#;;v. a price you are willing to pay

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ! ❞

❝ THEY TOOK YOU. SO SATORU GOJO DID THE ONLY REASONABLE THING — HE TOOK THEIR LIVES ! ❞

✧ pairing: gojo satoru x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: satoru gojo rarely loses his cool. except when it comes to you. so when you get taken and found hurt, he takes matters into his own hands to find out who did it and make them pay.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, canon compliant, feral gojo, acts of violence, reader gets kidnapped and attacked, gojo goes insane, gojo clan sucks, higher ups get asses best, yaga and Ijichi featured, dom!gojo, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, implied multiple rounds, swearing,

✧ w/c: 8,446

The worst mistake Satoru Gojo ever made that morning was to get out of bed.

If he had just stayed in bed that morning, turned his cellphone on silent, and basked in the warmth of the soft comforter you had picked out (even as you balked at the exorbitant price) and especially in the warmth of your embrace — the one place where it felt as if it was okay to be himself, just him.

And now it was just him.

Because you were gone.

When his phone rang that morning, your lips had been against his, indulging in a lazy morning tryst because for once, Satoru had been off duty — or he was supposed to be off duty. Your gaze had been the ones to stir him from sleep, as even in the embrace of sleep he couldn’t resist you or your adoring eyes — the very same he held more precious than his own.

“I didn’t even say anything, how did you wake up?” And his lips curl at your slight frown, his fingers brushing over the curve of your cheek.

“Thought my pretty wife was admiring my beauty while I slept so I had to wake up to the same,” and he’s leaning over to press lazy kisses along your jaw.

“Did you just call yourself beautiful?” You snort, and he grins, before falling into a playful pout.

“My own wife doesn’t think her husband’s beautiful?” And you’re rolling your eyes, before rolling over on top of him, your body only covered by the black t-shirt you had stolen from him last night, a small groan as he felt your very bare thighs brush against his boxers.

You were a goddess — your smile ethereal in the sunlight streaming in from the window as you leaned over him, and he was willing to worship all his life at your altar, if you would only give him a brush of your lips.

“Of course I think you’re beautiful, I’m the one always saying that anyway,” your lips brush his chastely, far too quick and teasing, “I was just imagining what Nanami would say if he heard that,”

“Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

“He would say the size of your ego is becoming a threat to Earth’s atmosphere,” and Satoru raises an eyebrow.

“And my darling wife would disagree, right?” and you look away, biting back a smile, “eh? You’d let him say such heinous things about me?”

“It’s not heinous if it’s true—“ you gasp, and he’s flipped you on your back, pressing his lips to yours to swallow your words, along with your giggles, as you break free, “Toru! Ah—“ and he nibbles at your neck, “hey!”

“You have to pay for the consequences of your actions, baby, what kind of sensei would I be?” And you’re rolling your eyes.

“I’m not your student, ngh,” you’re gasping as his teeth sinks into your neck, “if anything, I’m the one reigning you in,”

“Well then,” he chuckled in his words, as his fingers trace your jaw, “I’ll have to show you how far your student has come then,” and his lips only brush yours, when his phone rings.

“Baby,” you sigh, and he’s glancing at the phone, a sigh on his lips, as he reaches for the phone, sneaking a glance at you, before he picks up.

You press sweet kisses to his chest as you hear the faint murmur of Yaga’s voice through the phone, hearing reports of the special grades they’ve been tracking, “Old man, this is the first day off I’ve taken off in so looooong,” and he holds the phone away from his ear until Yaga’s screams fade, “fine, fine, send Ijichi,” he hangs up while Yaga was still mid-yell, tossing his phone on the bedside table with a sigh, “sweetheart,”

“I know,” you cup his cheek, his lips in a pout not made for the strongest sorcerer, but for your Satoru, “I’ll be here when you come back — waiting very impatiently,” and he chuckles, his lips finding yours.

“How’d I get so lucky to have such an understanding wife?” And your lips curl.

“You annoyed her into falling in love,” and he gapes at you as you giggle, until he’s got you pinned underneath him yet again, “what? It’s true!”

“Then I’ll have to annoy you some more, just to make sure,” and he’s finding you in another kiss, until his devilish fingers run down your sides, beginning their assault on the spots that made you laugh the most.

You pulled your lips from his, squealing, “Nooooo! Satoru, stop!” you tried to push him off from tickling you, but he was the strongest for a reason—a reason you usually were very grateful for, but not right now. And finally he relented, as you gasped and chuckled still, lips in the most adorable pout, “you’ll pay for that,”

“Oh really? How’s that, wifey?” and you kiss his lips chastely, barely a brush, as you cross your arms, fighting back a smile.

“That’s the only goodbye kiss you get,” and he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, before that smirk of his returns, “and you try to steal one and I’m making you sleep on the couch,” And he pouts, before you press a longer kiss to his lips, “you’re lucky I love you,”

Satoru grinned, “I know.”’

Yeah, he should have never gotten out of bed.

“Where is she?” For once, Satoru’s words were devoid of humor, the laughter and happiness sapped from his very essence the moment he had heard. The moment he had felt your cursed energy waver. All this time, Satoru’s eyes had been focused on the outline of your soul, no matter where he was, because you were always the one thing he wanted to come home to — that he needed to.

“I don’t know Satoru, that’s why I had called you,” Yaga runs his fingers through his hair, “goddamnit,” he swore, scrubbing a hand down his face, “the mission came from the higher ups, they wouldn’t give me the specifics, but they said it was confidential—“

“I don’t care for the details right now, do we know anything about where she is?” Satoru keeps his words carefully measured, muscles wound taut, the only thing keeping him from using blue to destroy Jujutsu Tech in one fell swoop was the thought of you, “did she tell you anything else—“

And Ijichi bursts in, brow furrowed, “Gojo, we have a lead.”

~~~

Was this how it would end?

You knew it was in your fate to die, eventually. A wretched cycle that all of you were forced to live. An endless baton pass that always ended with the last runner dying — nothing but a pile of corpses left behind and to look back on.

And it would almost be a relief, a blessing to finally be done — if it wasn’t for Satoru.

You knew he would blame himself for this. He always blamed himself. Blamed himself when he couldn’t beat Toji. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Riko. Blamed himself when he couldn’t save Geto. Because he was the strongest, and that meant he should be able to solve everyone’s problems — do everything no one else can do, be everywhere at once, and never fail.

Never. And yet, that’s not what the sleepless nights he spent working told you. It only told you that jujutsu would take everything from him, if he let it, and he would let it, if only that meant he could do more good.

And he was so good. Even if he didn’t see it — you could almost feel the lingering warmth of his embrace this morning, the wide grin on his lips as he peppered kisses down your neck, and the soft gaze of blues made of affection just for you — you would always see it for him.

You don’t see the curse coming, your vision blurred from the last strike. The crack of your bones barely registers in your ears, the curse presses you into the wall, claws pressed to your throat, drawing blood to run down your neck.

“Now, now, we can’t kill her, at least not yet,” a voice calls out, “we were given strict orders to wait,”

The curse’s growl reverberated across your skin, a desperate growl deep in its chest, the string of control being pulled taut, as its black nails dig deeper into your side, until it dropped you onto the ground like a rag doll.

Your body ached only for moments before it was chased away by numbness. And you could only wonder if this was how they felt? Riko, Haibara, Geto, all the others you watched die — was this the pain they felt? The ache of muscles that they could no longer feel, the sticky wetness of blood that seeped from their unknowing bodies, and the cold thst crept up from the tips of your toes.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted to stop. But each time you felt the tug of the other side, you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t. Not when Satoru needed you.

Your eyes burn with tears. And you needed him.

~~~

“Where is she?” The same question was ringing in Satoru’s head over and over since he had heard.

Candle wicks trembled with fear, casting shadows on the wall that shivered in the presence of the man before them. The papered panels was all that stood between him and these old men — the very same that played with the lives of many day in and day out. It would be far too easy to kill them all — in fact, it would barely take any effort at all with his cursed technique.

But he wouldn’t allow them the warm embrace of an instant death.

“Such insolence — how dare you enter this place and speak—“

“You ought to be thanking me,” his power sparked in the glint of his eyes, the glow of the lit wicks catching in the hard blues, “for not bashing your skulls in and ripping your hearts from your chests from the moment I entered,”

A silence swept over the room, another voice speaking, “Gojo—“

“The next words out of your mouth better be an answer because I don’t want to ask again,” his voice fills the silence in the room, only broken by the sounds of the candles crackle, “where is she?”

“We cannot disclose where—“ there’s a loud crack, the splintering of wood and the wet squelch of flesh and blood, and a cold breeze swept through the room, the candles going out.

Satoru’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of his neck, forcing the broken floorboards digging into his wrinkled skin, “I said I want an answer, do you think I would think twice about killing any of you?”

There’s a pause and the silence is only filled by the sound of gore dripping down the paper screens and hitting the floor.

“The only reason I haven’t yet was there was no point to it — no meaning,” and he could see you this morning, his lips curled for you, a strangled choking noise leaving his throat as the pads of his fingers squeezed around his neck, “but now I have every reason to, so tell me before I lose my patience,”

A silence fills the room again, until one of them speaks, “Let him go, and we’ll tell you.”

~~~

“Who do you work for?” the words come out strangled, your fingers bunching up your soaked fabric and pressing it to the gash on your stomach, “why did you bring me here?” You force yourself not to give them the satisfaction of a flinch.

“Do you really think it would be that simple to get me to reveal the reason, jujutsu sorcerer?” you hear a distant laugh, “we have our reasons, isn’t that simple enough? Or rather—”

His footsteps clapped against the floor, your head wrenched upwards, as a small yelp escapes your lips, “does it matter when you’re going to die either way?”

And you grit your teeth, before spitting on his face, half blood, half saliva, “At least I don’t have to live a life as pathetic as yours,” his fingers squeeze at your chin, your jaw aching under his grasp.

“Pathetic?” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt before, throwing you to the floor, body screaming in pain, but you refuse to show weakness, even as tears burn at your tear ducts, “And yet, I’m not the one bloodied and battered and two inches from death, bitch,” he scoffs, muttering, “I can see why they ordered us to kill you now, who would want someone like you around?”

“Now I’m listening, who gave you those orders?” Another voice says from behind him. The man freezes, while you lift your head, a small smile on your lips, “are you hard of hearing or just plain stupid? Well, I don’t really need to even ask that, do I?”

He was shrouded in shadow, but you didn’t need to see him to know it was him — especially as he tugged his blindfold down with two fingers, blue eyes devoid of any humor or joy, and instead only with hatred.

“Satoru Gojo,” the voice left the man’s lips slowly, but before he could react, the special grade curse that had held you was barreling towards him in a moment, before Satoru held it at bay with his infinity, the other curses following suit — how many did this curse user have in the room with him? Three? No more like five or six, but even so — you scoffed under your breath, it wouldn’t matter, “No, you idiots! Don’t—”

And in a moment, they are eviscerated — held back by his infinity, deep seeded growls and roars leaving their lips, “c’mon now, is this the best you can do? I was expecting more from those bold enough to take my wife, but I guess I expected too much,” he sighs, before he lifts one hand, “Cursed Technique Amplification, Blue,”

You barely can make out the screams from one another, the splatter of their essence raining down from above, until you hear footsteps rushing towards you, and you’re hauled to your feet, pressed against the cursed user, his hand around your neck.

“One more move, and I break her neck,” Satoru landed below with ease, his gaze raised until he met yours, and you saw it soften for you — a silent question of ‘are you okay?’ and your nod and a forced smile that told him you were okay enough.

“You can try,” his words were slow and measured, just as his steps towards you were, “but I don’t think you understand who you are dealing with,”

He tensed, fingers digging into your neck, “I know perfectly well who you are, Satoru Gojo, and I am not afraid to die by your hand for this,”

Satoru’s lips curled, “I wasn’t talking about me,”

The kidnapper’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

And you jabbed at his knee, the bone splintering under your force, but you barely hear the snap or his scream because of the blood roaring in your ears. You don’t spare a second before slamming your other hand into his head, nose breaking from your fist, blood splattering across your arm. You ready yourself for another move, before you felt him ripped away from you, a strong arm around you to steady you.

“It’s okay, I got you, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Satoru murmured, soft words meant to soothe you, as his body envelops your tense muscles, until you finally relax into his arms. Your eyes burned with tears, as you looked up at him, before your eyes slid to the kidnapper, Satoru’s hand around his throat.

“I knew you’d come for me, Toru,” you whispered, grasping onto the front of his jacket, “I knew you would,”

“I always will,” and his eyes turned to the man, voice even, “should I kill him once I’m done questioning him?”

You know he means it.

“I don’t know,” you reply, fingers curling as you pressed your face against his chest, “but I don’t want you to have blood on your hands, not for me,”

“It wouldn’t be for you. It would be for me,” he says softly, “but we can discuss it later,” and then others began to flood the scene, the sights and sounds feeling distant as your eyes drooped with exhaustion.

“Satoru, I’m—“ your voice broke, “I really tried—“

“Shh, you did great,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head, as you finally succumbed to exhaustion, slumping over in his arms, “I’ll handle the rest.”

~~~

“You all must be wondering why I called this meeting,” Satoru said, standing at the head of the Gojo clan’s meeting room. It had been long since he had stood as the head, but far too short for his liking. He had discarded this part of his life as soon as he could, joining Jujutsu Tech without a second of hesitation, and continued to run the operations of his clan as an adult, behind the scenes.

But it seems he was too lax.

It had been a few weeks since the incident. You were asleep for a good day in and out while Shoko worked on you. She came out of your room, pulling off the surgical cap off her head, and Satoru got to his feet, as Shoko removed her gloves and mask, “She’s fine, Satoru,” and he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“How bad was it?” he asks, and she tilts her head, hands slipping into her pockets.

“Are you asking that to know how badly she was injured or so you can do worse to whoever did this?” Satoru shrugs, lips parting and she holds up a hand, “never mind, the less I know, the better,” she grabs your file and opens it, “most of her injuries related to cursed technique burn out — it seems whoever took her used curse spirits to attack her, she mentioned when she was conscious briefly that they didn’t control the curses, but they seemed to be able to work with them somehow,”

“More intelligent curses have been appearing since Yuji became Sukuna’s vessel,” Satoru murmured, but this wasn’t related to the asparagus special grade or volcano head. It was separate — it was personal.

“But all of this to take a first grade sorcerer, why?” and he shakes his head.

“It wasn’t for her — it was for me,” and that’s why they hadn’t killed you, “is she awake?”

Shoko sighed, “She should be waking up in a bit. She didn’t need much aside from some RCT treatment and stitches for the wounds she sustained,” she places a hand on his shoulder, “go see her, and try not to murder anyone until she wakes up,” she turns to leave, heels clicking.

“Wait,” Satoru stops her, and she pauses, “I need a favor.”

~~~

Satoru never liked hospitals. He hadn’t spent much time in them for actual injuries, because of his abilities. However, he spent far too much time inside medical facilities for the Gojo clan’s required medical check-ups. It was to ensure the future head’s health, he was told, but really, it was an excuse to make sure their cash cow would still give them milk.

Because that’s all he ever was — a pawn.

But he had long shed that role, tossed it from the board, when he had left for Jujutsu Tech. But even so, he lingered outside your room, some things still stuck. Especially when he had new memories — of seeing his comrades dead bodies laid on cold metal slabs.

And would you have been another if he hadn’t made it in time?

Satoru shakes his head of his thoughts, and opens the door. You were still asleep. Tucked into the hospital bed, you looked so small somehow, fragile — two things he never saw you as. How could he have? When you were the one on his first day to greet him and then slap him when he had something pretentious or childish (neither of you remembered but you had insisted it was one or the other).

And he had never let you go after that. But now…he couldn’t even hold you.

The sharp beeps of the machine monitoring your vitals, connected by the tubes and wires that ran all over your body. He reaches for his blindfold so he can look at you, really look at you, but he can’t. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into the soft of his palms,

But you were alive. You were alive. You were alive.

That’s what he had to tell himself as he drew closer to your side — no matter how you looked now, you were okay. And that’s what was most important.

“Are you going to brood by my bedside all day?” his gaze snaps to you, your eyes fluttering open still, still drooping and exhausted, but a soft smile on your lips, “Because hospitals are depressing enough, Toru,”

He chuckles, forcing his tears back and his voice to be event, “Sorry, sweetheart, I forgot to pull out the stops for you this time,” and his fingers find yours, lacing as they always did, but they felt so cold, “next time I’ll bring confetti, balloons, streamers, and I’ll serenade you even—”

You snort, “You may be the best at everything, but I know you’ll sing offkey on purpose just to piss off Shoko or anyone else that visits me,” and he laughs shakily, a sigh stuck in his throat.

He presses his forehead to yours, “I love you, so much, y’know that, yeah?”

“I love you too, so much, Toru,” you cup his cheeks, turning your head to press your lips to his hand, “thank you for saving me,”

“You saved yourself, I just cleaned up a little,” his lips find yours in a soft kiss, and your brow furrowed, “what? Are my kissing skills that bad?”

You roll your eyes, “No, but are you okay?” and he scoffs softly, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who got kidnapped and hurt, and you’re asking me if I’m—”

“Satoru, you asked me if you should murder that guy,” you tilted your head, “I know you’re not against killing if it’s necessary or deserved, but the way you said it, I got worried,”

“I’m fine, I just—” he cut off, “I just need to figure out who did this,” you squeeze his hand, “I have to,”

“Satoru—“

“I know you’re okay, but you don’t know how afraid I was that you wouldn’t be—“ he cuts off, “and it’s not just that,” his fingers curl around yours tighter, “it’s not just us we’ll have to worry about in the future. We’re already a family, but what will happen if someone targets you and our future kids?” He takes a shaky breath at the thought,

“I have to make an example.”

Your gaze grows sad, pressing a kiss to his lips, if only to ground him for a moment, “I know,” but you frown all the same, “but promise me, you won’t do anything stupid, ok?”

But he was far from stupid — but the people before him were as close as anyone could get.

“You all are aware of my wife’s attack a few weeks ago,” he said in measured words, swallowing the lump in his throat, “I’m here to tell you that she has succumbed to her wounds,” his voice wavered, breaking, “she’s gone,”

There were whispers and murmurs that swept over the room, all were silenced by the lift of a hand — one of the Gojo Clan elders, the geezer leader as he liked to call him.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Satoru,” he said, lips twisted in a fake frown, “we heard that your beloved wife passed from her injuries a week ago,”

“And yet, I see you’ve brought someone for me to meet,” his eyes slide to the woman dressed for a wedding rather than a meeting, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

The woman’s painted lips kept in a neutral expression, her body so rigid he could have mistaken her as a statue if not for his six eyes, and her eyes refused to meet his.

“Satoru, I understand you are mourning, but we have to think of the future of the Gojo clan, and our future place in the Jujutsu world is only as secure as the next heir—“

“And so you thought to disrespect my wife by trying to marry your choice?” but their brows furrow as he begins to laugh, one that sends shivers down their backs.

The elders all gape at him, sharing looks, before turning back to him as his laughter finally settles into a quiet chuckle, “Satoru, what is this?”

“It’s funny that you ever thought I’d fall for this bullshit,” he pulls off his sunglasses, cerulean eyes gleaming in the low light, “did you know my wife was never supposed to be sent on this mission? Or rather, there were no reports of cursed spirits in the area, but yet, orders came for her to report to where she was,”

A hush falls over the group, “And why are you telling us this?”

“Because I think you all have forgotten your place,” in a blink, he’s grasping the neck of the elder, the very same man who had taken him away from his parents at the age of two to ensure his training was done properly, “I am the strongest, not the Gojo clan. I’m the only Gojo needed for the clan to be prosperous,”

“You insolent child—“ Satoru squeezes around his neck, gasps and whimpers clawing their way out from his grip, veins bulging as he tried and failed to pull Satoru’s hands off. He had even let the old man penetrate his infinity and all he had managed was a scratch or two.

“You should be careful when you’re talking to the ‘child’ who has your life in his hands,” and he grows silent, “now, to get back to the point, where did those orders come from?”

A quiet washed over the room, the only sounds were the shaky gasps of the elder in his hand, “W-what are—“

“I had a chat with the higher ups — those rotten old geezers may not like me, but I know they like all their limbs intact,” he drops the elder and twists his arm behind his back, wrenching back until he heard a cracking noise, “and they told me the orders came from the Gojo clan, and I wondered why would my own clan send the wife of the head off to be executed,”

“Satoru—“ one of the elders spoke, and he tilted his head.

“If you want him to die, your excuses will only make this go faster,” and his mouth shuts, “I’ll take your silence as a confirmation that all of you had a hand in this,” he sighs, removing his sunglasses, running his fingers through his hair, “man, I’ve had conspiracies against me, but I never guessed you’d target the one person I value above everything else. But I knew you would fail her little test,”

He’s met with furrowed brows and gritted teeth, the elder looking up at him in fear, “W-what?”

“You see if I had it my way, I would have killed you all, no questions asked,” his fingers close over the top of his head, wrenching him backwards to meet his gaze, “But my wife, my very much alive wife,” he adds, with a glance to the woman looking increasingly faint with each second that passes, “she would want me to see if you’d come clean about the plan and whether some of you were innocent,” his lips curl, “but she doesn’t know the bloody history of the Gojo clan like we do,” and his fingers dig into the flesh of the elder, “so what’s a few more bloodstains?”

He tears off his head, screams ringing out as a rush of scarlet paints the walls, splattering across the other elders. The woman offered to be his wife rings over the others, her shrill shriek piercing their eardrums. It’s a dull thud as the lifeless corpse falls to the floor, as Satoru wiped the blood from his cheek, a cock of his head and eyes flashing with anger.

“You can’t do this! You—“ Satoru’s fist connects with his face, blood flooding his features.

“I can, because I’ve decided the Gojo clan needs to get rid of the tumors that infect it, and besides,” his body crumples to the floor as his foot slams into their stomach, a sick, wet noise that draws gasps and open mouthed silent screams from the others, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Please, please, she’s alive—” one of them begged, all of them falling to their knees, wrinkled faces contorted in fear, blown out eyes and faces wet with tears only making them more ugly than he thought was possible — he really couldn’t end up like these geezers, “we only wanted what was best—we wanted the next head of the clan to be even more powerful than you are—”

He laughs, not an ounce of mirth or levity, shivers running down the spines of the others who watched, as he stepped over the body of the elder, lips twisted into a wide grin, “And there’s your mistake,”

He loomed over the one who spoke, shadow cast over him, as his fingers curled around his arm, before breaking it off, spurts of blood splattering on his clothes, mixing with the other — some of it flecked across his face.

Satoru wiped his face with his forearm, tilting his head. He knew they were begging and pleading — lips moving, words forming, but it all fell on deaf ears. After all they had never bothered to listen to any sorcerer before, did they? Suguru’s face came to mind — flashes of the spring he would never get back — so why should he listen to theirs?

“You were too busy worrying about the next head, when you should’ve been worried about the current one.”

