskar shoulder plates made it uncomfortable against your skull, but it was the best effort you could make in the moment. His body shifted, noticeably unaware of how to react to you.

“I know we are still getting to know each other, but, I’m here for you” you said.

Din was silent. But after a deep breath, his hand pulled itself away. You were worried you’d made him uncomfortable, but it was quite the contrary. His other gloved hand gripped the tip of the middle finger and pulled the thick covering from his hand. For the first time since you’d met this man, you were seeing his bare skin. Internally, you gasped, but you were inaudible to him in response.

As your palm lay flat on his lower thigh, you watch him lower his newly exposed hand move to lay atop of yours. The warmth collected on the surface of his skin from being encased in the glove immediately transferred heat your frigidly chilled hand.

“You’re so cold” he sweetly states the obvious.

“I’m okay”

“You need to get warm” he says, wrapping his fingers around your hand and squeezing lightly. Your heart fluttered.

“I feel warmer sitting next to you” you reassured him. This was true, as the heat from the fire stored itself in his armor at a quicker rate than that of your skin.

“You can get closer, if you want”

You did just that, and removed what little space remained between you and him. You looked up at him, wishing so badly that you’d be able to kiss him. You knew the impossibility of doing so.

“Your cheeks are red” Din said with concern. He released your hand and slowly raised it to meet your cold cheek. There was not only another transfer of warmth from his skin to yours, there was a spark of electricity that felt so deeply intimate. You leaned your face into his hold, and closed your eyes with the feeling of affection he offered.

You opened your eyes again, to see him intently staring, or so it seemed. You wrapped your hand around his wrist, encouraging him to continue his touch against you.

“I wish I could be even closer to you” you muttered. Speaking partially against his palm. You respected his culture but wanted nothing more than to really feel him.

“Can I trust you?” He spoke at a whisper. Your mind wandered. What could he mean?

“Of course. You’ve saved my life. The least I could be is trustworthy to you”

“Can I kiss you?” He inquired. Your heart began to beat rapidly in eager anticipation.

“How would y-” you began, knowing it wasn’t allowed for you to see his face.. He already knew the end of your sentence.

“Close your eyes, cyar’ika” he said sweetly. You didn’t know what that word meant, but with his tone, you assumed it meant something kind. “As long as you don’t see me, it’s okay”

You did as he asked, nonverbally giving him permission to kiss you. You heard the beskar unlatch and be lifted from his head. You breathed in sharply and slowly released your lung’s capacity.

“Keep them closed” his voice, now not muffled by his helmet, was such a wonderful sound. It graced your ears so raw, and so close to you. You’d always imagined what he sounded like without the thickness of his helmet blocking his mouth, but actually hearing it was breathtaking to you.

His hand returned to your face to cup your cheek. You felt him move closer to you without saying a word.

Suddenly, his lips delicately crashed into yours, and you form your lips into him. Your mouths were fused and still for a few moments, just taking each other in. You were able to finally smell him. He gave off an aroma of cedar that mimicked the scents of the luscious forest trees mixed with a deep masculine scent. You absorbed the presence you could observe of him without the sense of sight.

His lips were surprisingly soft and supple as they pressed into yours. He was gentle, and by the sharp breath he took, it was obvious he had not kissed anyone in a long time. If ever. You were both enthralled in one another’s affection. Neither of you expected this contact when you first sat around the fire. Slowly, you both rotated your lips in sync together, as if you’d both rehearsed it.

After what felt like a lifetime of connection to Din, you both made the decision to pull away. He breathed out in a giggle. The type that you hear when someone is overwhelmed with passion. Your eyes remained closed until he couldn’t put his helmet back in.

As you hear it latch back, you still wait for his confirmation.

“You can open your eyes now”

And he looked the same as he did the last time your eyelids were open. You tried to wipe the uncontrollable smile off of your face, but that effort alone made it more noticeable.

“Thank you for trusting me” you broke the silence. He grabbed your hand again, and lightly squeezed as he did before.

“Y/n” he called to you.

You looked to him.

“I don’t want to be lonely anymore” he said plainly.

“You don’t have to be, Din” you promised him.

“That’s why I never asked you to leave” he started “You make me feel whole...I don’t know how else to say it” he spilled out. It was clear that he was hesitant to say these things and be so forward, but it also seemed to be a relief to him.

“I’d love to stay with you. Wherever you go, I’ll go. I’ll stay until you decide you don’t want me around anymore” you said. You were both speaking at a whisper, despite being alone in the forest.

“That won’t happen” he assured you. “I can’t let you go now”

You smiled ear to ear. Your heart was full in the intimacy of your conversation. You couldn’t wait for the endless travels and adventures that the two of you would have to come.

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din x reader #mando #mando x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x reader #din djarin fic #din djarin fluff #my work #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #mando x y/n #mando x you