~~~~

You were asleep.

Moonlight gave way to your features in the pitch black room, your soft breaths warming his fingers that ran over your cheek. Shoko had discharged you yesterday, and he had brought you home — but even now with you home, he couldn’t sleep. It felt as if you’d disappear the moment he took his eyes off you, slipping from his grasp just as you almost did.

But you didn’t. You’re here.

It was the same words you had whispered to him every night when he had curled up beside you, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, aren’t I?”

But you could disappear.

You could if he wasn’t there with you — if he wasn’t fast enough. Because he couldn’t be everywhere at once, not even the strongest could accomplish that. But he wanted to keep you safe all the same. Would it be selfish to lock you up? Hide you away somewhere others could never find you? Keep you hidden if only to keep you safe.

But you never would be safe, not while you were with him.

“Toru?” Your voice breaks him from his thoughts, eyes fluttering open to meet his as your fingers reach for his cheek, “is that blood?”

And he’s pinned your hands in a blink of an eye, quickly and quietly, “it’s not mine,” his gaze glows in the dark, catching the moonlight streaming in, and he’s leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Toru, what happened?” And he kisses along your cheekbones, your jaw, your nose, your chin, “Satoru—“

“I killed them,” his fingers trace the folds of the satin robe he had helped you into, brushing against the bandages that hid your wounds from his sight, but he could see them all the same, “the people who did this,”

Your brow furrows, “Toru, what do you mean the people who—“

“Why do you stay with me?” He leans down to find your lips in a bruising kiss, lips sliding against yours as his fingers undo the knot of your robe, letting the fabric fall away from your bare body.

“What—“ his lips part from yours, strings of spit connecting your mouths.

“Why do you stay with me when I’m a monster?” and your eyes soften.

“You’re not—“ and he’s cutting you off with another kiss, as your hands struggle under his grip, the other grazing down your side, finding the swell of your hip only to squeeze.

“I’m the perfect weapon,” he kisses down the side of your neck, teeth grazing against your soft flesh harshly, drawing a gasp from your lips, “I could have killed them all, because I know they all knew—“

“Knew what?”

“My clan elders — they wanted to have you die on a mission, they wanted to stage it, so they could have me marry who they wanted,” he pauses, drawing a finger down the valley of your breasts, “create a perfect heir,”

“Satoru—“

He kisses you again, swallowing your words along with your thoughts, parting only to speak, “so I killed them, I didn’t use my cursed technique, I wanted them to feel the pain they gave you, wanted them to feel a fraction of what you did,”

You can’t find a second to speak, his fingers now sliding up your bare leg, as he presses himself closer, erection against your inner thigh, “Toru, you didn’t have to put yourself through that—“

“I wanted to,” he parts your thighs easily, large palm spread against your inner thigh, fingers toying with the edge of your panties, “wanted to tear them to shreds for what they did to you — and what they wanted to do—”

“I’m okay, Satoru, I’m—” a bitter laugh leaves his throat, as his fingers find your bandages again.

“Do you call coming home half dead okay now by jujutsu sorcerer standards?” he shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair, “I told you after Suguru that I would fix this rotten jujutsu world,” he presses kisses up your thigh, “and their deaths did fix one thing — no sorcerer will touch you or our future children again, especially when they speak to the woman the clan wanted to marry off to when your body wasn’t even cold yet,”

“You left her,” and he nods, eyes unable to meet yours.

“I only killed the elders I gathered, anyone else was spared — they didn’t dig their own graves,” his hand loosens around your wrists and you reach for his cheek, cupping his cheek, despite the blood, “I don’t regret it, I’d kill anyone who hurts you, but I didn’t want you to see me like this,”

“Like what?”

“Like a monster,” and you click your tongue, his eyes flitting to yours.

“You’re my Satoru, not a monster, you did what you did to protect me, protect our family,” you murmur, “that’s just about the most Satoru thing you could do,”

“But—“

“And if you are deemed a monster anyway?” You lean up, fingers smearing the blood against your own cheek, “then I’ll just become a monster with you,”

He crashes into you with a kiss, cupping your cheeks, as his tongue slips into your mouth, “can you really be a monster, sweetheart?”

He drags his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your soft flesh along the hollow of your throat, “T-Toru—“ and his lips find the swell of your breasts, his tongue dragging over your pert nipple, while his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, snapping it against your skin, “y’know I can be, I would be, for you,”

He peers up through half lidded eyelids, his thumb drags down your puffy bottom lip, “I can’t imagine someone so sweet like you as one,” he murmurs, as he pulls back, lips slick with spit, as he drags his fingers toying with the soaked fabric of your panties, “and I wouldn’t want to drag you down with me,”

Your fingers reach forward, propping yourself up on your other arm, “Drag me or not,” you cup his chin, “you’re stuck with me,”

“Can we make it a binding vow?” you roll your eyes, and his lips curl for the first time since he’s got here, “c’mon sweets, I have to get my reassurance somehow,”

You hold up the giant rock on your finger, the very diamond you had told Satoru was too much, “this wasn’t enough—” the last word is a bite back gasp, as he noses at the drenched crotch of your underwear, a deep inhale that has you squirming, “No, Toru—” but he’s pinned your thighs down, prying them open, as he gazes up at you.

“Uh-uh, princess, I don’t remember saying you could move, especially when you could reopen your wounds,” his nose bumps against your clothed clit, a wicked smile as he drags his tongue over the already wet fabric, “you still haven’t seen how much of a monster I can be.”

~~~

“Ngh, Toru, can’t, I can’t—” but you can — you know you can from the heat building in your sloppy cunt under already soaked through sheets, and he knows too well you can too, from the way your pussy flutters around his three fingers, knuckle deep as they piston in and out, while his mouth toys with your abused clit, “please—”

You lost track of how many times you had orgasmed — his fingers, his mouth, and sometimes both — he had pulled each one after the other, allowing small reprieves, only to bury himself back in. He had even had you ride his face at one point, and you were sure he’d suffocate under your drenched cunt, until he flipped you on your back again.

“Please what, sweets?” he slows his fingers, curling them a certain way that makes your lips fall open, “you’ll have to use your words,” he pulls back.

Chest heaving, chin glistening with your release, his tongue cleaned his lips off before he wiped the rest off, before pressing open mouthed kisses to your inner thighs. And soon enough, his fingers were sinking back into your messy pussy, splitting you open with his thick fingers.

“Didn’t you say you wanted this, sweetheart?” his words cut through the wet squelch of his digits fucking you open, “wanted to drag you down with you, wanted this—” and he sucks hard at your clit, tongue flicking over it, making your back arch, “wanted me to drag you down with me,” and he punctuates it with a thrust of his fingers, brushing against a spot that has you seeing spots, “gotta make good on your promise, and I have to erase all the pain they gave you,”

And you barely manage to latch onto the desperation in his voice, the way the facade flickers.

He fucks you ever so slightly deeper, and you cum hard, tearing through you as your body tenses, pleasure washing over you as it did every single other time, melding into the others, “Good girl,” he murmurs, as he works his fingers through your orgasm, the slick noises becoming white noise, until he finally pulls the digits from inside you.

Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him licking his digits clean one by one of your cum, his lips curled in a soft smile as they meet your gaze, his hand sliding up your thigh gently as it quaked, the very same fingers he had used to murder the people that hurt you, were so gentle when it was you — he was always so gentle when it was you.

But never himself.

You reach up for him, palm cupping his cheek, while the other finds his bare shoulder — clothes long discarded, “I love you,” and the cracks spread, spider webbing from the epicenter, “you know that right?”

His words seem caught in the back of his throat, “Even now?”

“Especially now,” and he’s pressing you against the mattress again, your thighs folded against your chest, legs slung over his shoulders, “you saved me,”

His gaze softened, “you saved me first,” and again and again, he couldn’t count the number of times you did, by just existing, pressing a kiss to the side of your thigh, “but if I’m too late next time?”

“You can’t be everywhere,” your fingers lace with his, “and I just need you,” and still in this situation, his ego can inflate at your praise — nosing at your thigh, a deep inhale, before dragging his tongue up the side of your leg, “only you.”

He drags his weeping erection over your soaked folds, leaking tip teasing your slit while he watched his pre mix with yours, “Think you need more than just me,” and when he lets the tip sink into you, your lips part with his name, just as your walls part for him, “want something else, wifey?”

“You’re the worst,” you look up at him, lips curling despite your pout, your fingers grasping at the sheets under you, as your cunt tries to swallow him whole, “Toru, how long are you going to tease me for?”

And he’s pulling out only to draw a groan from your lips, “If you’re such a monster, thought you could take it—“ and your hand reaches for him, tugging him close by his neck.

“I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me right now—“

He grins, “If you insist,”

Fuck.

He sinks into you all at once, all too fast and all too slow, balls deep as he bottoms out inside you, your walls fluttering only to pull him deeper, “fuck,” your head falls back as his tip brushes against your cervix, “too fucking big, I swear if you rip my stitches open—”

“You don’t think I cleared this before I decided to do this, baby?” He grunts, glancing down to see how your messy hole stretched open as he sunk into you, “can’t believe anyone thought I’d fuck anyone but you — you’re the only one for me, sweetheart,”

You couldn’t help but notice his eyes flicker to your pussy stuffed full with his huge dick, “You talking to me or my cunt—“ and he begins to fuck you, remark undercut by the moan that he pulled from your lips, “f-fucker—“

“That’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it sweetheart?” the lewd sounds of skin slapping together filled the room, his soft grunts and your moans, “wanted me to fuck you open, yeah?” and he wanted this, needed this after this week — it had been too long since he felt you under him like this — real and alive, his name leaving your swollen, kiss bitten lips.

And you needed it just the same — needed his fingers to dig into the softness of your thighs, needed the way only he could fill every inch of you, needed the soft murmurs of how good you felt, how much he loved you.

“Fuck, Toru, so fast,” you whine, but how could slow down he when you felt so good — so wet and warm, you had joked he could cum just looking at you alone barely a fist around his dick, but it was true — and being inside you just made him unravel completely, all sense of himself lost and drowning in just you, “hngh, it’s so deep,” you babble, tears burning at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s right, sweetheart, gonna fuck you deep, gotta make sure you feel it don’t I?” he coos, and his hand snakes between your thighs, pressing his palm to the bulge in your stomach, making you gasp as your walls clench around him, drawing a grunt from his lips, “that’s it, good girl,”

You keen at his praise, the wet squelch of your cunt around his cock ringing in your ears, balls slapping against your pussy with a rhythm that echoes in your head, as your body arches into him, needing him deeper, harder, faster. He’s nearly rutting into you, his thrusts growing shallow as you clamp down on him, achingly close.

“Those old fucking geezers don’t know what they were talking about—“ he grunts, running his mouth all the same even as he sunk impossibly fucking deeper, “don’t know this is the only cunt I’d ever breed. The only one I’d ever breed. The only one I can. Know why?” And you only can whimper, as his fingers rub against your clit, “because this is the only one made for my cum,”

And his words push you over the edge, cumming hard and fast, head lolling back, as his tip bullies your womb, as he fucks you hard over and over through your orgasm, sending pleasure ripping up your spine. Satoru groans as he feels you spasm, soaking in him in your juices, as he watches a white ring of your cum form around the base of his dick, dripping onto the clean sheets with the evidence of your arousal.

He can’t hold back.

He rails into you, a moan of your name falling past your lips making you pull him close, shifting your legs around his back just so he can sink into you even a centimeter deeper—

“Fuck, g’nna cum,” he’s meeting your glazed over eyes, knowing “gonna fill you up, yeah? Get you nice and round with my baby,” he groans at the thought, the image of you carrying his kid, stomach swollen as you grow his child, “and they’ll know, all of them, that you’re the only one I’d cum in,” and he’s so close, dick twitching as your arms around his neck tug him close.

“Cum in me, Toru, give me our baby,” and that’s it, he’s spilling inside you, spurting his hot release inside, again and again, as he fucks it deeper, filling you up.

“That’s it, take every drop,” he’s relentless, until he finally eases from you, his release trickling out. A soft sigh parts your lips that grows into a sharp gasp as he’s already flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Toru—” you whine.

“Aw did you think we were done sweetheart?” a pillow cushions your still bandaged stomach, placed underneath to support you, a shudder down your body as he rubs his cock against you, as he leans down, hot words murmured against your ear with a grin, before he sinks back into you with one thrust, stuffing his spilling cum back inside, “One thing about monsters are that we also have monstrous stamina.”

~~~

It was early, but Satoru was already awake.

He always had trouble sleeping, but now? His eyes found your sleeping form beside him, under the covers and safe, just as he had left you that morning. He didn’t know if he’d ever sleep more than three hours now. He brushed the back of his knuckles over your cheek, but you needed sleep — one of three things you never could live without (food and himself being the other two). And you definitely needed it now, after he had kept you up — nearly all night.

You shifted in your sleep, revealing several blooming hickies and love bites he had littered your body with, lips curling at the sight, as he pulled the blanket back up around you.

He was selfish — he should have divorced you the moment he had gotten you back. Let you leave because it was the right thing to do — to let you live a life safe without him. But he couldn’t — because he couldn’t imagine waking another morning, spending another day without knowing where you were, how you were doing.

It was selfish. But you let him be — especially when it came to you.

And his phone vibrates on the nightstand, whirring again and again, as he picks it up with a sigh, Yaga’s name flashing on the display. He takes one last glance at you before slipping from bed, stepping into the living room.

“Sensei! To what—“ he hardly gets a word out before screams fill his ears. He rubs his chin, it was too early for this.

He makes out the words — Gojo clan, dead, scandal, murder (wasn’t sure if he meant if he was going to murder Gojo or he meant what happened to the elders).

“It was a clan dispute, there was no need to tell you,”

Satoru held the phone away from his ear, Yaga’s yelling told him everything he needed to know, “Yeah, yeah, I know, the higher ups know — or they probably do by now,” he almost chuckles at the thought, and how he would love to do the same to them — knuckles white as he grips his phone — love to make them feel the same pain the sorcerers cared nothing for felt, make them—

Arms curl around him from behind and he knows it’s you, his body relaxing into your touch with practiced ease, your face buried in his back. His fingers relax, finding yours, tracing over the back, as he lifts one hand to his lips.

—But it wasn’t the time for that.

“Fine, fine, no need to have a heart attack, old man — I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” Yaga was still speaking until Satoru hung up, turning to face yoy, your eyes half closed as his fingers found your cheek, “what are you doing awake, sweets?”

His lips curl as you lean into his touch, “you weren’t next to me when I woke up,” you murmur, nose brushing against his fingers as your eyes flutter open and closed, “how am I supposed to sleep when my pretty husband isn’t next to me?”

“Just pretty?” and you snort, as his arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you to his chest, your head right over his heart, a content sigh on your lips.

“Are you ever serious?”

“Always,” and you smile up at him, chin resting against him, “what is it? Do I got something on my face?”

“You think our baby will have your pretty face?” You hum, and his gaze softens at the thought, “I hope so,”

He grins, “You do huh? And here I thought my ego didn’t need more stroking,”

“It doesn’t, but my husband deserves every bit of praise he gets — because he doesn’t get enough,” you kiss him softly, nose bumping against his.

“You planning on showering me with your praise, sweetheart?” And your lips finds his again.

“Always,” and he’s leading you back towards the bedroom, “where are you—“ you squeal as he scoops you up into his arms and carries you back to bed, gently placing you down, a grin on his lips.

He drags his thumb down your kiss ruined lips, “Do you think I’m gonna let you leave this bed without breeding you right?” He clicks his tongue, “I’m far from done with you, wifey,”

You’re so beautiful, hair spread on the pillow like a halo, “So we’re not leaving until I’m pregnant?” Your fingers brush against his cheek, “we might be here a while,”

Satoru wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He kisses you again, long and languid, “There’s nothing I want more than to stay in bed with you.”

✧ a/n: sorry i've been gone for a bit!! i got super busy with work and got hella writer's block and right when i was feeling ready to write-- i got sick. but i'm doing much better now!!

✧ taglist: @arrivedercis, @ssetsuka, @ch3rryistheg, @satorusmochis, @sunarins-bae, @blindbabycadder , @yihona-san06 , @dantaku , @archieballs , @ceruleansol , @mqcht , @xxemmarldxx , @chiyokoemilia , @theshylittleelfgirl , @rroseselavyyy , @out4thenight , @jatyes , @unreliablefangs , @sleazymac-n-cheesy , @celestialseasart , @minsified , @akemfs , @ranatherealestsigma , @zherryxtar , @virtualangelllllll , @itsmebien , @difluenza , @rougebrainsludge , @mochigod , @euphorism , @vii-is-free , @elliesndg , @beneaththelamina , @monarch-of-anime-simping , @hhimetsu , @simply-a-s1mp , @jennieclips , @svt-backup , @angelbunsx , @duhhitsmiranda , @satowooo , @fushitoru , @lesaurita , @briluvslee , @gojo-gets-me-wetter , @catsgomurp , @pinkyvomit , @hyori2 , @wakashudou , @celestialgojo , @sxnkuna, @nakariabnrb, @dazailover1900, @hanlay, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @kxouri, @forest-fruits-jam, @spider-fan72, @strawmariee

[txttletale]

I'm asking this genuinely, as a 19 yo with no education in economics and a pretty surface level understanding of socialism: can you explain the whole Bananas discourse in a way someone like me might understand? In my understanding it's just "This is just a product we can give up to create better worker conditions and that's fine" but apparently that's not the full picture?

alright so some pretty important background to all this is that we're all talking about the fact that bananas, grown in the global south, are available year-round at extremely low prices all around europe and the USA. it's not really about bananas per so--the banana in this discourse is a synechdoche for all the economic benefits of imperialism.

so how are cheap bananas a result of imperialism? first of all i want to tackle a common and v. silly counterargument: 'oh, these ridiculous communists think it's imperialist for produce to be shipped internationally'. nah. believing that this is the communist objection requires believing in a deeply naive view of international traide. this view goes something like 'well, if honduras has lots of bananas, and people in the usa want bananas and are willing to pay for them, surely everyone wins when the usa buys bananas!'.

there are of course two key errors here and they are both packed into 'honduras has lots of bananas'. for a start, although the bananas are grown in honduras, honduras doesn't really 'have' them, because the plantations are mostly owned by chiquita (formerly known as united fruit) dole, del monte, and other multinationals--when they're not, those multinationals will usually purchase the bananas from honduran growers and conduct the export themselves. and wouldn't you know it, it's those intervening middleman steps--export, import, and retail, where the vast majority of money is made off bananas! so in the process of a banana making its way from honduras to a 7/11, usamerican multinationals make money selling the bananas to usamerican importers who make money selling them to usamerican retailers who make money selling them to usamerican customers.

when chiquita sells a banana to be sold in walmart, a magic trick is being performed: a banana is disappearing from honduras, and yet somehow an american company is paying a second american company for it! this is economic imperialism, the usamerican multinational extracting resources from a nation while simultaneously pocketing the value of those resources.

why does the honduran government allow this? if selling bananas is such a bad deal for the nation, why do they continue to export millions of dollars of banans a year? well, obviously, there's the fact that if they didn't, they would face a coup. the united states is more than willing to intervene and cause mass death and war to protect the profits of its multinationals. but the second, more subtle thing keeping honduras bound to this ridiculously unbalanced relationship is the need for dollars. because the US dollar is the global reserve currency, and the de facto currency of international trade, exporting to the USA is a basic necessity for nations like honduras, guatemala, &c. why is the dollar the global reserve currency? because of usamerican military and economic hegemony, of course. imperialism built upon imperialism!

this is unequal exchange, the neoimperialist terms of international trade that make the 'global economy' a tool of siphoning value and resources from the global south to the imperial core. & this is the second flaw to unravel in 'honduras has a lot of bananas' -- honduras only 'has a lot of bananas' because this global economic hegemony has led to vast unsustainable monoculture banana plantations to dominate the agriculture of honduras. it's long-attested how monoculture growth is unsustainable because it destroys soil and leads to easily-wiped-out-by-infection plants.

so, bananas in the USA are cheap because:

the workers that grow them are barely paid, mistreated, prevented from unionizing, and sometimes murdered

the nations in which the bananas are grown accept brutally unfair trade and tariff terms with the USA because they desperately need a supply of US dollars and so have little position to negotiate

shipping is also much cheaper than it should be because sailors are chronically underpaid and often not paid at all or forced to pay to work (!)

bananas are cheap, in conclusion, because they're produced by underpaid and brutalized workers and then imported on extortionate and unfair terms.

so what, should we all give up bananas? no, and it's a sign of total lack of understanding of socialism as a global movement that all the pearl-clutching usamericans have latched onto the scary communists telling them to stop buying bananas. communism does not care about you as a consumer. individual consumptive choices are not a meaningful arena of political action. the socialist position is not "if there was a socialist reovlution in the usa, we would all stop eating bananas like good little boys", but rather, "if there's a socialist revolution in the countries where bananas are grown, then the availability of bananas in the usa is going to drop, and if you want to be an anti-imperialist in the imperial core you have to accept that".

(this is where the second argument i see about this, 'oh what are you catholic you want me to eat dirt like a monk?' reveals itself as a silly fucking solipsistic misunderstanding)

and again, let's note that the case of the banana can very easily be generalised out to coffee, chocolate, sugar, etc, and that it's not about individual consumptive habits, but about global economic systems. if you are donkey fucking kong and you eat 100 bananas a day i don't care and neither does anyone else. it's about trying to illustrate just one tiny mundane way in which economic imperialism makes the lives of people in the global north more convenient and simpler and so of course there is enormous pushback from people who attach moral value to this and therefore feel like the mean commies are personally calling them evil for eating a nutella or whatever which is frankly pretty tiring. Sad!

tldr: it is not imperialism when produce go on boat but it is imperialism when produce grown for dirt cheap by underpaid workers in a country with a devalued currency is then bought and exported and sold by usamerican companies creating huge amounts of economic value of which the nation in which the banana was grown, let alone the people who actually fucking grew it, don't see a cent -- and this is the engine behind the cheap, available-every-day-all-year-everywhere presence of bananas in the usa (and other places!)

[sl4sh3rsub]

patrick bateman hcs (nsfw: mdni)

patrick bateman x reader (AFAB, AMAB, FtM, MtF)

warnings: overall pretty toxic, homophobic and misogynistic, there's a lot of infidelity/cheating and drug usage/alcohol too. there is also shaming of sex work - this is purely fictional and i do not condone this behavior in real life. i wrote in these elements because they appear in the original source material, not because i hold these opinions/views. mentions of extreme kink/fetish (knife play, blood play), p in v + anal (all unprotected - pls stay safe irl), oral sex (giving + receiving), handjobs, cockwarming, implied dom/sub dynamics (patrick is a top + sugar daddy/dom/slight sadist + is entitled, reader is more submissive + sweet), lots of cum + precum/arousal, reader sometimes treated as sex object, marking (bruises, bite marks, hickeys etc.), dubious consent? (overstimulation, he can be manipulative, reader flashes someone in afab section), reference to past rough sexual encounters, lots of sexual tension, patrick is sociopathic(?) + gets hard a lot + is possessive/slightly domestic but still rough, canon colleagues (schrödinger's judgement + they're horny), nipple play, voice kink/voicemail sex, threats/mentions of canon (?) violence (not towards reader), exhibitionism + public settings, consensual filming of sexual acts, gun play/fear play, cigar gets extinguished on reader (research risks properly before trying irl, please stay safe), hired sex worker, mentions of surgery in ftm + mtf sections, rip jean + evelyn's emotions

a/n: i'm a massive fan of the broadway musical (bootleg available on youtube) and i've seen the film twice, but i still need to read the book!! i've listened to this youtube audiobook (ai voice patrick reading it - part one) and it kinda goes hard. anyway, peeb ateman is soft with reader in this one, so it could potentially be a little ooc.

order: general hcs first then amab + afab then ftm + mtf, different sections = different content n tried not to repeat much

_ _ _ _ _

general hcs

patrick is already engaged to evelyn when he meets you. he's very well aware that she's seeing timothy price, so he might as well have his own fun - divorce isn't in fashion this year, so being prepared for that potential outcome might turn some heads and patrick hates judgmental attention

if you're already in a relationship with someone, he'll whisk you away immediately. you deserve so much better than some chump who can't afford to spoil you, he'll prove his superiority with his shiny silver card

show him genuine affection and take interest in his music taste!! if you listen to him and take time out of your day to participate in conversation, he'll abruptly stop mid-sentence to process that you're invested in his recap of his day :( you'll have no issues with him from then out - you respect him and he'll respect you. he's quietly thankful for how kind you are to him

if patrick has a yearning to dabble in a certain kink or fetish - such as knife play or extreme blood play - that you're not willing to participate in, he'll just find someone who can satiate his needs temporarily. no harm done, patrick just wants to make sure he's not taking complete advantage of you - he'll pay for you to have a delicious dinner and fancy hotel for the night, don't worry. he still wants to take care of you and reassure you that no one is taking your place, and that you'll still have him in the morning... he just needs to let out his extreme urges throughout the night

his way of showing affection is brushing his nose against you, whether it be your temple, ear or cheek as he whispers sweet nothings to you. he longs for subtle contact and the gentle warmth of your skin. he's also addicted to burying his face in your neck or pressing his lips against your crown when he fucks you from behind or squirming in his lap, the small puffs of hot air tickling your flushed skin and his lidded eyes rolling at your scent

he digs his fingers into your lower tummy while he fucks you, feeling his cock ram deep inside you - he's shamelessly using you as his own fucktoy, massaging his length to get himself off. the extra pressure against his tip has him shuddering at the delicious sensation

yeah sure, patrick might be a weirdo and a loser but he can fuck you like he loves you (maybe he does) and spare cash to dry-clean your cum off his expensive suits... fair trade, no?

he practically becomes your sugar daddy - you're his personal doll to dress, provide for and parade around proudly. he wouldn't trade the satisfied glint in your eyes, or the rhythm of your glistening arousal dripping on his wood paneled floors for anything. after a long day of spoiling you, he becomes a little selfish in the bedroom and chases his high with no regard for how overstimulated you might get :(

he is obsessed with dressing you to match his personal perception of you - that is to say, have you dressed in a manner that would make atheists reconsider and have the faithful herald you as their new deity. he wants to ensure that everyone know why he worships you the way he does. even if you don't feel confident in your skin, he quietly reassures you that your bashfulness only adds to your charm

you're his personal model and his precious doll - plaything, if you will. after you return to his place from perusing the designer shops, he lounges back with a whiskey in hand and patiently watches you show off your latest purchases on his card. he'll ask you to spin or swap shoes to match the outfit every so often, even asking you to bend down towards him just so he can adjust your collar or hairstyle. if he gets taken aback by how stunning you look in a certain outfit, expect him to get carried away and start panic rambling - he'll explain the specifics of the material, cut or brand as his fingers roam your body with devotion and his eyes greedily drink you in. his voice gets progressively huskier throughout the show until he gets to the expensive undergarments hidden in matte bags and tissue paper - he fucks you in front of the mirror, reveling in the way the material hugs your skin and how your skin shifts as your muscles clench with every thrust

after he warmed up to you, patrick slowly realized how emotionally taxing your early encounters were on you and that you were left feeling used and roughed up afterwards. if he still makes you feel that way after he first admits his affection, definitely let him know - he might want to leave physical marks on you that linger for a week or so after, but emotional damage is the last thing he wants marring your relationship

something that resembles quiet devotion lingers in his gaze, the glint of chandeliers flashing as he quickly shakes his head and denies he was ever staring :( sure, you might not be the stereotypical 'hardbody', but you're more worth his time than all of the other whores that his cock stirs for - you're leagues better than the sluts turning tricks and actually deserve a place in his home, his bed, unlike the simple chicks he picks up from clubs. he actually respects you (though, not enough to acknowledge your independence away from him) and his silent approval - pride, even - of your actions sometimes slips through his mask

whenever you're in the room with him, there is an invisible yet tangible tension that tugs you together. the warm, compressing feeling always hones your vision onto patrick - it drowns out all of the noises and movement around you, grounding you in the all-consuming gaze of your lover. his eyes snap to yours whenever you enter the room and he instinctively feels a bulge growing in his slacks, his pupils dilating as his tongue darts out to dampen his lips. no polite conversation or mundane styling drivel is worth his time when you are in his field of view

patrick genuinely feels his blood thunder in his ears whenever the men at the table make snide remarks about your appearance or belittle you. he is absolutely disgusted at their attitudes and lack of understanding - you are his darling and you deserve to be treated as his equal, at a minimum. however, if the table murmurs about how sexy you look, he's more than willing to show you off a bit - he's proud of what's his, obviously! just don't let the boys get too bold with their 'polite' touches or they won't have fingers in the morning :<

he'll buy you a ring. not to propose, oh god no - he doesn't want to do the whole evelyn debacle again. patrick wants to simply state his territory and claim so that others would be less inclined to approach you (plus, it helps that he doesn't have to vividly daydream about it anymore - it saves brain power)

if he rushes home with dirty, damp gloves and a missing button on his overcoat, he'll forever be indebted to you if you pour him a stiff drink and prepare to call jean to postpone all events the next day

your head gets all fuzzy when his tongue drags along the line of your collarbone and his soft lips ghost down your chest - circling your nipple and threatening you with the edge of his teeth makes the edge of his mouth twist into a smirk. if you meet his gaze, his lidded eyes give away how content he is in this position, with you on top of his lap. his lips sheened with spit and your buttoned shirt yanked open make for an arousing sight

patrick is a big fan of smoking his cigars while you sloppily take his cock down your throat - he gets some sadistic pleasure from putting them out on your spit-soaked thighs, the drool hissing under the scorching heat. it's coincidentally also one of his favourite things to reminisce, running his fingers over your thighs while replaying those memories during boring social events. the scent of his expensive smoke, wafting around him in a saloon, has him drifting back to the sight of his hefty cock resting on your face - the length throbbing with every heartbeat, pearls of salty precum seeping into your soft skin and trailing in thin rivulets down the contours of cheekbone

he is a fan of sneaking a dab of his yves saint lauren perfume onto all of your formal wear, a little mark of him and something to keep you company whenever you're out at functions he's not attending

he drags you out to clubs just to dress you up and show you off under the bright, colourful flashing lights. you have his eye the entire time you're feeling yourself on the dance floor, tempting him your sensual movements from across the room - don't expect him to act on it immediately though, he's more than content to hold your gaze and sip his glass from the bar. if some sleaze dares to get handsy with you, he'll step in and guide you towards the bathroom as his fingers glide down to your lower back - he needs a bump to loosen up and not hurt every single chump eyeing you up. you're his plaything, after all.

if you spend a night at patrick's place, he'll secretly love taking showers with you - only because you help him rub in his cleansers and soaps into his skin, no other reason. certainly not that your devoted, admiring gaze make him flush and whisper his timid thanks under the steady stream of water, the noise lost in the pounding around your ears. ignore his building arousal, it'll stay there and grow even harder when he pleasures you with his tongue on the counter of his stainless-steel kitchen. you're the only one he'll kneel for, and you bet that there's a steamed-up outline of your ass on the countertop when he's done :3

despite his incessant need to fit in, he's never going to blend in while you remain by his side. you bring out that rare smile of his and that soft chuckle in public settings. you far outshine all the other, dull plus-ones at the dinner parties

you are patrick's trump card - everyone he knows either wants to be you or fuck you, they'll do anything to impress (especially if there's false hope of ending the night in bed with one or both of you)

if you're confident enough, you could be his personal little pornstar!! it makes you so giddy, the knowledge that he could show the snippets of the videos to his coworkers (who dream about getting you naked) and make them jealous of the fact that you've cum numerous times with patrick's name on your lips. the video is recorded on the best equipment of course - he can't have you on video while looking anything less than godlike on camera

he orders your favourite dishes at every restaurant, combs and brushes out your hair when you arrive at his apartment, then fucks you roughly while whispering how thankful he is for you. his babbling pleas for you to stay and praise of your existence echo in your mind for hours after, especially as he rests next to you with steady breathing

patrick leaves hickeys and bite marks all over you and while he might apologise while handing you anti-bruise supplements, know that his mind's eye is stuck on the sigh of your skin blossoming under his lips - specifically, the feeling of his teething nipping your skin and the small hum of satisfaction as he pulls away to inspect his work. if you've been good lately, he'll let you leave a hickey or mark on his chest - it's only fair after he leaves you bruised and aching in his arms the next morning :( if you've behaved to his liking, he'll share some of his japanese pear and kiwi for breakfast. you need some sugar to recoup anyway

if he's been snappy or pent up all day, he'll guilt you into taking him with minimal prep - he will snap and go feral if he's had to rein it in at work, plus the stretch feels heavenly around his thick cock

patrick had once ordered a prostitute for the two of you to experiment with - making sure they were a fair balance between your ideal types, bodywise. this plan went a little off script after the foreplay when you and patrick ended up exploring your exhibitionist sides, passionately kissing and languidly exploring each other's bodies while the hire slowly touched themselves at the sight. that precious hour or so was the easiest pay that person had ever made (you and patrick were far from unattractive), plus that champagne that you poured out was heavenly

patrick has you suck him off during skincare routines in the morning and evening, making sure to cum all down your throat. he insists it's good protein for you!! kneeling in front of the bathroom countertop has become second nature to you, the divine sight of your rugged lover above you routinely making you feel at ease

you had better be friends with his secretary jean because you'll see her a lot. if she gets jealous and her failed attempts at sleeping with him affect her capabilities, patrick will simply hire a different secretary. sure, he'll love to flaunt you and taunt them about how they aren't fucking either of you, but that's just part of his fun. he might use the empty threat of fucking you in front of the secretary as a way to keep you from acting out, but he's too possessive to have someone in a different tax bracket see you laid bare

get him spa day gift cards!! you can both spend time in private saunas or pools simply enjoying each other's presence and use the time to caress each other's bodies. use the opportunity to get a full body massage - when patrick has had a rough week, you're more than likely going to end up with a couple bruises and a few sore muscles

while he's never been the most domestic man, the image of you flitting back and forth in his pristine kitchen flicks a switch in patrick's brain. your earnest efforts of making him his breakfast bran muffins and churning his apple butter has him daydreaming of keeping you in his apartment like a pet - at his beck and call constantly, dusting his expensive furniture and preparing his meals whenever he comes home... not to mention how you'd willingly bend over or drop to your knees in a heartbeat if he so desired

if patrick is riding an adrenaline (or cocaine) high when he returns to you, be very careful and tread lightly. he may have an itch to clean his axe or handguns, polishing them until the late hours of the night. when he's in a jittery and frantic state, he isn't above having you spread out on his polished floor as something nice to look at while assembling the firearms, and he's certainly not against fucking you roughly while holding the gun to your head or body. he's even aroused by the though of you sucking off his uzi, spit-slicked metal knocking your teeth as your glistening eyes widen in fear

when you sleep next to him, he might jolt awake at night before realizing your shifting movements pose no threat to him, especially when you're locked into his arms with your soft breath brushing against his skin. when he gazes at you in these dimly lit moments, his mask slips until he feels a semblance of happiness - there's no discomfort, jealousy or boredom, he's content with you against him like this. after a long while of his breathing filling the dark room, his mind forces his walls back up and reverts him back to his usual self just as he drifts to sleep. no one can ever see him like that, see what your presence does to him... not even you

he has a penchant for fucking you infront of his toshiba 30-inch television, a porno tape or horror movie often playing. he loves the way screams - either of ecstasy or pain - fill his ears as you moan beneath him, the colours of the screen dancing on your skin. his cock always pulses just that little bit more whenever you bite his thumb and take his dick deep inside you as the film plays in the background. red is suck a sexual and raw colour after all, why not have the bright screen fill your vision as you cum on his cock? the vibrance drowns out all other stimuli, forcing you to focus on his presence in and around you

imagine the shock on evelyn's face when she shows up unannounced at patrick's place one late afternoon- he's swaying to heuy louis and the news, hands on your hips as you giggle and pour him a glass. his silk shirt loosely buttoned just covers your modesty as he soothingly rubs circles on your thigh, soft grin fading as his gaze frosts over at the sight of his betrothed. she sniffs, scandalized at the sight infront of her, and tells patrick to not bother contacting her - tim price's phone will be unplugged the moment she arrives at his place. to be honest, patrick could not care less. you're in his arms and he knows for a fact that evelyn will be over it soon - if not, there's a more suitable marriage candidate right in front of him. if you feel bad or guilty after evelyn leaves, patrick will do his best with his hands, thick cock, tongue and credit card to soothe your worries

expect patrick to leave desperate and vaguely threatening voice mail messages - his heavy, stuttered breaths echoing in your ears as the slick sounds in the background get you more and more worked up. the depraved ramblings deepen and get hoarser with each passing minute, so you'd better pray jean doesn't walk in - she isn't worthy of seeing him in such a disheveled and flushed state

_ _ _ _ _

amab hcs

luis is the most understanding of patrick's work bunch - he isn't shy to defend you and be seen in public as your friend, once you are comfortable telling him your secret of course. just make sure everyone knows you're not a part of that yale thing and you'll be fine

although he isn't keen on being open about his relationship with you - for fear of his colleagues and fellow acquaintances of wall street making derogatory comments towards him, or worse, you - majority of the men already have some closeted urge to spend the night with you, yearning to take bateman's place in your bed. let's face it, the cocaine, competition and firm handshakes can only do so much to hide the growing homoerotic tensions between the coworkers. your appeal is wider than you realise, as the compliments and lingering gazes at events would have most outsiders questioning if carruthers was the only gay man present in the social circle

in large social gatherings - such as big dinner parties or company events - patrick is able to hide his hand under the table and keep a poker face while unbuttoning your fly, untucking your shirt and slowly palming you for his own amusement. his bragging of designer clothing, company roles and mentions of a nice house he procured - for you to move into, of course - easily distract the other people on the table from what's happening in their vicinity

if his j&b on the rocks isn't hitting the spot or the cigars his colleagues are smoking feel heavy in his lungs, he'll drag you into the men's room - assuming there's no one in the other stalls, of course. his fly is halfway undone by the time your knees and expensive slacks hit the tiles, his hands mussing your slicked back hair. you'd better take his cock down your throat to the best of your abilities - you don't want an audience to witness you choking and spluttering on bateman's length, do you? of course not, they'll ostracize you in a heartbeat (or so patrick says), so you had better not complain or splutter when he pinches your nose shut and shoots hot ropes down your throat

whenever patrick fucks your ass, he ensures that his mark is left on your supple skin for days later - whether it be a handprint-shaped bruise, crescent nail marks or scratches along your thighs, he needs to have you remembering how well he fucks you. as you sit down, adjust your pants or even just accidentally back into something, patrick is suddenly at the forefront of your mind

_ _ _ _ _

afab hcs

patrick buys you the finest jewelry and nicest accessories that money can buy - the deal is that you give him handjobs with the sparkling rings on and kisses with the expensive lipstick, luxurious material framing your figure like a dream. he is especially a fan of you wearing jewels that match your eye colour or makeup - when he lifts your hand to press a polite kiss on your fingers, the glittering in your eyes matching his gifts makes his heart skip a beat

when you cockwarm him, his length is so hefty and makes you feel so stretched - the weight grounds you as you struggle to gain friction against your poor neglected clit. you always feel so full when you're perched on his lap, the girth enough to turn off your brain and make you drool. sometimes when patrick is feeling bold, he prepares your outfit for the day and ensures that you're wearing a cute little skirt for easy access :( he can be selfish sometimes, on the occasion that he solely thinks with his dick

patrick loves pushing your knees up to your chest as he fucks you deeply in missionary - the feeling of your swollen pussy lips brushing against his veiny base and your clit grinding against his pubic bone gets him more worked up than he'll ever admit

it's fairly normal to have patrick's hand drift towards your chest in the back of a taxi, his face buried in the crook of your neck. keep your noises quiet or the driver might be curious about what's happening in the backseat. his cold fingers harshly pinching and tugging at your nipples make you abruptly moan into the brisk air in the back of the car, patrick subtly palming himself to the tortured whines leaving your lips. if you make eye contact with the driver, mouth that you're sorry for patrick's behaviour and try to save your dignity by biting your lip to avoid any loud noises. if they make direct eye contact with patrick first, however, expect him to pull a smug grin and flash your breasts to the angled rear-view mirror. he might even hike up your skirts to show off your soaked, borderline see-through panties. sneak the poor driver a tip on your way out because he nearly caused an accident, losing all brain function as his blood immediately drained from his head and rushed to his cock :<

patrick buys you two little platinum charms with a necklace chain, his initials engraved on the back of the heart shaped pendant. the other little shape is an axe, the edge of the blade set with tiny red garnets!! he is main motivation for having you wear it constantly is the fact that it makes a small clinking noise as you bounce on his cock, breasts swaying and your glimmering skin making the necklace a truly beautiful sight to patrick

_ _ _ _ _

ftm hcs

patrick will pay for any surgery you could every want - with the small caveat that he must be the first person to see and touch you once you're all healed. his lightly concealed wonder at your altered appearance and his admiring hums as he carefully traces the remaining swelling definitely help with your mood, breathlessly marveling at the miracle of modern medicine. he's praying you're happy with the outcome, it really was the best money could buy :(

if you're only just getting into wearing masculine clothing, you bet your ass that patrick is guiding you through the more expensive stores. no awkward phase, just the nicest clothing and most put together outfits to go out on the town!! as much as he understands how tough your body image issues can be, he's not having you look sloppy out in public - you're his man and you'll always be looking like you belong by his side

you're lucky his designer boxers are easy to clean! every time he catches sight of your muscles tensing, he's undoubtedly leaking into the material. when you're stretching and your shirt rides up, when you grab something from the top shelf or even when you crouch to tie your shoelace - his cock doesn't discriminate so you'd better expect a small, darkening patch. the musk at the end of the day has such a heady rush when you kneel in front of him, his sweaty underwear mere inches from your lips. patrick swears you give his dick a heartbeat whenever you make out with his bulge and especially when you sloppily give him head :3

bateman is a huge fan of quickies with you before meetings with your mutual colleagues - he's booked for lunch after, there's no other time in his schedule to empty his heavy, full balls into you :( his favourite way to spend those precious moments is with you bent over his polished desk, expensive pants crumpled at your ankles and your precum dripping onto the carpet. he is a massive fan of teasing you by pushing his cockhead into your slick boycunt and stroking his cock, edging his length until you're whimpering from the need to be filled. he mocks you for being needy and massages his balls when he finally fills your warm hole with thick, potent ropes of cum. he leaves you unsatisfied and leaking his load for the whole meeting :( splash your face with water and try not to squirm too much in your seat - patrick's classic shit-eating grin might give away the events that transpire mere moments before you both walked into the boardroom

mtf hcs

patrick will pay for any surgery you could every want - with the small caveat that he must be the first person to see and touch you once you're all healed. his lightly concealed wonder at your altered appearance and his hums as he carefully traces the remaining swelling definitely help with your mood, breathlessly marveling at the miracle of modern medicine. he's praying you're happy with the outcome, it really was the best money could buy :(

patrick keeps himself well put together and likes to treat you to manicures on shared days out. he'll ask his friend's girls for the best nail salon in the area and insists taking you. after he comes along to pick you up and pay after the set is finished, sometimes he'll immediately take your hands and hum his approval at the colour or design. other times, he'll give you his overcoat and hide your nails until you get in a private area, bathroom or the back of a car - the reveal of your new nails when you slowly stroke his cock, spit slicked hand glistening, makes his eyes roll back in pleasure. your heated gaze and slightly flushed face makes him grin, happy that you're willing to drool on his cock and flaunt his money proudly. the perfect girl, in his opinion :>

if you're only just getting into wearing feminine clothing, you bet your ass that patrick is guiding you through the more expensive stores. no awkward phase, just the nicest clothing and most put together outfits to go out on the town!! as much as he understands how tough your body image issues can be, he's not having you look sloppy out in public - you're his girl and you'll always be looking like you belong by his side

patrick's favourite evening activity is fucking you in a mating press - his cock filling you and hitting that deep spot inside you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. he loves the sight of your girldick bouncing on your tummy and the shine of your dribbling arousal smearing on your skin. nothing beats a relaxed evening with your tight hole warming his throbbing length

_ _ _ _ _

thanks for reading. lmk if you liked it. if i got anything wrong, don't hesitate to tell me.

stay safe.

[euphoricsleeplucidity]

So I saw some Oilrose art, and got a writing idea, but I'm not sure if I should post something based on someone's art? If I should take this down, please let me know. Idk social media etiquette, yet. ;-; Anyway, it's not a script this time but it's still kind of lazy. Enjoy!

V was overheating. She's fully aware of that, she needs oil, and she needs it bad. So why is she stumbling back to the corpse spire? Why is she not hunting, even though that 'core temps too high' warning keeps popping up on her hud and her systems are slowly beginning to fail, her internal fans forced to whir to life in a futile effort to cool her systems?

She feels so dizzy. Honestly, that shouldn't even be possible for a drone, but it certainly feels that way. The world is spinning as she walks, steam literally emitting from her heated body, it's a wonder that the snow below doesn't melt.

Yet, she perseveres and makes it to the spire.

Ah. There's the reason she returned, anyway. She tries to stand up tall in front of her leader, but it's too much of a pain to bother and she just continues to slump. Averts her yellow eyes, even as J's questioning ones pierce through her.

"V? What are you doing," it's more a demand than a question. J steps forward, close enough to feel the heat emitting from the overheated disassembler. If V was any dumber, she'd think that her leader stepped this close on purpose.

"I dunno," slurs V, looking up at her leader and smiling lazily. "Since last time, someone got handsy, fig-figured you'd. Y'know."

A dim yellow blush lights up the bottom of J's visor. V can see the conflict, the need to step back vs the want to be closer.

Yeah. V returned on purpose.

If the only way to convince J to be so close was letting herself overheat?

Well, it's a small price to pay.

And V figures she knows why. The warmth, so unlike the usual coolness of their bodies, it reminds J of... Tessa, doesn't it? So it's not even like her leader actually cares about her in the way she wants, anyway, never will. But it's something. And damnit, V was willing to take what she can get.

J never steps back. No, she comes closer, and without further hesitation, wraps her arms around her subordinate. V startles despite expecting it, but quickly relaxes, her traitorous tail wagging behind herself. She returns the hug, placing her hands on J's back, and her leader sighs in contentment, as does V.

They don't exchange words.

V is content with this.

J will never like her back, but at least she has this.

Little does she know, J smiles, but not because she's remembering Tessa's warmth this time.

If the only way to convince V to be so close was letting her overheat?

Well, it's a small price to pay.

Though, lacking in efficiency.

She doesn't know why V is doing this.

But, well. They have extra oil lying around the spire, anyway.

J's hands cling tighter to V's back.

Stop hurting yourself for me, you idiot.

But those words never come.

[alwayssassydreamer]

The Boss' Daughter - Morning

Day 23 of Kikitober

Part 2, Part 3

Plot: you're the daughter of a famous underworld boss. After you've been taken by marines your father is willing to pay every price to whoever brings you back.

A/N: i had no idea what i could name the father so you have to come up with something yourself whenever you read f/n sorry. Was supposed to be a one shot but it got so long that i had to split it into 3 parts.

Warnings: swearing, reader is captured, nsfw, mention of bj/anal/p in v, voyeurism? MDNI

Characters: Kid x F!reader x Killer

Your father is a powerful and influential man in the underworld. Dealing with mighty weapons. To you he was a stranger, too absorbed in his business especially after your mother's death.

Honestly you didn't mind. Being your father's daughter had it's advantages. One of them being that no one dared to deny you any wish. The other was that you were able to be a menace without consequences.

Every fight, every mischief, every lie you told, even encounters with marines had absolutely no consequences for you. And you definitely enjoyed it.

The best thing about all this was that you were mostly seen as an innocent little girl depending on your fathers protection. When in truth you were quite the opposite.

You were taught how to fight with knives and guns and also how to strategically defeat your enemies without breaking a sweat or how you called it - manipulating others. The latter part was like your father said "the best way to win a war." and it turned out he was right with that.

Though you did enjoy all of the above the fact that you always had a watchdog near you frustrated you. You wished that just once you could go explore the surrounding without someone following you.

You tried and tried to convince him that there was no need of a bodyguard for you and that he should rather have them around himself instead.

"i can take care of myself and most people won't lay a finger on me anyways, they're too afraid of you" you reasoned. "Fine" was all he snapped probably being too fed up having this conversation.

Finally you were able to follow your dream - sail around the world and discover new islands. Alone. Enjoying your freedom.

The new freedom led to you being a pain in the marines ass. Taking full advantage of your father's power. Which the latter did not appreciate. But you didn't care until your first wanted poster appeared. Why the fuck would anyone put a bounty on your head? The odd thing about it was the only alive part.

You contacted your father with your den den mushi and the first thing he did when he picked up was yell at you and then yell at yousome more. You had no idea what his problem was, your bounty wasn't that high and again who would dare mess with a mighty underworld boss.

When you mentioned this he told you that there was a high chance that the world government was after his head. When you asked him why he bluntly told you that he had information that could lead to their downfall before waving you off to never talk about this again.

He thought it'd be better for you not to know everything. "I want you to come home! Now!" he scolded. For the first time you thought that maybe you should listen to him. You prepared to get a ship and sail home.

But who would have thought that you wouldn't get far - the marines already hot on your tracks.

The morning started just great after escaping some marine officers the day before, you were caught once again by others. Until they were defeated by the kid pirates who were now surrounding you. When did pirates start going after you. You were confused.

And now you stood there watching as the red haired pirate captain used his devilfruit to destroy the ship that belonged to the marines.

Eustass captain Kid and his first mate massacre soldier killer. Two members of the infamous worst generation. Though you've never met them before you were always eager to see the worst generation live in action, having heard many stories about them and seen their respectable bounties. All of them being higher than your own.

You had to admit that both, the massacre soldier and the captain, were impressiv strong with a rather attractive appearance.

But now was not the time to think about good looking men. You had to find a way out. You were glad that they fought the marines off so you didn't have to.

"Who do we have here" Captain kid asked in a low voice stepping closer to you.

"That's y/n, daughter of f/n(father name) the infamous underworld boss" Killer said standing right behind you. An evil grin spread across Kids face.

"Well looks like our lucky day. We only stopped to have some fun at the bar but this is even better"

He put his hand under your chin lifitng your head to make you look up at him. "Your father put up a nice price to whoever brings you back to him" Kid smirked moving his thumb along your jawline.

"How bout you get your filthy hands off me" you snapped looking him deep in the eyes as you pushed his hand away. A low laugh escaped his lips.

"You're a feisty little mouse. I'm gonna enjoy your company"

you started to weight down your options. Should you run? Or should you play along? If you run where will you go? You had no allies here nor a ship to get away.

Looking closely at the pirates you thought it'd be easier to play along. They seemed hotheaded and easy to manipulate. You thought it'd be kinda nice to have them do the fighting for you and you could use a ride home and some entertainment.

"Who said that I'm going to come with you" you teased smiling arrogantly.

"You think I'd let a chance like this slip" Kid nodded at Killer who grabbed your arm from behind you, holding you tight making it impossible to break free.

"Either come with us voluntarily or I'm going to make you" Kid growled his face so close to yours that you could feel his hot breath on your skin. You laughed. Confused faces looked at you.

"Think that's funny brat" Kid snapped jaw clenching.

"I do think it's funny that you believe you can handle me" you taunted feeling Killers grip tighten. At first you could see anger in Kids' eyes but it was replaced with a devilish smile.

"Don't worry, you're not the first brat that needed some extra attention." Well you didn't expect this answer nor the fact that it would make you blush slightly.

"But first we're going to the bar." Kid commanded making his crew cheer happily. Killer never let go of your arm fearing that the moment he did you'd run.

"You know i would really appreciate it if you'd let go of my arm"

"So you could run" Killer asked.

"No but I'm pretty sure you're leaving a bruise" you hissed but killer didn't care.

"Fine how about holding hands instead" he stopped his walk for a moment, his mask making it hard for you to figure out his expression.

You were sure that you had startled the blonde as he let go of your arm. Kid glancing over to you both. Before anyone could say something you let out a surprised gasp as you suddenly found yourself thrown over killers strong shoulder, cursing. Seems like your attempt to play with the massacre soldier failed.

"You were the one who wanted me to let go of your arm" Killer mocked. this time you didn't need to see his face to know that he had a smug smile on his face.

After a few minutes you reached the bar. Surprised that it's beef open at such an early hour. Once inside you realized that it only opened for the pirates and then saw why they were so eager to get there.. They were greeted by a bunch of beautiful women who immediatly approached them. They were obviously not only visiting because of the drinks.

Killer still refused to put you down. In the meantime most of the other crew members were already entertainig themselves with the women.

You pushed yourself a little off Killers shoulder to see what was going on when you spotted Kid talking to a beautiful young girl who was extremely smitten by the captain. Kid whispered in her ear making her giggle before the two of them walked upstairs. Killer following them.

"I thought you'd buy me a drink" you whined as you entered a room at the very end of the corridor.

"Maybe later. that's if you're going to be a good girl" Killer said finally putting you down.

"A good girl?" you repeated, questioning look on your face.

A low growl behind you made you jump. Kid was standing behind you next to a huge bed while the girl was kneeling on it.

"This young lady will show you how to be a good girl." Kid smiled shit eating grin on his face.

Killer pulled up a chair, placed it in front of the bed and pushed you on it. He grabbed your hands and tied them to the armrests. You started to panic a little. When a fistful of your hair was grabbed making your head tilt backwards.

"Better take a good look and pay attention" Killer hissed in your ear.

You did not want to watch how Kid was fucking this girl. Seriously why didn't they leave you at the bar. There you could at least get drunk. You moved nervously in your chair trying to free yourself but to no avail.

Next thing you saw was the girl taking off her clothes crawling over to Kid who was still standing next to the bed. She unbuckeld his belt and pulled down his pants along with his underwear and started to suck him off. Kid was moaning loudly. Every time you averted your gaze from the scene before you Killer grabbed your face and made you look.

After Kid reached his orgasm the girl was pushed back laying now on her back.

"Ready to join?" Kid asked and you swallowed body tensing. until you realized he wasn’t talking to you. Killer walked to the bed stopping right between you and the bed. he turned to face you before starting to strip down.

you didn't want to look but god was he hot. you could feel a blush on your face while a strong heat rushed through your body. Killer chuckled lowly. before getting on the bed grabbing the girl and yanking her closer to him. he pushed her face into the bed, lifted her hips and took hold of them before pushing his cock in her pussy.

once again you looked away. you could feel a wetness between your legs. fuck. this was not good. you didn't want them to now that this was turning you on. lost in your thoughts you completely forgot about Kid until he was standing next to you.

"Like what you see?" he asked running a finger over your arm. you shivered under his touch. he let out a devious chuckle.

"What's the point of this whole thing" you asked trying to sound as confident as possible, ignoring the sounds Killer and the girl made.

"This is what you get if you behave. if you let me take you back to your father without causing any trouble." Kid said circling around you like you were his prey.

"What makes you think that I'd want this" you blurted out a mix of anger and arousal building up inside you.

Kid stopped right in front of you placed both, his flesh and metal hand, over yours and leaned in. he was a little too close for your liking so you tried to shift away but you were trapped between the chair and his huge figure.

"You wanna tell me that you don't imagine yourself in her place"

"no".

out of nowhere he moved his flesh hand between your legs, fingers caressing your clothed core making you gasp.

"i think you're lying" he mocked in your ear. "Now keep watching"

The girl was a screaming, begging and panting mess when both of them fucked her at the same time. Kid in her ass, Killer in her pussy. even though you had your eyes shut your own arousal was increasing. desperately clenching your legs together. this was way too much for you to watch.

After all 3 of them reached their high they collapsed on the bed. you were glad that this was finally over. the girl took a few deep breaths before propping herself up on her elbows looking at you.

"What about you? Want me to take care of you?" she asked smiling warmly at you.

Both men now looked at you a curious look on their faces. Your body wanted to say yes but her head was quicker and said no.

"You sure?" the girl asked making her way to you. She ran her fingers over your thighs making you squeal. satisfied with your reaction she kept moving higher and higher.

you gave her a nasty look not wanting the pirates to see how desperate you were.

"that's enough" Kid suddelny said as both men put their clothes back on. Killer untied you and once again threw you over his shoulder.

"Let's get back to the ship"

What a great morning you thought sarcastically to yourself.

[cx-boxbox]

I was going to write a fic about Lando wanting to wear pretty clothes, but I gave up after a couple scenes. Anyway, here's the only part I kept:

Lando’s fingers twitch nervously as he collects his packages, fiddling with the corners and ducking under the tape sealing the flaps shut, but he’s careful not to accidentally open them where anyone can see. It was already embarrassing enough to ask the concierge for them, and he cringed at the heavily branded boxes. The lady probably now thinks he has a secret girlfriend or something.

It’s nice out in Melbourne, and Lando is more than happy to swap the polo and jeans he wore to the paddock for a new purple v-neck that’s so soft and light to the touch it might disintegrate between his fingers and shorts that are just a tad bit shorter than the ones he ran around the city in. He has already been photographed without his shirt within days of arriving, so if he does bump into someone, it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise.

But it is really just Lando’s luck that he quite literally smacks into his teammate’s back as he rounds the corner.

Oscar straightens with his bucket of ice, blinks at him, and asks, “Where are you going in such a rush?”

Lando folds his arms over his chest.

“Dinner. Not a foreign concept to you, hopefully.”

“‘Course not.” What is a foreign concept is how Oscar’s gaze keeps drifting south, flickering between the plunging neckline of Lando’s shirt and his upper thighs.

Oh, how interesting, he thinks, amused. Out loud, he asks, “Wanna come with? I have no idea which places are trainer-approved.”

It takes a moment for Oscar to shrug and respond, “Sure, why not. Teammate bonding and such, right?”

Lando gasps and plucks the bucket from Oscar’s hands. He pokes Oscar’s shoulder for good measure. “We’re plenty bonded, mate!” Not as much as he’d like, but still. “Just admit that you’re simply leaping at the idea of spending time with me away from the paddock.”

“I’m going to bring you to a seafood restaurant.”

“Aah! No, no, don't do that. I dressed up so pretty, I even shaved, and you’re not ruining my hard work with, eugh, fish.”

Once again, Oscar’s gaze travels over Lando’s figure, and Lando is incredibly delighted to see red tinting his cheeks. He preens a little, which he cannot be blamed for.

It’s so flattering that it more than makes up for Oscar’s simple affirming, “Hm.”

God, Lando would be so over this whole flirting-not-quite-boyfriends thing if it wasn’t so entertaining. He just hopes that Oscar’s patience doesn’t run out before either one of them gives in and just confesses. He also hopes that he isn’t misreading anything either. That would be fucking humiliating.

The little smiles and full-body laughter Lando regularly receives from him keeps him hopeful at best and delusional at worst.

On the way to Oscar’s hotel room, Lando asks what he planned on doing with the ice, and he only receives a shrug and a mumbled, “You never know when you just need a bucket of ice.”

“That’s fair.”

“Speaking of ice, are you going to be cold in just that? It gets cooler in the evenings, and your circulation sucks.”

“A price I’m willing to pay. Have you considered that maybe your circulation is working overtime? That it might be doing too much?” Lando retorts in lieu of admitting that he didn’t actually think that far ahead in his nervous excitement. A green hoodie promptly hits him in the face.

It’s not McLaren merch. It’s OP81 merch, and it smells like Oscar. Lando resists the urge to ball it up and shove his face into it.

“Just hold onto it if you don’t wanna wear it now,” Oscar says before disappearing into the bathroom. He re-emerges in a long-sleeved shirt and trousers that don’t have drawstrings. Lando almost breathes a sigh of relief. Small mercies.

Oscar’s hoodie also ends up being one of those small mercies, and Lando burrows into it comfortably as they take a longer route back to the hotel because the city after dark is nice. Oscar raises an eyebrow at him in his subtly gloating fashion, which Lando ignores in favor of tucking his nose into the collar.

“You look prettier in my hoodie,” Oscar mumbles.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. We’re here anyway.”

[sirdindjarin]

The Savior - Din Djarin x f!Reader

The Mandalorian, side-quest extraordinaire, accidentally frees a slave, kills a Senator's son, ends a criminal conspiracy, and falls in love. Just a month in the life of the galaxy's favorite chaotic space cowboy and his son.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

A/N: i fucking love this man. here's the spotify playlist i made while hallucinating being wrecked by him. I accidentally based this fic on Euphoria by Angels & Airwaves.

AO3 Link🤠

TAGS: Fluff, m!falls first, plot with porn, helmet stays on for now, P in V, outdoor activities, protective!Din, soft-ish!Din.

WARNINGS: reader is/was a slave; references to abuse; no curses or slang outside of Star Wars canon (that's a warning if you hate that hahaha)

**************************************************************

"I thought vagrants were barred at the door. How did a Mandalorian get in here?”

The Mandalorian in question does not react to the insult. At the table before him, the taunting Trandoshan guffaws, but his laughter dies when he gets no reaction from the bounty hunter.

"What do you want?" He snaps, his green jaws clicking shut.

Instead of replying, certain the answer is obvious, the beskar-covered man leisurely surveys the colorful, boisterous room, his hands folded in front of him. Having already scouted the upscale casino, he does this for sarcastic effect. He’s also certain that fact is lost on his Trandoshan quarry. 

Upon returning his direct attention to the lizard, a small movement in the booth catches his heat sensor. A young woman, likely his quarry’s slave by her frayed appearance, sits with her head bowed behind her master. 

“Hey, tin man, you in there?” Your master’s voice sounds more like rocks scraping together than fluid language.

The Mandalorian chucks a bounty puck onto the table, the name and alien visage of Rathos Craaf glowing in a blue cone of projected light.

“Go quietly or don’t - it makes no difference to me.” 

“Ahh,” Rathos Craaf hums in his throat and leans back in his seat, making your demure form more visible to the bounty hunter. “What’s the price?”

The Mandalorian again does not dignify a response. 

“Can’t be greater than what I’m willing to pay,” Rathos insinuates. 

The tense silence eats through your body as the ruthless men stare at each other - the probability of oncoming violence ratcheting up.

“Go prepare my ship,” your master barks suddenly at you, raising his hand.

Flinching, you scoot around the U-shaped booth to obey. 

You weren’t always a slave. As a child on Kenari, you had been born into a world of vivid green, rippling blue, and rich, brown soil. Trained in both hunting and fighting from birth, you had been too young to save your village from the brutal relocation program of the Empire. 

Dispersed onto harsher worlds, you’d been sold from one slaver to another until finally coming into the collection of one Rathos Craaf. He has been your master for several years by this point, and while not the worst, he was close. 

“What will you do about the girl?” A modulated voice asks.

Pausing on the edge of the hard bench, you look between the two antagonists. Me?

“Who cares about the mudscuffing girl? Tell you what, I’ll sell her to you.” The crafty Trandoshan gets an even better idea: “Or - take her in exchange for the bounty. She’s considered top-tier sentient property.” 

“Not what I was asking,” a gloved hand thumbs his blaster. “Once you’re in carbonite, wh-”

The Trandoshan lunges up from his seat with a booming yell, launching at the cloaked, beskar-free neck of the Mandalorian. Rathos’ claws reach around the smaller man’s throat, but the Mandalorian is lighter of foot, ducking out of the hold. 

Off-balance, Rathos tumbles but rolls back on his feet, his scaly tail acting as a counterweight. Gasps and mutters spill from the crowd as people scramble out of harm’s way.

You remain seated in the booth, frozen and unsure. But then, as the silver bounty hunter aims his blaster, Rathos whips his tail into the Mandalorian’s legs, knocking him with a clang onto his back. 

The blaster goes skittering through the crowd, and you’re shocked to find your legs racing after it. 

The thunder of a powerful flame roars in the cavernous room as you weave through aliens and humans alike, searching. The blackness of the blaster appears on the gray floor and you dive for it. 

Cold steel excites your skin. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, and though you’ve never fired one, your ancient muscle memory remembers the feeling of a bow in your hands; the trajectory, strength, and steadiness necessary. 

Sprinting back through the crowd, you find Rathos pinning the Mandalorian’s chest. The solid armor prevents any of Rathos’ blows from truly hurting the bounty hunter, but the weight of the lizard is too awkward and great for him to shove away from this angle. 

The fire-throwing vambrace comes up again and, as it billows into the Trandoshan’s face, you fire a blast at the substantial tail that had once been used against you. 

Rathos bellows in pain, tumbling to the side, and the Mandalorian takes full advantage. He jumps to his feet, then connects his fist to his quarry's skull, rendering the creature unconscious. Binders clasp around the arms of your master and the successful bounty hunter staggers backward a single step to catch his breath. 

You freeze at what you’ve just done, the blaster still pointed at Rathos. People murmur, and the words, “Killed by his slave” can be heard, though he is only unconscious. Your chest heaves, far more out of breath than the Mandalorian walking toward you.

“Thank you,” he says drily, taking his blaster out of your hands. 

Unsure what else you should do, you follow your master as he is dragged without dignity along the smooth fogstone floor. 

Exiting the casino, snaking down an alley, and traipsing to the outskirts of the city limits, the silhouette of a ship against the orange horizon becomes visible. 

Neither you nor the Mandalorian have spoken a single word since he took the blaster from your hands, but as he presses a button on his vambrace to lower the loading ramp, he turns to you now.

“Grab his tail." 

An order. That you could do. You immediately grab Rathos’ tail and lift. The Mandalorian half-drags and half-lifts the Trandoshan by his cuffed hands and the lizard is loaded into the ship’s hold. 

Standing at the far end of the Mandalorian’s rather busted ship, you’re surprised to see a small, green being. Dressed in what must be a sack, its long ears perk up and its eyes glimmer at the sight of the bounty hunter. A happy coo reverberates in the quiet, metal space. 

The child looks at you and makes another, similar noise. It waddles toward you, but before you can react, the Mandalorian scoops the child into his arms and sequesters it behind a thin blast door. 

“You are free to go.” 

It’s an odd statement. He must be familiar with the underworld. He knows how slaving works.

You’re not sure when you last spoke; you weren’t allowed to speak. But the bounty hunter seems to expect a reply. 

“I am not. The law says I am to be returned to the slavers’ coalition for repurchase.” Your voice is scratchy from disuse and the helmeted man tilts his head in curiosity. 

“You won't run?”

It seems too monumental a task. Hopes and fears trip over each other in their efforts to be heard. Freedom. Finding a place to call home. Your family was long dead. But… maybe there was hope of a family somewhere.

Where would I even go? No way I could stay ahead of the slavers. They’d send hunters like this Mandalorian after me. I’d be worse off than I am now.

“I do not know if I can,” you whisper honestly. 

The Mandalorian looks at you - at least, you think he does - for so long that you begin to squirm under his gaze.

Without warning, the wind is knocked from you. Rathos’ tail slams into the back of your knees, crumpling you to the floor. His claws wrap around your neck, and you yell, plunging two fingers into his lidless eye.

“Traitorous shutta!” Spittle from your master flies onto your cheeks.

As he recoils from your jab, you squirm underneath him, trying to flee, when the weight on your chest vanishes in a rush of air. Coughing and wiping your face, you lie there momentarily until your throbbing pulse abates inside your head. You sit up and widen your eyes to hasten their focus.

The Mandalorian has the Trandoshan by the throat with both hands. Rathos sputters and gags, but you watch as gloved fingers dig harder into the scaly throat. The anonymous man shoves his quarry into the carbon freezing chamber and smashes the button with more force than necessary. 

It's over. 

When you woke in the dark that morning, never would you have expected to watch your master be frozen in carbonite aboard a bounty hunter's ship.

That bounty hunter turns to you now. 

“I have something I need to do. I’ll give you passage if you provide assistance.” 

________________________________

Crossing your arms, tucking your legs under your body, and leaning against the hull in your seat, you try to make yourself as small as possible. You wouldn’t have even climbed up here if the Mandalorian hadn’t indicated that you should.

He wanted to keep an eye on you. He did not trust you around the kid - despite (or perhaps because of) its interest in you. 

Moments after leaving the planet’s atmosphere, a new emotion bubbles in your chest: elation. The stars flow by in a technicolor kaleidoscope; hues and shapes you have never seen race past your eyes. It’s beyond anything you could have imagined. 

“Has it always looked like this?” You wonder to yourself.

You jump when a deep, electronic voice answers, “Yes.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, realizing he had been watching you. “I’ve never seen hyperspace. I was kept in the hold,” you state without self-pity.

The Mandalorian lets that terrible fact hang in the air before eventually saying,“I recommend you get some sleep. It will be several hours before we reach Mid Rim.” 

He turns away from you and folds his arms. The muffled clang of his helmet tipping back against the headrest tells you that he will be taking his own advice.

Interestingly, you feel safe enough to get some rest. Being constantly attuned to the temperamental wills and whims of others, you've become a great judge of character. 

This Mandalorian, though quiet, is clearly capable of kindness to those who deserve it. A rarity for someone in his profession. 

___________________________________

The blue cone glows in his hand, projecting the face of one ugly slug. The name at the bottom, written in a language you had been forced to learn, reads: Salaa the Hutt.

Fearful eyes flick up to the veiled Mandalorian, “A Hutt?”

The helmet nods, “You will be my way in.” You make a whimpering noise, but the bounty hunter continues. “You’re a slave on the run. I will be returning you for a small reward.”

Crushing disappointment deflates your body. Believing yourself to have been wavering between freedom and the life you had known, you realize, now that the decision was being made for you, that you’d chosen freedom. Further adding to your pain is your misjudgement of the Mandalorian. 

I’d have never made it to freedom - far too naive. Thought a karking bounty hunter was doing something out of the kindness of his heart. Unbelievable.

Still, to your credit, you take several steps back, almost as though you might try to outrun the nimble, strong bounty hunter with a kriffing jetpack, of all things. You’re proud of yourself for even thinking about doing it.

The Mandalorian doesn’t react. He pockets the puck and opens his weapons cache on the hull wall. He lifts a small item from the assortment and shuts the doors. You can’t see what it is, and he doesn’t return to you. 

He opens the blast door to the child’s tiny room. The baby snores in his bungalow, and the ever-fascinating Mandalorian rubs the green, fuzzy head before closing the door. He turns and strides toward you.

You take one more step backward, just because you can. Because you should.

He still says nothing. Closer, and closer, the armored man advances on you until you can see your nervous eyes in his breastplate.

“Give me your wrists.” 

Is his voice naturally that persuasive or is it the vocoder?

Overriding your fledgling autonomy, you obey him with a preprogrammed respectful nod. He clasps binders around your wrists.

The Mandalorian steps away to retrieve another weapon, then he lifts his chin toward the boarding ramp. 

Shouldn't you at least try to gain freedom? Beg him to let you go? 

“Please, I can try to pay you,” this is a lie and he knows it. “Or I could work off the debt of transport. Something!”

It’s the loudest your voice has been in living memory, and it both surprises and emboldens you. But the Mandalorian does not seem swayed. 

“Walk,” he orders.

You minutely shake your head twice. It means nothing to him, but everything to you. 

An electronic sigh, then he takes a single step toward you. Fear switches you back into the subservient girl of the last twenty years. You flinch, your manacled hands blocking your face. 

The Mandalorian falters, slightly abashed. “I am not going to hurt you. But you need to start walking.” 

Slowly, you lower your hands. His gloved fingers curl around your bicep, and he leads you out into the sunny air.

It’s a hot day on Niamos. The beachside resort that serves as the capital city is teeming with families of all species bathing in the muggy air. The sandstone path that Mando - that’s what everyone calls them, right? - parades you down is packed with beachgoers. Embarrassed by your plight, you try to hide the binders, but it’s impossible with the angle he holds your arm. 

Finding another gust of will, you reason, “Surely you could find a way inside without turning me in? You’re good at your job. You could've killed my m-”

“Salaa angered powerful people. There is a bounty on him and it’s higher if he’s dead.

“What does that mean?”

“He's careful. Employs expensive security. Easiest way in is through the front door,” Mando finishes. 

Mando’s leathery hold on your arm is soft. Unyielding, of course, but he doesn’t hurt you. It saddens you to realize how different that is from your usual treatment. He had still binded you and planned on turning you in, but hey! At least he wasn’t going to leave a bruise.

Directing you down a narrow alley, the Mandalorian stops in front of a tan-colored, generic shield door. He raps twice on it, standing casually still. If he feels you shaking, he says nothing about it.

A Yaka man is standing behind the door when it opens with a whoosh. His metal implants reflect the sun and you squint. Behind him are another two Yaka and a particularly menacing-looking Zabrak, all armed with pulse rifles. 

“We ain't buyin'," he slurs.

“I'm here to claim the slave reward.” 

The Yaka stares at the impenetrable, T-shaped slit in the silver helmet, scrutinizing, before stepping aside. Mando guides you ahead of him, then you hear the spur-like sound of his step over the threshold. The close quarters are sweltering, and sweat beads on your temple.

“This way,” the Yaka servant veers to the right and up a steeply inclined hallway. The other members of the security team follow behind you.

The Mandalorian’s thumb slides over your skin. You would give it more thought if a wide, dingy room wasn’t quickly coming into view. 

On the second floor, a muted, sparsely furnished area overlooks the residence across the street, and the beach beyond. However, you can’t see the view because the balcony is being taken up by a massive, blob-like shape, and a tall, spiky silhouette.

“Ahh,” the huge shape speaks, and for the first time in your life, you’re thankful you speak Huttese. “What is this?” 

Bowing, the Yaka guard explains, “This Mandalorian has returned a loose slave.” 

He grabs for your arm, but you lurch when Mando pulls you out of reach, warning, “Careful. She killed her master before fleeing." 

The bodyguard recoils as though you personally threatened him. He steps away, waiting for actual instruction from his boss. The green Rodian next to Salaa tuts in his sour voice.

Deciding it was best not to speak, you raise your chin with dignity as Mando drops his hand from your arm.

“Why do you return her here?” Salaa the Hutt inquires. “Surely you know that I have been removed from my associations. Including the slavers.”

“I am here for information,” Mando drops the ruse completely, his voice calm.

“Information,” the Hutt laughs horribly. “I have much of that, pateesa. What do you wish to know?”

“You should ask what I have to trade first.”

“Hmm. You do not wish to trade the girl, I hope. Must be better than that,” the slimy giant slug laughs derisively.

You don’t even bristle. Worse things had been said to you daily. 

The green, mohawked Rodian chuckles. Though you do not understand his language, the human bounty hunter does: “She is too sad-looking to be any fun. Pity.” The reptilian-looking male then makes a vile comment about what he can see through your ratty, loose clothing.

The Mandalorian's eyes narrow, and his right hand drifts toward his hip of its own accord.

“Make your offer, Mandalorian.”

“If you provide the information I need, I won’t claim the ten-thousand-credit bounty on your head.”

That horrible, bulging laugh bursts from the ex-crime boss once more, hurting your ears in its pitch and volume. 

“Far too aggressive, Mandalorian. I decline.”

Salaa’s stubby arm motions at the armed security who raise their rifles at the two of you. 

While you freeze in terror, the Mandalorian stills in focus. Faster than a hyperdrive, he clenches his fist. Miniature rockets whistle through the tense air, eliminating all three bodyguards; the angry Zabrak, the mouthy Rodian, and the blubbery Salaa remain.

The Mandalorian draws his blaster, pushing you behind him, and fires from his hip as the Zabrak guard begins to raise his modified arm. What type of weapon it held, you’ll never know because he falls to the ground, dead, before he can use it.

The Rodian darts away from Salaa, circling the room. To you, it seems as though he is intending to flee, not fight, but the Mandalorian fires a laserblast at his bug-eyed head, dropping him.

Mando calmly swivels his blaster to Salaa. 

Resigned, the Hutt slimily states, “Ask what you wish to know, pateesa.”

“I have been told that you have seen another Mandalorian. Where?”

“Ahh, that is all? I have seen one here.”

“On Niamos?” So surprised, Mando forgets to keep the tone from his voice.

“A beskar-covered man does not go unnoticed on a planet filled with water-bathers,” Salaa laughs again. You visibly wince.

“Where?” 

“Where else? Water’s Edge.” 

Mando twists his head toward the opposite window as if he could see his fellow Mandalorian from here. He holsters his weapon and turns to leave. 

“Those Yaka were expensive guards, pateesa,” the Hutt grumbles ominously.

“You paid too much.”

He returns his hold on your arm, pushing you forward. Marching awkwardly down the sloping halfway, you try to make sense of his actions.

Your face screws up in confusion, “You didn’t turn me in or claim the Hutt’s bounty. You're earning no credits.”

That’s the defining feature of a bounty hunter.

The silence lengthens as you reach the ground floor, and hurriedly exit the sandstone building. As you soak in the blistering sunshine, the hand on your arm turns you to face him. The Mandalorian’s quick fingers remove your binders. 

“That’s it?” You rub your wrists even though he had left them on the loosest setting.

“Passage for assistance,” he reminds you. 

He then nods once and takes his leave. For an interminable length of time, you watch as he calmly walks away, breaking only when he turns down an alley and is lost from sight.

 What the hell do I do now?

__________________________________

The new day is growing late. Din Djarin basks in the heat of the single sun. For being one of those odd planets without plural light sources, the strength of the lone sun is incredible. Din much preferred the scorching, arid planets to the ice-covered ones, and Niamos is perfect. The breeze gently carries through his light flight suit, while the sun warms whatever dark material is visible around the beskar. 

While Din feels more comfortable in this climate, heat signatures can be a little bit more difficult to read. He had managed to track a faint heat signature around Water’s Edge. The day before, immediately after speaking with Salaa, Din had come to check the place out, but his quarry had left some hours previously and he had lost the trail.

Din enters the establishment for the second time in as many days. Inside is a large, open floor with dining tables set out across the expanse. High society clinks glasses as they wait for the next act to grace the small stage. Din surveys the room, switching between heat sensors and normal vision, before concluding that the Mandalorian he searches for is beyond the far wall. 

Heads turn and stare as Din, strutting as if he belongs, makes his way to the unobtrusive doorway next to the stage. A Mandalorian stands out here. This was a place for people who employed bounty hunters, not those whom they hunt. Din slides the door open, and he is greeted by a dark hallway.

Light spills from a room to his right. Din flips on his heat sensor again, and presses his lips together in satisfaction when the heat signature picks up.

Rounding into the room with confidence, Din observes everything at once.

A large mirror, complete with lights, sits above a desk. A rack of clothing stands lonely in the far corner. And on a stool in front of the mirror sits a Mandalorian, their flaky, blue-painted armor having seen better days.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he announces. “I have been tasked with finding other Mandalorians in order t-” 

“Oh, my stars!” The Mandalorian squeals. The helmet is removed by purple hands, and a humanoid species stares in awe. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Mandalorian. I- I do this character because I just love your culture so much.” 

Blinking behind his helm, Din confirms what he's already becoming sure of, “That armor you wear - it is not real beskar.”

“What? This stuff?” The actor scoffs. “This is expensive paint and cheap wetboard.” He stands up, advancing unwisely on the real Mandalorian. “Can I ask you some questions? I’ve got a real opportunity here to elevate my perfor-” 

Din backs out of the room in a single, fluid motion, punching the button for the door. 

He sighs.

***

A blaster shot turns the corner of the building Din had just walked past into dust and debris. He spins, drawing his own blaster, expecting to see the Empire itself. Instead, a young human bounty hunter stands there, nervously fumbling with her jammed blaster. The Mandalorian rushes her, pinning her by the collarbone against the alley wall. 

"Bounty?”

Terrified, she nods and whispers, “Yes.” 

"Who contracted it?" 

She wheezes from under Din’s forearm, “Don't know. It's open Rim-wide for now. Just told to kill you and the girl.”

Under his helm, Din’s brow pinches. “The girl?”

The wide-eyed woman shrugs, again in the dark. If this inexperienced bounty hunter managed to track him down already, it's likely another has found you. Din releases the woman roughly and rockets up into the sky.

_______________________________

The sights and sounds of the beach are incredible. The late-daylight is deliciously warm as it touches your skin through the holes in your clothing. You sit on the top step of the tiered beach area, staring out at the water as you try to come up with a plan of action. Having slept on a lounge chair last night, you’re nearly grateful for the decades of poor lodging training your body. 

The sky is hazy, but the flash of sunlight glinting off of something tiny flying far above has you twisting your head and squinting. Unable to make out the object, you return your attention to the ocean and ignore it. 

From behind you, a voice calls your name and you automatically turn.

As you stare down the barrel of the blaster pointed at you, you remember no one should know your name here.

"Let's go," the bounty hunter tells you.

It's a woman with red skin and long, blue, braided hair. Etches in her cheeks make her bone structure look even sharper. 

You frown. What you’d told the Mandalorian had already been proven correct. You weren't able to run. 

Resignedly standing to your feet, you take a step, but go stumbling forward as the woman kicks your back.

Your second foreign emotion of the last twenty-four hours sparks in your chest, glowing as hot as the sun above. 

"Hey! I was going," you glare.

"Move faster, scum," she orders. 

You continue walking, your eyes scanning for something, anything, to get you out of this.

Ahead on the right is a large crowd of vendors and their customers. If you can duck through them, maybe you can lose the blue-haired madwoman behind you. 

A cold, circular shape presses between your shoulder blades as you march, and your bravery starts to fail. If you make a single wrong move, you'll be shot before you even get to the crowd. 

Just do it - better to die now than live as a slave.

The crowd swells as a school trip pours out from a nearby museum. Your confidence rises at the sight of the increasingly busy, confusing horde.

Closer. So kriffing close.

The female bounty hunter cries out suddenly as a blaster shot scalds her arm. She defensively spins, kicking out powerfully behind her.

A large species you're unfamiliar with, tall and teal, is thrown sideways with the force of the kick. The competing bounty hunter recovers into a crouch and shoots at your captor, hitting her in the chest.

With a violent exhale, she falls. Too busy sprinting into the crowd, you do not hear her final, pathetic breath. 

Weaving, keeping ducked and hidden, you whisper a constant stream of 'excuse me.' You don't want to push anyone, knowing a reaction from an offended beach-goer could give away your position. 

The unblinking bounty hunter, your newest enemy, stands tall above much of the crowd, and it doesn't take him long to spot your trail. 

Thundering forward, happily shoving people you had so politely passed, he roars. Fear ices your stomach.

The sound of a sputtering jetpack drowns out the noise of the people. Never breaking stride, you search for the source of another bounty hunter. 

I know I’m a runaway slave who assaulted her master before turning him into a carbonsicle but, banthashit, is the price on my head really that high?

The massive hunter gains on you, and just as you clear the other side of the crowd, you gasp, pained, when he snatches your hair. You whirl, packing all of your strength into your right fist. Your blow lands on the creature’s lower jaw, which seems to be two pink tubes, and it wails grotesquely. 

The grip on your hair loosens and you rip away, but the much larger creature lunges for you again. It pulls you upward by your shirt this time, and you scream. Kicking out, your foot knocks a breath from the ugly bounty hunter, but it does not release you.

Staring at you with shallow black eyes, it speaks in a language you don’t understand, but the intonation is clearly a question. 

Gasping, you boldly say, “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.” 

The creature seems to understand Basic because his three-fingered hand leaves your shirt. 

Before you get a chance to make up a lie, the hulking bounty hunter vanishes in a flash of silver. Your head snaps in the direction of travel, and a trail of exhaust follows. 

A hundred yards away, the jetpack flares out and the two fall to the ground in a tumble of fighting. A strangled laugh exits your mouth. 

From bigger fish to bigger fish. Eventually the biggest fish would win and come after you.

The sound of the ugly creature roaring ends abruptly with a choked grunt. You push your legs hard as you run. The doorway to a cantina catches your eye as an intoxicated human stumbles out, and you rush past him. 

Inside the dark, clamorous, smoky business, you slide into the booth furthest from the door, hoping that neither hunter saw you duck in. Panting heavily, you tell the droid waitress you’d like a bit of spotchka. You’ve never had it, but you’ve seen how relaxed and brave it makes people and that sounds wonderful right about now.

The circular cantina door slides open and the silhouette of a tall, broad Mandalorian is outlined by the glaring sun. You can’t tell what color or condition his armor is in, but your stomach clenches all the same. It had been an entire revolution of the planet since your Mandalorian had left, so it can't be him.

Wonder if he found his friend, you think about his ten-thousand-credit question for the Hutt. Must’ve been quite a reunion if it was worth that much. 

Shrinking back against the wall of your booth, you shift completely out of sight and pray to whatever Ancient is listening that the stories about their helmets’ capabilities are exaggerations. 

The droid waitress sets your pretty blue drink on the table without comment, for which you’re grateful. You don’t think your voice works.

Clinking metal is audible despite the volume of the rowdy bar. The sound gradually grows louder as he approaches your booth.

“What are you doing?” The Mandalorian has his hands on his hips, and though you cannot see his face, you’re certain he looks like a disapproving parent.

“I- what?” You squeak, completely confused by his question. And why he's here.

He moves to sit down across from you, and your nerves flare.

“Why are you still here?” He asks the same question you want to ask him.

“Where was I supposed to go? I have no credits.”

“There is work available on this planet.” 

You pause, unhappy to give away just how out of your depth you are, “You mean paid employment? I’m not familiar with the process."

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak, he simply stares at you until you break your stare first. 

Looking down at the grimy table, you trace a piece of graffiti with your finger and whisper, “Thank you.” 

Mando shifts his head in askance.

“For saving me from the slave hunter.”

“He wasn’t a slave hunter.” Mando’s helmet tips down to where the bright blue liquid sits on the table. “You going to drink that?” 

You shake your head, too self-conscious now. 

“Good.”

He slides out from the booth and motions for you to walk ahead of him. 

________________________________

Standing in the bay of the Mandalorian’s ship once more, you engage in a staring contest with the little green baby as it sits on the floor. Its ears move like he’s listening to Mando speak on his holocall above in the cockpit, but its eyes remain on you.

You’ve always liked children. While they could be blunt, they were kind to you and other slaves because they hadn’t yet learned any differently. 

“How old are you?” You ask softly.

In your experience, children prefer to be spoken to as one would an adult, so you refrain from the baby-voice that springs to the surface when you look at the adorable infant. 

He tilts his ears toward you. 

“You’re pretty cute." The baby coos, then babbles once.

“You really are cute. And you seem highly intelligent. Have you been with the Mandalorian long? He seems to pick up strays easily,” you smile warmly. 

The child awkwardly gets to its feet, toddling toward you. Remembering how quickly Mando had taken the child away when it last interacted with you, you slowly move backward toward the ladder. You don’t know if it's dangerous. Maybe the cuteness is a front.

A gurgling noise, as if it’s trying to tell you something, breaks from its little mouth. He raises his hand, pointing, and you whirl.

The Mandalorian is but a few feet away, watching. 

How the kark did he get down the ladder so quietly?

“I’m sorry,” you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. 

Mando strides around you and crouches to pick up the baby, “We're leaving this planet. I won't have enough fuel to get across the galaxy, but there is a job a few systems over."

He cradles the child so gently that it makes your heart ache. 

Who is this guy?

The child in his arms makes grabby hands at his helmet, so he tenderly sets it back down. Mando heads back toward the cockpit, indicating you should follow. 

Up the ladder, sitting once again in the same seat, you keep your eyes on the Mandalorian as he begins the lengthy takeoff procedures. 

“The bounty hunter you encountered was not after the slave reward.”

“But she knew my name?” 

“I am referring to the Aqualish you punched.” 

“Oh.”

The Mandalorian does not immediately continue, focusing on his tasks for several minutes. 

“There is a reward out for you,” he flips another switch. “And a bounty.” 

“Both? Why both?” 

“The bounty is secondary. Dependant on you giving them m-”

A panicked, childish cry echoes from below, and you’re only a moment behind the Mandalorian as he leaps down the hatch to the hold.

You gasp in horror as you see the long-eared, big-eyed baby squished in the crook of another kriffing bounty hunter’s arm. The loading ramp closes slowly behind him. He must’ve jumped in at the last moment.

Mando raises his hands, indicating his desire to negotiate. 

“Do not hurt him,” he says. Instead of coming out as a plea, his vocoded words come out as a warning that makes your hair stand on end. 

“Din Djarin, you are wanted for the murder of Senator Nesota’s son. I know your reputation, and therefore do not wish to fight. I’ll release your… this," he nods at the green baby, "when you’re in carbonite. There,” the human bounty hunter nods his head at Din’s own carbon freezer. 

He killed a Senator’s kid?

The child frowns, his ears drooping, and he focuses hard on the bounty hunter. His little hand curls, and the man’s ruddy face turns purple. His eyes grow red and glassy.

Din reacts quickly, drawing his blaster and firing at the hunter’s face. The man falls with a clattering thunk, and the child rolls away, unmoving. 

“No," you cry. "Is he alright?” You start toward the kid, fear in your voice. 

“He’s fine,” the Mandalorian replies, holding his palm up for you to stay back. He reverently lifts the unconscious kid. “He’s just asleep.” 

The Mandalorian - Din Djarin - murdered an important person’s child. And his own kid just choked someone without using its hands? I didn’t inhale spice, did I?

“You killed a kid?” 

Din believes you’re still thinking of the baby in his arms. “I said he’s sleeping.”

“A Senator’s son?”

“Oh. Yes, the Rodian with Salaa.” Din hadn’t known he was the son of a powerful person, but it wouldn’t have mattered. 

Relief floods you once again as your evaluation of the Mandalorian’s character remains intact. After seeing the way he cared for the little green one, how could you have believed he would harm any child? 

“Okay." You return to the wildest topic, "What just happened with your kid?”

Din sighs. This was getting more dangerous than negotiating with a Tusken. He places the kid in his hammock and shuts the door. 

Turning on you, he threatens, “Never speak of him outside this ship.”

“I- I wouldn’t,” you promise, surprised by the fierceness in his voice. 

Din is satisfied. He’d watched you speak to his ward earlier, and the kid seems to like you immensely. But he doesn't solely rely on the kid's opinion. 

The experienced, Mandalorian bounty hunter's own character assessment is top-notch, and he finds that he feels strongly about you. He doesn't categorize or identify the specifics, however.  

The Mandalorian does not ask for your help in removing the dead bounty hunter from his ship, so you look on in silence as he does it alone. He lowers the landing ramp, drags the body to the edge, and watches it roll down unceremoniously. He turns and stalks past you.

“So, where's that job?” 

“The Outer Rim.”

You sigh. “Of course it is.”

__________________________________

The planet blinds you when the Razor Crest launches out of hyperdrive. Brilliantly green, the single sun reflects the vibrant landscape right into your eyes. 

Shielding your face, you venture a question. The Mandalorian had not finished explaining.

"Why is there a bounty on me?" 

Even through the modulator, you can hear his dry tone: "You aided a bounty hunter in entering the Hutt's hideout through false pretenses which ended in the blasting of a Senator's son."

"Right," you frown, slumping in your seat. 

"Don't worry. The bounty on my head is far larger than yours."

You scoff under your breath. So reassuring.

A deep breath, then you postulate, "Is that what the bounty hunter was asking me? About you?" 

Din doesn't respond. He didn't hear the Aqualish's question. He was too busy aiming at its body with his own, but his best guess is yes. 

"That's the reason you saved me," you mutter, oddly dejected.

A loose end. That's what you are.

Din often - almost constantly, actually - appreciated his helmet for the freedom it gave him to show any emotion at any time. No need to worry about a convincing poker face when no one could see it.

"You could have told them where my ship was."

"Except I thought you'd flown away the day before," you argue, saddened that he thought you would’ve talked. 

Of course, he didn't know you, and he had a child to protect, but it still stings. 

"Why not just kill me?" You wonder seriously.

You're a liability. Two separate prices on your head? The Mandalorian's easiest solution is obvious. A slave of no importance, no one would put a bounty on his head for your death.

Din Djarin's armor clanks as he spins the chair a quarter-turn toward you and he cocks his head. 

"I don't want to die," you read his body language correctly. "But I don't understand you." 

The Mandalorian silently returns to his piloting duties as he nears the lush planet. He does his best to shut his thoughts away, but he stumbles over you again and again. 

Din had rescued you because he didn’t want to see you harmed for his actions with the Hutt. The idea of protecting himself from prying questions had been an afterthought. 

He had flown above the city, looking for your trail. Since you hadn’t moved much, there wasn’t much of a trail to find. Then he spotted the crowd roiling and parting for the violent Aqualish.

When he watched it yank your hair, he felt angry. An emotion he experienced less frequently than many of his friends would believe. Frustration, irritation, sure. But true fury was rare for him.

Not wanting you dead was basic decency, but the anger had been interesting.

On some level, Din knows his emotional responses to you deserve greater scrutiny. But he doesn't have the time nor the energy.

When the Razor Crest lands in a grassy clearing between forest walls, Din rises from his chair and commands, “Stay here. Watch the child.” 

“O-okay,” you agree hesitantly. “What do I do when he wakes up?”

The Mandalorian stares, uncomprehending. 

“You… you don’t do anything for his… condition?”

“I told you he’s fine.” Din thinks for a moment, and remembers there is actually something you should know: “When he wakes up, he might be hungry. Do not let him eat the metal ball on the thruster.”

With that, he climbs down the ladder, and out of sight.

_________________________________

As the fist flies at you, you subconsciously register that your assailant must be right-handed, because this left hook is much sloppier than the other. Or maybe it's because his left arm is still human.

Ducking, you escape the jab and slam your palm-sized stick into the quarry's metal shins. He doesn’t react except to kick your thigh. You cry out, knowing it will bruise if you survive this.

The blaster you had taken from the Mandalorian’s cache lies just out of reach. The silver gleam is stark against the rich soil of the forest floor.

Enraged, the cyborg quarry leaps at your hunched form, knocking you flat. Surprised by his speed, you forget to keep hold of the heavy branch you use as a weapon. 

The growling man rips the stick from your hands and slams it against your throat like a vise, choking you, “Die, wretch.”

You turn your head to the side, providing yourself with a precious moment of air before the quarry shifts to cut that escape route off, too. 

Swinging your leg up, you kick him in the back of the head, pushing him forward. You take the opportunity to headbutt him - thankful that his head is still completely human - and he falls sideways. Right next to your blaster. 

You snatch up your wooden weapon, but it's too late.

He laughs mechanically as he grabs the blaster, swinging it at you. “Too late, sweetheart.”

Panting, you don't raise your hands. If he's going to kill you, he'll do it when you charge him. 

You take a step and the sound of a laserblast ricochets through the trees. 

The creature cries out, dropping the weapon, his arm useless at his side. Wires spark from the elbow joint that had been blown away.

"Found you," the Mandalorian says flatly, his blaster pointed at the machine.

The metal man lunges but Din fires again - hitting the quarry in what should be its gut. It doubles over, groaning, then topples, fighting for labored breath. 

He must still have lungs underneath, you shudder.

Still trying to catch your own breath, you gasp, "How-" 

"Heard the fight. You were supposed to stay on the ship," his voice turns scolding.

Clenching your jaw, you finally find a steady breath. You had stayed on the ship. This piece of space junk had broken inside through the cockpit window.

As you sat in the hold, dutifully watching the kid, the sound of glass shattering alerted you that it was not Din who was back so soon. You had snatched up the baby, touching him for the first time with no concern about his potential dangers, locked him in the little room, and ripped a small blaster from the Razor Crest’s weapons cache. 

You crouched at the far end of the hold, against the closed boarding ramp, waiting, uncomfortably far from the child. 

A cyborg, more spidery-droid than man, with a human head and fleshy left arm had come skittering down, bypassing the ladder completely. Unwilling to chance a blaster shot going through the baby’s door, you hit the button on the landing ramp and scrambled out.

The forest. It was your home. Your element. If there was any chance you could kill it, to prove to yourself that you could survive this life - it was then and there.

Of course, you hadn't expected the quarry to get your blaster.

"I tried," you breathe as Din binds the still-groaning quarry. 

The helmet turns to face you, understanding. "He entered the ship?”

You nod, and Din stands bolt-upright, his head whipping in the direction of the Razor Crest.

“It’s fine,” you assure him pointedly, walking with your hand outstretched toward the worried Mandalorian. You remember your promise not to speak of the child, “Your ship is fine. Knew you'd hate it if he trashed the thing, so I ran out here.”

The Mandalorian visibly relaxes his broad shoulders, and your heart tugs once again. 

"Thank you," Din says with hidden feeling. 

His sincerity wedges a lump in your throat. 

He really loves that little guy.

Din turns and snatches the connector between the binders, pulling the quarry. Its metal feet dig trenches as it tries to stall, but the Mandalorian is far too strong.

Somehow, it's the first time you've truly noticed. Din is extremely strong. Is it the suit? 

Can't be. It's just metal and fabric. 

The realization might as well be a thunderbolt to your brain. Your assailant must weigh as much as a land speeder, and here your bounty hunter was carting him along like a sack of starfruit.

An unfamiliar feeling, something like hot, sharp sparks shoot through your stomach. Your eyes follow the Mandalorian as he makes his way back to the Razor Crest. 

Is this attraction? You’ve never experienced it. Far too busy surviving, wanting someone in that way is a foreign concept to you. You roll your eyes at yourself. Din Djarin, a kriffing Mandalorian bounty hunter is not going to look twice at a slave, and it's best to kill those feelings before they take root.

***

Across the large clearing, at the ship, the bounty hunter waits patiently while the boarding ramp lowers.

“She yours?” The quarry asks curiously, his voice wheezing. "You orbited me like a karking moon, but as soon as I go after her, you come runnin’.” It laughs. 

The cyborg doesn't expect a verbal answer; he wants a reaction.

Din turns his head slowly with a cold warning, “I would advise you to stop speaking.”

“I damaged her pretty good for you. Might wanna che-” his taunting words end in a pained grunt when Din slams his fist into the man’s cruel mouth. 

Surprised by the sudden violence, you inhale sharply. Din hadn’t knocked the thing unconscious, so what was the point of that? 

The Mandalorian hauls the creature up the ramp and shoves him into the carbon freezer. 

“Should’ve killed me,” the cyborg threatens with a laugh as he freezes into a solid mass.

Din turns to face you and asks in a low voice, “Are you injured?”

The rush of adrenaline you had been riding on slowly fades, and you remember the only blow you’d received had been the one to the side of your thigh. Your hand falls to it, feeling the area through your tattered pants. 

A small amount of blood comes away on your fingers. 

“Oh,” you murmur. 

You pull up the ripped, baggy material, exposing your entire leg. The skin had split with the force of the blow, but there’s no serious damage and it would heal on its own. 

The cyborg must’ve been trying to unnerve us. Or distract the Mandalorian? Maybe he thought Din would check right away, you almost laugh aloud at the ridiculous idea.

Din, for his part, really wishes you would let your pant leg fall. It’s insane, it makes no sense to him. Millions of people walked around in far, far less clothing than you, and Din never reacted like this. 

But here you stand before him, slowly checking out the inch-long cut on your mid-thigh, and the Mandalorian can’t tear his eyes away. 

When you look up at the helmet of Din Djarin, he fixes his face as though you could actually see the way his lips had parted. You fleetingly, timidly, smile at him and, miraculously, let go of the flowy pant leg. 

Released from the spell, Din exhales and makes his way to the child’s room. 

“You can use the refresher to clean that, if you’d like.” He does not look at you as he speaks. 

“Is the baby okay?” 

Din need not answer as the child himself murmurs in happiness at the sight of the two of you. To Din’s abject shock, the kid lifts his hands toward you. 

You laugh once, flattered. “Can I?” 

Din simply turns sideways so that you can fit between him and the hull wall. You reach for the child and it snuggles into your arms, touching your chin. 

A brilliant smile lights your face. 

“Are we friends now?” You whisper to him. 

The baby babbles a response you’ll take as an affirmative. 

“I’ve not asked. What’s his name?” You turn your still-smiling face up to Din. 

Again thanking the Mythosaur for his helmet, he stares, stuck on your glowing expression as you cradle his ward. His brown eyes swim with an emotion he’s never felt. 

“I don't know.” 

Taken aback, you realize that there is a far deeper story here.

Did he steal this baby?

You move on quickly, “What do you call him?”

Din shrugs. “Kid.”

The child makes a cooing sound, then reaches for the Mandalorian. You hand the baby to his stoic guardian, and your smile changes to a satisfied one. 

“He looks like he belongs there,” you laugh. Then your eyebrows pull together as you regret the too-comfortable comment.

He’s a bounty hunter, a killer, and he may or may not have stolen this fuzzy, long-eared infant. 

And you’re just a runaway slave. 

You back up a step, feeling awkward now. “You said I could use the ‘fresher?” 

Din simply nods his head in the direction of the tiny facility.

When you've shut the door, Din's body relaxes. 

                               ***

But not for long. He didn't account for the sound of your clothes hitting the floor and the sound of the sonics. You are steps away, unclothed, and some wild instinct inside him awakens. Ashamed, he sets the child back in the hammock and climbs up to the cockpit to relieve himself. 

_________________________________

The planet is purple. Dark and cloudy, the yellow, green, and blue street lights cast strange shadows. Neon signs of every shade flash from every corner. You've been to thousands of cities like this one. An underworld. 

The Mandalorian landed the Razor Crest on the outskirts despite there being a busy spaceport made for that purpose. He transported the carbonite body of the cyborg to the edge of the city where he was met by some anonymous creature in a cloak. He asked no questions. 

Din had entrusted you with the care of the child. He directed you and the kid to go on ahead to one of the less-reputable inns. The worse-looking, the better. People were more likely to mind their business. 

You've found the perfect one. Din wanted seedy, he was getting the seediest. After all, most of your tasks as a slave had been spent in this environment since your masters hated to be seen in them. 

But seedy didn't always mean crumbling and derelict.

Din, having tracked the child's chain code, returns later that night. His eyebrows rise at the size of the room.

"I said find an inconspicuous place to hide. You got the emperor's suite," he places his hands on his hips. 

There are technically three rooms: the main living space, complete with couch, table, and a space to prepare food; and two small bedrooms both on the same side of the building.

"It was their only available room. Trust me, this place is as disreputable as they come. And he didn't upcharge," you rise from the couch. "If that was what you were worried about. I… made a deal with the clerk." 

Din advances on you, "A deal?" His voice is tight.

"I didn’t involve you. I promise." 

The Mandalorian clenches his teeth. Anything involving you, involves him. 

"The kid?" 

You tilt your chin across the apartment and laugh, "He wanted the room with all the toys.” 

Din disappears into the room, and you chuckle at how long the child had been fascinated by the weird sculptures inside. 

A low, rasping voice travels from the open door, "Hey, kid. Missed you, too."

Your smile deepens and your heart swells with emotion toward the two of them. Though they are not your family, it's comforting to watch them be one.

The modulated voice sounds again with a short laugh, "She can't hear you. Do you want her?" 

You shake your head fondly, the kid had been babbling and reaching for you every time you set him down. 

After a significant pause, Din softly admits, "I agree. I like her, too."

Flushing with shame for eavesdropping, you move to the far side of the apartment, to another large window. 

Several minutes later, quiet footsteps get louder as Din leaves the child's room and closes the door.

"He tried to lift one of the sculptures," Din scoffs. 

You laugh, picturing the child peacefully sleeping after tiring himself with the effort. It wasn't the first time today. Growing serious, you turn to face the Mandalorian.

"He helped me today. Someone grabbed at me and he… did what he does." 

Din takes two huge strides toward you. "Did anyone see? What happened?" 

"No one saw. It was in a closed alley. I-" you pause in momentary reluctance, then remember who you're talking to. "I took care of it." 

You glance at the blaster on the table that Din had given you earlier that morning.

For the first time in a long time, Din's sigh is one of relief instead of irritation. 

"Thank you," he says. "Again."

You wave him off, "It was between a scumsucker and the kid. Wasn't exactly hard," you try to make light of it. 

Din shakes his head slightly. "I've seen you use a blaster. I'm glad the kid was there," he deadpans.

You exhale in feigned irritation, pleased by his playfulness.

He comes to stand next to you at the open window, and the peaceful silence is companionable. 

As the breeze flutters, you shiver noticeably and his torn, rough cape curls into your ankle. The Mandalorian turns his head to you and reads how low your heat signature is.

Din stalks back to the entryway where he had set down a cloth bag. He snatches it up and brings it over to you. 

"I hope they are acceptable."

Hands outstretched, you freeze as you realize you're being given a gift. You blink and look up, desperately trying to read a face you know you can't. 

"Um, I've never -" you whisper, needing to tell him why you look like you've been struck. "Never had someone give me something."

Inside his beskar armor, Din grimaces. Had he overstepped? It might get even worse when you see how personal the items are. 

He releases his hold on the bag and you open it, pulling out a pair of clothes. They're dark blue, and, while somewhat flowy like your current clothes, these do not have holes, stains, nor bad memories associated. 

And they are a gift from Din Djarin. 

How do you thank him for these? They certainly weren't cheap. The clothing is sturdy but light, beautiful but practical. 

Embarrassingly, tears collect in your eyes.

"Oh, wow," you look up at him, panicking. "I can't take these." It was too much.

Din has an excuse in his arsenal.

"Take it as payment for your help with the kid."

You look back down at the material in your hands, rubbing the soft fabric. 

"Thank you, Din. Really. I- I don't know how to thank you. You have been so kind to me." 

His cheek pulls upward when you say his name for the first time. How sweet it sounds in your mouth. 

"You needed them. These," he waves at the shredded scraps on your frame, "are no longer clothes."

You smile timidly, unused to being treated so well. "I'm going to go take them off and burn them." 

The Mandalorian taps his vambrace. "I have the means when you're ready."

"Thank you again," you murmur, escaping to the refresher.

Din steps to the center of the room and places a hologram disk on the low table.

While you're busy, he's going to figure out how to get out of this.

***

After an actual shower, real water loosening the knots in your muscles, you exhale in pleasure at the feeling of the clean, well-made clothing on your skin. You feel like a person.

It's similar to seeing hyperspace for the first time. It scares you with how good it feels, knowing you’ve missed out on so much. 

You slide open the refresher door to see Din seated on the couch, facing away from you. He sits reclined, his legs spread wide. The Mandalorian hears the door open, but he does not turn. 

Stomach growling, you head to the cold storage near the front door. The box of food you'd bought from a vendor sits on the countertop. You unpack it carefully, still in disbelief you can eat whatever you want.

"Are you hungry?" You call to the Mandalorian as you continue to pull items from the box. 

"You are no longer a slave. You do not have to serve me." The deep, rough voice sounds from right behind you, and you jump in surprise. 

"Dank farrik, you move quietly." 

Din reaches around you for one of the fruits you had purchased with his credits. His nearness has your body tensing, but he backs away almost immediately.

"How do you eat with that on?" You wonder, clearly meaning his helmet.

"I don't," he answers, walking into the other bedroom. 

                          ***

A week passes in that calm hotel apartment. The child provided more than enough entertainment for you, attempting to lift different objects of his desire at random. 

For Din, so used to the child's antics, you are the object of his attention. You brush it off when he stands near you at the window, when he ensures that you have something to eat, and when he silently takes the couch over the comfortable bed. 

But you're unable to ignore his touch.

Just after you wake, the dual suns begin to peek around the tall city buildings. Trying not to wake Din on the couch, you tiptoe to the window in the main room, still enthralled with the city view. You’ve seen cities thousands of times throughout your enslavement, often imagining running away to explore. Now that you have the opportunity, you find that you don’t want to go.

Seated on the bare floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you watch the suns rise, you're wandering down halls of your own thoughts when a voice drifts into your consciousness.

"I will get your bounty lifted." 

Turning your head, Din leans forward on the couch, his forearms on his knees. 

"If that's what you are concerned about."

You shake your head, "I'm not concerned. I think I'm happy." 

You had just come to that conclusion a moment earlier. It's an emotion you don't remember feeling. It's like your lungs are expanding after twenty years of suffocation. 

You look back at the city and smile contentedly, "This is the best my life has been." 

The admission is extremely personal, but you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s liberating. You weren't ready to fight for your freedom when the Mandalorian came for your master, but you are now. 

Din’s footsteps advance on you until he’s standing off to your right. He says nothing. 

After an interminable length of time, wondering what he’s doing, you twist and look up at him. His helmet turns toward the window just as you face him. 

His hands are folded behind him, but a sliver of something flesh-toned is visible. 

Is that his wrist? 

Your stomach drops. His bare skin. It looks warm-toned and soft. You close your eyes and turn away, back toward the window. 

“I am glad,” Din says. 

“About what?” Since it has been several minutes since either of you have spoken, you’re unsure if he’s responding or making a statement. 

He simply looks back down at you as if that answers your question. 

“We’ll be leaving today,” Din continues to study you, appreciating the way the orange dawn lights your face. “You’ve almost drained me of credits with this palace of a hotel.” 

You deny the accusation with a laugh, “I did not. I told you I made a deal.” 

“And you have not told me what that deal was,” he says, a hint of a threat in his tone. 

Din is on edge about your ‘deal.’ The night before, he had gone down to the reception desk to intimidate the clerk about it, but the employee you’d dealt with hadn’t been there.

“I promised you already - it has nothing to do with you or him,” you motion toward the child’s room. “It is not worth your attention.”

Din scowls. “You are also under my charge, and if you’ve placed yourself in danger, I need to be aware of it.” 

Your face snaps up, uselessly trying to make eye contact with him. His charge? Why does your face feel hot at those words?

Finally taking pity on him, you answer, “He was a gambler. I bet him I could win more rounds of sabacc. And I did.” 

The Mandalorian is stock-still. That was all? Din had gotten incredibly worked up over what you could possibly owe this mysterious desk clerk, and all you’d done was a bit of hustling? 

“Why would you not tell me that right away?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was bragging,” you frown. Din had tasked you with something and you had wanted to complete it with as little fanfare as possible.

“What other skills have you been hiding?” Din’s tone is half-mocking, half-serious. He knows next to nothing about you despite the monopoly you’ve had on his thoughts.

You side-eye him, unsure of his intention. “I can do basic ship repairs. I can speak four languages. I know how to fight.” 

“I am not convinced of that last one.” 

“The cyborg caught me on a bad day,” you protest.

"It was fortunate you were not seriously injured. I wouldn't have the credits for this," he nods his head up at the high ceiling.

For the second time, your head turns to scrutinize him, but he’s as impenetrable as ever. 

"Why not?" 

Din's silver face snaps down to you. "The quarry would not have made it into the carbon freezer."

And as you open your mouth - to say what, you have no idea - a quiet knock raps on the front door. 

Spooked, you whirl so that you face the door, still seated. 

“It’s alright,” Din’s deep, rough voice soothes. 

When he holds out his hand to help you stand, you take it without second thought.

But it wasn’t just a hint of his wrist that you saw - his gloves are completely off. His rough palm slides into your grasp, and his thick fingers close around your hand. 

Eyes widening, you audibly gasp.

Din raises you to your feet with no effort, and you wind up far too close to him. Your breath fogs on his chestplate, and your pulse thrums in your ears.

Too-quickly, his thumb rubs your skin, and then he releases your hand. Do you imagine the sigh he makes as he steps away?

Your eyes are glued to his broad form as he retrieves his gloves from the couch, then heads to answer the door. 

“Should I -?” You whisper.

“Stay,” he says simply. 

It’s unbelievable how one word could affect you. You swallow hard and clasp your hands together in front of you. 

***

“As you are well aware, Mandalorian, my esteemed patron was unhappy to hear about her son’s death. However, you are of concern to us for a different reason. If we are able to reward you for your silence regarding where her son was at the time of his unfortunate, accidental death, this business might be put behind us.”

The slimeball flashes her biggest smile at the bounty hunter. 

“What am I being paid to be silent about? The Hutt was banished by the Republic due to his slavery connections. Is the Senator afraid of her choice in friends being known?” 

The emissary smiles nastily. “Let us say that the Hutt is also on my list of individuals to speak with.”

“I require explicit terms regarding this agreement. I am a Mandalorian, I can assure you of my discretion.”

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slavery you overheard between the Senator’s son and Salaa the Hutt, and we shall reward you with twenty-thousand credits to be paid over the course of three months.” 

To your horror, Din rises from the couch and nods his head, saying, “I accept your terms.”

“And what about her?” The emissary wrinkles her nose as she indicates you.

“She is a slave,” the Mandalorian says with harsh finality. 

You physically shrink next to him. He had insisted you remain while they spoke, but now you’re regretting agreeing to it.

The distaste with which he had uttered the word ‘slave’ makes you feel unclean, unwanted. Tears threaten to spill over, and you keep your head down in a familiar, submissive posture in case they do.

The bounty hunter escorts the Twi’lek emissary to the door while you sit, head bowed, on the couch. 

“Senator Nesota will be most appreciative. If you are ever in Coruscant, she would be delighted to have you visit her apartments. They are most grand.” She disapprovingly glances around the hotel room. “I assume you had your slave pick this one.” The emissary briefly places her hand on the Mandalorian’s forearm, “Remember, we are friends now, Din Djarin.”

The helmet saves his entire operation, for Din cannot stop the disgusted scowl that mars his face. This piece of scum uses his name to both threaten and flirt; the difference in his feelings between her saying it and you saying it are blindingly stark.

“I do not have friends. My name is not for your use,” he says evenly as he punches the button for the front door.

The emissary walks away without another word. 

When Din closes the door, he turns back to you with a sense of relief for more than one reason. 

But something is wrong.

“Do you not feel well?”

You shake your head, “I misunderstood something. That’s all.” Your head remains bowed.

“You will not look at me.” 

“I am… embarrassed,” you mutter honestly.

An emotion Din has never experienced or understood, he is at a loss. Instead, he sits across from you and tosses you the recorder.

The small, comm-looking device lands on your lap, and you pick it up, curiously rolling it in your hands. You press the button.

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slav-” 

You stop the device and look up at Din with renewed hope, “You were lying.”

Din leans forward in his seat, “I was not lying. I gave her my word as a Mandalorian. But you didn’t.” 

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” you laugh. 

Din shrugs. The moral reasoning works for him.

“I am to send this recording to the Republic, correct? Get the senator removed from office?” 

“She will no longer have the funds to pay our bounties. They will be considered void.”

Your smile falters. He had done what he promised. 

Din tilts his head, “You’re unhappy about that?”

“It’s not your problem, of course. But I have to deal with the slaver’s reward. And… and I am not sure what I should do, where I should go.”

Really, you’re saddened because there is no longer any reason for you to stay. You wish there was.

The Mandalorian is silent, weighing his choice of words carefully. 

"There is room on the Razor Crest. The kid is fond of you. I can pay you for your services to him. And, occasionally, the ship needs repairs - you can assist me with those.”

“Is this that ‘legal employment’ you told me I needed?” You grin. “I would like that very much.”

“You will need to learn how to fight, though,” he shakes his head, his tone teasing. “The kid can’t save you every time.”

____________________________________

You sit on the hold floor, the child in your arms. Having left the inn rather early, the child is still asleep.

Jostling as Din lands the Razor Crest on a new planet, you slowly stand and place the little lump in his hammock and shut the door. 

The Mandalorian drops down into the hold, passing you and hitting the button for the boarding ramp. Deciding to trust him, you don't ask where you're being taken. 

The answer isn't far. Din stops right at the treeline and hands you the same silver blaster from the previous week's fight with the cyborg. 

"You need to learn to use it." 

"I've done well with a blaster before," you protest. "I shot Rathos." 

"But you didn't shoot the cyborg," you can hear the frown in his deep voice. "Pick a tree."

Nervous to be evaluated by a master of the craft, you hesitate briefly before aiming at a massive trunk a few speeders lengths away.

The plate of his armor brushes against your back as the Mandalorian gingerly sets his heavy hands on your shoulders, straightening them. With his boot, he taps the inside of your foot, indicating you should widen your stance. 

You blink rapidly. Your face flushes with warmth. Why is your heart thundering? Can he hear it? 

He can. 

His own heart rate increases when his helmet's display shows your heat signature rising. Din pushes it further: his leather-covered hands slide down to your waist where he turns you a fraction - completely unnecessarily.

Close enough that, were he unveiled, you could feel his breath, he murmurs, "Fire."

Utterly distracted, you squeeze the trigger as a matter of following his command. The blaster shot continues on through the treetops, singeing leaves. 

Din straightens, his hands leaving your body, and he huffs. 

"You distracted me," you explain. "I can hit it."

You realign the weapon and inhale deeply, releasing on the exhale just as you would with an arrow. 

The tree sizzles as you hit it dead-center. 

Spinning to face him triumphantly, the smile freezes on your lips. 

One of the suns on this planet has begun to drop behind him, and his large frame casts you in shadow. He still hasn't moved away from you. The way his mask is angled toward you makes you believe he's lost in thought. 

"What is it?" You whisper in the tense silence. 

Din feels dizzy. You're a natural with a weapon you'd fired all of three times. Your words cudgel his mind. He had distracted you enough to miss a huge karking tree.

"Do it again." 

You nod and return to the target. Throwing your mind back to your childhood, you once again hit the tree dead-on. 

Weighing the blaster in your hand, you turn back to him and say, "I still prefer wooden weapons. Or at least something resembling a spear." 

"Why is that?" His voice is rough, and his hands find a home on his hips. 

"That's how I grew up," you answer. 

"Okay. Grab one." 

Your mouth drops open in confusion, but he finally leaves your personal space and picks up a slender, twigless branch.

"You can't be serious," you sputter a laugh, certain he had just found a sense of humor. "I'm not fighting you." 

"Why not?"

"Um. Because I can't."

"You can." He holds the stick out toward you.

You stare at him, watchful, as you curl your fingers around it. Din removes a small, cylindrical object from his utility belt. He pumps it once and it unfolds into a thin cane-like weapon. 

"It's been twenty years," you frown. "You're going to win." 

But, when that makeshift spear is in your hand, it all rushes back. The key to winning is in gaining ground. Whatever you do, push your opponent back. So, you launch at him first. 

Only partially surprised by the speed of the typically-timid girl now coming for his throat, Din manages to duck out of the way just in time. But you whirl to the opposite side he expects, and swing your weapon into his helmet. It clangs, and you stand upright.

"I'm sorry!" You react, fearful both from years of mistreatment and not wanting to hurt Din.

He ignores you, swishing his weapon toward your middle, and you jump backward. Hating that you conceded even that little ground, you quickly drop to a crouch and sweep at his knees like Rathos did to you. 

Din rockets upward a few feet, then drops back down on your other side. He swings at you and you parry. 

Dancing for several steps, you eventually land a blow to his ribs where the beskar does not cover. Din's modulated groan makes you feel a rush of two separate emotions. 

You don't want to hurt him, but that sound ignites a heat between your legs.

Din retaliates, kicking his tipless spear into your chest and shoving you backward. He knows your move, now. You don't like giving up ground, so you'll throw yourself at him, arms raised to strike.

When you do exactly as he predicts, he drops his weapon completely, grabbing you around the waist and spinning. He throws you to the ground, coming down on top of you.

You laugh, exhilarated, "Almost."

Something is jabbing your hip, and when you shift to identify it, Din grunts again. Your eyes shoot to his hidden face. 

Under the helmet, Din's brown eyes are blown, pained at how aroused he is. He can't handle much more of this. Your wide eyes and galloping heart match his, but underneath him you look so vulnerable that he feels downright predatory. His stiff length twitches.

Din’s voice is raw, barely contained, "Tell me to stop and I will." His gloved thumbs push your bottoms down.

Speechless, your core pulsing, you nod. 

Din unfastens the material around his middle, pulls his desperate cock from the flight suit, and hastily positions himself against you. Your slick coats him as he drags himself through your folds. He groans through the modulator. 

“Oh,” you gasp when he eases the tip past your entrance.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Din sheaths himself inside you with a determined grunt, his patch of dark curls mingling with yours.  

Your hands try to fist in his flight suit, eyes wide at the incredible feeling of him filling you. His right hand cradles your jaw as he starts to rock his hips, cursing as he does so. 

For the first time in his life, Din resents his helmet; both for the separation from your soft skin, and the heightened senses it gives him. How is he supposed to last when he can see your heart racing, hear your quiet cries as though they’re inside his own head?

In an insufficient compromise, he rips off his gloves. His tan skin is calloused and scarred.

“Yes,” you plead.

Din intertwines his fingers on both hands with yours, hypnotized for a precious second by the intimacy. Reverently, you press a kiss to his knuckles. He makes a wild sound deep in his chest, then plunges your hands above your head. 

Pushing your chest to his, you signal that he can do anything he wants to you. He collects both your wrists in one hand.

Din rhythmically arcs into you, the sound of his body - soaked from your arousal - striking yours nearly driving you insane. When you’d imagined it before, you wondered if looking into the blank face of his helmet might be off-putting, but you find that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s him. If anything, it’s erotic to trust him so blindly. 

Din is resolved to know your body better than you do. With his free hand, his fingers nimbly massage your clit until you jerk. 

“There?” He confirms.

You nod, unable to speak. His heavy, straining cock dragging through you, and his rough fingers replace the output from all other senses.

When he finds the perfect combination, he doesn’t let up until your eyes screw shut and you shake, incoherent underneath him in ecstasy. 

“You can say it,” he hoarsely encourages through the modulator. 

It was already on your lips, “Din.”

The hand that acted as a manacle releases you as he places his palm on the ground, giving himself as much leverage to bury himself as deep as possible. The toes of Din’s boots dig up clumps of grass as he thrusts into you, the sound of skin slapping skin lost in the breeze. Your legs curl around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He feels the spark at the base of his spine and knows he doesn’t have much strength left. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his flight suit again, clinging to him for all you’re worth.

Din makes the mistake of looking into your lust-filled eyes as you speak.

“Let go,” you whisper tenderly, feeling his tense body begin to fracture.

Din has no choice but to obey you, pumping himself into you with a long, harsh sigh. He works his release inside you, gradually slowing until his arms shake.

He finally drops to the ground beside you, breathing rapidly.

Suddenly shy, you want nothing more than to reach over and take one of his hands, but you lack the confidence. You also don’t know what to say. 

Din doesn’t believe there’s anything to say. He had never been so tempted in all his life, and he had not passed the test. A shred less self-control and his helmet might’ve followed the gloves. 

In fact, the temptation is still so strong that he begins to plan for its eventuality. 

____________________________________

[redeyerhaenyra]

Hello, gorgeous! I saw that requests are open (obviously lmk if that's incorrect <3). AND I saw you wrote for Blue Jones. I was wondering if you'd be willing to write a little something something about Blue and HIS girl? Like his favorite. Treats her so much differently and even lets her spend her time in his office as his little trophy instead of working.

Blue and his favourite doll

Summary: Some headcanons of Blue and his favourite dolly :)

Warnings: Possessiveness, favouritism, mentioned p in v sex, cunnilingus, exhibitionism, cock warming

Notes: Hi baby! Yes my requests are open- honestly they've been kinda dry so feel free to request some more! I'm sorry if smut was now what you wanted with this request it just felt natural as I was writing to go this direction

God I am always willing to talk about Blue

I have a love/hate relationship with him

Fr tho he has a favourite dancer and it's you

He's not the type of guy to hide it either, like some fellas in his position would be like "noo I love you all equally" whereas Blue is unequivocally clear that you are his favourite, he never lies about it

And we've seen how much of a dick he can be, like when he made Amber get ready to perform after seeing one of her only friends murdered

But with you? Oh, oh no. It's never like that.

You're muscles are a little sore from practise? You're not performing. You're a little sick? Cancel the whole show. You just don't feel like it? He's a little bummed out that he won't get to see you dance, but that's ok, Blondie can take your spot and you can sit on his lap and watch instead

Like I'm basically just expanding on the previous ask here but Blue really does just like having you near him so he can just.. touch you

You're like a cat fr, you sit on his lap looking cute while he pets your hip or strokes your hair

We all know how possessive he is

And honestly this could go one of two ways

1)He'll squirrel you to himself, never let ANY of the clients touch or see you in a remotely intimate manner, even if they're willing to pay top dollar

2)If the price is high enough.. He'll let them watch as he fucks you within an inch of your life, and you know he enjoys it when you make sure to cry out his name, and tell him how good he makes you feel

Sometimes, when work is stressing him, he'll have you cockwarm him in his office.

Sat on his lap like a good little thing, even if all you want to do is move, you are obedient, letting yourself be used as a stress ball for him

And can you blame him? Your cunny is so soft and warm, it always makes him feel better

Besides, when he's done, he always rewards you by eating you out ;)

[ariundercovers]

Yellow Light (When Paths Cross Pt. VI, Javier Peña x Reader)

Pairing: Javier Peña x Afab!Reader (No use of y/n!)

Length: ~3.5k words

Series Summary: Chucho's been like a father figure to you since he helped you out of a sticky situation on your second day in Laredo. What happens when you finally meet his son, the former-DEA agent, who just happens to ignite you in a way that you haven't felt before?

Chapter Summary: Valentine's Day and an (accidental) confession.

Chapter Warnings: good mix of porn and plot in this one again. p in v, pulling out, Javi being a needy demon, spanish nicknames, eating ass (yeah you heard that right), butt stuff, very light dp, javi lacks impulse control. some more brief angst that resolves very quickly.

If you're so inclined, please drop a like and a reply/reblog! I live for your feeback, and it keeps me going and keeps me writing. Did you like it? love it? hate it? I want to hear all of your thoughts!

PREVIOUS PART (V) HERE

You fall into an easy routine for a long while. After another month or two of Sundays at the Peña house, Fridays at yours, days throughout the week where you met for lunch or coffee, you were feeling confident in the place of your relationship. 

You never would’ve guessed you might have found someone here, in Laredo, of all places, but you can’t say that you’re unhappy about it, either. Javi brought a vitality to your life that it turns out you had been sorely missing without even knowing it.

You spend time trying all kinds of things together - hiking, horseback riding, rock climbing. All activities he’s mostly a professional at already, but you’re happy to learn, and happy to watch how successful he is as you barely figure out the basics for yourself. You especially enjoy learning how to ride a horse properly - Javi grew up on horses, using them on the ranch to lead the cattle where they needed to go. He shows you all the ropes, makes sure you’re comfortable and safe before he takes you out on your first ride across the property.

You’re starting to really think that this might go somewhere, that this might be it for you. You think he might be the love of your life - not that you’d tell him that, not yet at least. He’d probably think you were crazy and run away. But you couldn’t begin to deny the way he made you feel - the way he swept you off your feet with every word, every look, every gesture. It was hypnotizing, and you were lost to all things Javier Peña.

Maybe you were crazy, to be this infatuated this quickly. Time moves differently when you’re ‘all grown up.’ You’re not willing to waste it on flings and useless courting anymore, not like you used to be. If you were in it, you were going to be in it for the long haul.

On Valentine’s Day, Javi takes you out for dinner to a fancy steakhouse just on the outskirts of the city. It’s not too far from the museum where you work, but you’ve never bothered to try it due to the price tag. He assures you that he’s paying, not to worry about the numbers on the menu, always the chivalrous and generous one when you’re still working on figuring out daily life on a curator’s salary.

He comes to pick you up in a well-fitting blue suit and you wonder briefly if it’s one of the ones he would’ve worn working for the DEA in Colombia. You won’t ask, because he’s made it clear that you’re not going to talk about those times, but your mind will certainly wander, nonetheless. Your mind conjures images of Javi walking into meetings with the president, pulling a gun from his waistband as he takes down a criminal, and it all has your abdomen tightening far more than you’d like to admit.

The waiter seats you at a small two-person table in the back of the restaurant - Javi sits in the corner and you can watch him as he scans the clientele every few minutes. That must be a holdover from Colombia, as well, you think. You order, and Javi picks out a bottle of red wine to share, which the waiter brings out for you right away. He pours you each a glass and Javi holds his up to you, intending to make a toast. You raise your glass and smile at him as he starts to speak.

“To you, muñeca. My perfect girl.”

The heat that rises to your cheeks is intense, eyes training on his chest as you try to take in the praise without making a complete fool of yourself at the same time.

“And to you, too, Javi. I’ve never been happier.” He smiles back at you as you clink your glasses together, each taking a sip. You’re not usually a fan of reds, but this one is smooth - not very acidic, very floral in its undertones. It brings a heat to your belly that’s warm and pleasant, and you’re pleasantly surprised by the flavor of it all.

As usual, you quickly fall into an easy conversation, barely registering the wait before your food comes out, perfectly cooked and seasoned. You eat in relative silence, taking a moment to taste each other’s plates, and you hum, satisfied, as you finish off your dish.

“I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a better meal, Javier.”

“No? Well… I have even more places to take you, then. Better than this one.”

“Is that so?” He nods back with a smirk and thanks the waiter as he comes around to take away your empty plate, ordering a tiramisu for the two of you to share. You’d been raving about how good it looked when it came out for someone seated close to you.

While you wait, Javi reaches into his coat pocket and holds a small box out to you. “Happy Valentine’s day, cariño.” Your eyes light up at the prospect of the gift, a smile erupting on your face as you reach down for your purse, taking out a similar box that’s much larger to hand him.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Javi.” He chuckles, both of you opening your presents at once. When he opens his, he finds a new leather wallet with the initials “JP” stamped into the corner, smiling and thanking you with a squeeze of your hand. You tell him that you noticed his looking pretty raggedy and hoped he liked it. He assured you that he did.

Then, when you open yours, you find a beautiful golden necklace with a simple single crystal dangling from the chain.

“Oh… this is beautiful.” He smiles back at you and stands up, taking the box and moving behind you before he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. 

“Can I put it on you, cariño?” You nod, happy that you decided to forego much jewelry this evening, and he clasps the necklace behind your neck, hands squeezing lightly at your shoulders. Staring down at it, you smile as your fingers raise to touch it lightly.

“Javi, it’s gorgeous, thank you.” He smirks back at you as he sits down, reaching across the table for your hand.

“It’s only so pretty because of the woman wearing it.”

There’s that heat again, rising to your cheeks. You’d be embarrassed by it if it were with anyone else, but Javi makes you feel comfortable and loved and understood in ways you’ve never imagined.

You finish up your dessert with another gentle easiness between the two of you and then Javi stands, offering you his arm as you walk out to his relatively beat-up truck. It makes you laugh to see the two of you dressed up and climbing into the old pickup truck, but it’s just so Javi that it could never actually bother you.

He drives you back to the ranch, where you consider heading inside but decide on heading out for a nighttime stroll instead, moving along the property edge, close to the river. You hold his arm in your hands and rest your head on his shoulder as you go, making small talk like you always do. The conversation pivots to Chucho, Javi grumbling about how nitpicky he’s been about the recent renovations to one of the pastures, and you try to step in with the guiding wisdom that Chucho just isn’t used to doing it another way. Change is hard.

Your heeled shoes start to frustrate you in the dirt, so you take them off, carrying them in one hand as you walk barefoot around the ranch.

“Pops would have my head if he knew I let you walk around out here barefoot.” Javi chuckles.

“Well, good thing he isn’t here to yell at us, then. I like it. It feels nice.”

“Or maybe I should just carry you.” Javi stops and smirks, lunging for you and you yelp, trying to jump out of the way. You bolt as quickly as you can, but you’re no match for his long legs and he snatches you up in an instant, throwing you over his shoulder like a fireman.

“Javi! Stop! Put me down!” You’re laughing, but kicking your legs with a seriousness he probably doesn’t pick up, and you pinch his ass once from where you’re hanging. “Seriously, Javi, please put me down?” He drops you unceremoniously onto your feet and places his hands on his hips, looking at you.

“I can walk. Thank you.” You giggle lightly, smoothing out your dress as he shakes his head and reaches for your arm, tugging you along.

“Fine. Let’s move. I have other things I want to do to you tonight.” He winks at you with a smirk and turns toward the house. Your cheeks heat up once more, eyes going wide, but you follow him nonetheless, excited to find out.

The two of you have launched yourselves into the house and into his room in no time, stripping off your clothes haphazardly as you make your way to the shower, eager to scrub off the dirt and grime of your barefooted walk. He, of course, can’t keep himself from you in the shower, and he has your back pressed up against the shower wall, driving his cock in and out of you in no time. He pulls out just in time to cum all over your thigh, forcing you to wash yourself all over again. Then, he’s on his knees, one of your legs hooked over his shoulder, eating you out like his entire life depended on it, hands reaching and groping every which way that he can manage it.

When you finally extricate yourselves from the now-running-cold stream of water, Javi tugs you across the hallway quickly, wrapped up in towels, and suddenly you’re back in his bed with sopping wet hair. Javi is hovering over you, perched like a bird of prey, as you run your hands up and down his torso. He leans down and kisses your collarbone, then nips at it lightly, staring down at the now-wet jewelry hanging softly against your chest.

“I like this necklace. Shows everyone that you’re mine.” You hum at the thought of being his, being Javi’s, and it warms your insides in a way that few things he’s said before have.

“I like the sound of that. Yours.” He chuckles and continues nipping at the skin along your neck, hands finding your breasts as he starts to knead them, thumbs swiping softly across your nipples. You groan, arms falling easily out to your sides as you let him ravage you however he pleases. His lips find purchase everywhere across your body: your belly, your hips, your mound, the insides of your thighs, your knees, your ankles. He kisses everything he can reach, your entire body alight with his affections.

“Javiii… No teasing, please. Need you-” He hums at your feet and quickly flips you over onto your belly before you have the chance to think about it twice. Straddling your legs, he repeats the process, kissing and nipping all the way up your backside, lingering on the swell of your ass between his hands.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, cariño. Mierda.” He kisses between your cheeks, thumbs spreading the flesh apart as he looks down at your holes, spread apart for him so nicely. He dips his head low, pressing his mouth and chin between your cheeks, and licks a broad stripe from the hood of your clit all the way to the puckered flesh of your ass.

You jolt immediately, shocked by the trajectory of his tongue. “Fuck! Javi!” He chuckles and presses a kiss to the inside of your cheek, nipping at it lightly.

“You gonna be a dirty girl for me tonight?” He leans in once more to run his tongue across your tightly puckered hole. Your body jumps and you let out a shaky breath.

“Holy fuck, Javi- what in the hell…” You can feel him smirk against the skin of your ass as he answers.

“We just showered. You gonna let me play with this tight little hole a bit?” You press your ass back into his touch while his hands trail from your hips to your folds, thumb pressing just inside your entrance as he pulls some of your wetness up and over your ass, applying just enough pressure there for you to feel it. You turn your head toward him, hands pressing your torso away from the mattress just enough to give you space to turn.

“You, uh… want to?” He snorts and leans down to press a kiss to the curve of your ass.

“Of course, I want a piece of this perfect ass, muñeca. But only if you do.” You nod, frantically, breath quickening as you think about the possibility of trying this with him - something you haven’t done before, not with anyone else.

“Okay. Yeah, alright.” Settling back down into the mattress, you spread your legs a little wider to accommodate him and he leans down, pressing a kiss to your hole. You groan at the sensation, amazed at how good it feels. His tongue darts out, working around the rim in tight circles for a while, before he starts to just dip inside, the tip of his tongue working past the tight ring of muscle.

“Fuck! Oh fuck-” You’re so shocked by the sensation you can feel your body clench and pull away slightly. He holds onto you tightly, keeping you in place so that you can’t move an inch, arms locked around your thighs. His face is buried between your cheeks, tongue darting in and out of your hole now, and after the shock wears off you realize how fucking amazing it actually feels, and start rolling your hips into it. “Holy shit, Javi, oh fuck.”

He switches tactics, starting to lap at your hole as he extricates his hands from beneath your thighs. “Stay just like this for me, cariño, okay?” You nod into the mattress and push back toward him, desperate for more friction. You can hear the lewd sound of his mouth sucking on something for a moment, then a pop of his lips, and then suddenly you feel a wet finger at your hole, pressing in just slightly. The stretch is different - new, really - but not bad. He presses in slowly until the whole finger is buried and then he moves it.

He freaking moves it. 

“Ohhhhh FUCK! Javier!” That’s a new, phenomenal sensation, that you’ve never felt before, and feels nothing like anything else you’ve tried, either. He keeps moving his finger around, pumping it in and out just slightly, and two fingers of his other hand find the slick heat of your cunt, sinking in up to the knuckle, as well. You gasp, back arching away from the mattress as your hips push back into his hands. He chuckles at your enthusiasm, leaning down to bite lightly at your lower back.

“Patience, darlin’.” You groan and continue to rock your hips, riding out the pleasure on his hands even through the way he chastises you. Soon, his fingers are replaced by the tip of his cock and the finger that was in your ass is replaced by his thicker, but just as spit-slick thumb. Pressing in slowly, he hisses as he sheaths himself within you, your legs widening as you lay along the bed. He uses gravity to press deeply into you, his free hand holding tightly to your hip. 

You groan heavily, unable to do much else other than lay there and let him use you, but fuck it if it wasn’t one of the best things you’ve ever felt. You let yourself relax into the mattress and focus on the feeling of Javi working his fingers and his cock in and out of you in perfect tandem. He takes his time building up speed until he’s pistoning his hips into you at such a pace that it feels like it knocks the breath out of you with every thrust of his hips. You’re bouncing into the mattress with each one, laid out on it with nowhere to go and his body weight pinning you down so concretely. 

It feels wonderful.

Working in combination with his thumb in your ass and his heavy cock splitting you open, the fingers of his opposite hand reach around under your hips to finger small circles around your clit. Added to the way this position lets you grind onto his hand, it builds you up quicker than anything you’ve done with him before, sending you spiraling into an orgasm that feels like it bubbles over in three places all at once.

He works you eagerly through the aftershocks of it all, carrying a steady pace as he chases down his own climax. You can feel his hips stutter, lose their cadence, and then he’s pulling out just in time to splatter his hot cum all over the space where your ass meets your lower back. He grunts, jerking himself through it as you try to catch your breath beneath him, and then you can feel him shifting on the bed, standing up and leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Right back, cariño.” Leaving just long enough to get what he needed, Javi comes back in with a warm washcloth, wiping you down fully and then himself before tossing the rag away, turning off the lights, and climbing into bed next to you. He pulls the sheets up over the two of you and gathers you up in his arms, peppering kisses across your forehead and cheeks before working down to your nose and then your lips. He slows eventually, letting his head loll back into the pillow as he takes a deep breath, exhaling it all out.

You end up settling in under the covers with Javi’s strong arms wrapped around your midsection from behind. This was always the most comfortable position between the two of you, feeling so safe and calm that it lulled you to sleep in an instant. You turn over in his grasp, head coming to rest on his chest as you wrap your arm across his waist. Reaching up, you press a few gentle kisses to his jaw, now covered in a five o’clock shadow.

“Thank you for today, Javi. You made me feel very special.” With a smile against his skin, you settle back against his chest as he squeezes you tightly to his side.

“You are special, muñeca.” Your heart blossoms at the praise and, before you can stop yourself, three little words come tumbling off of your lips.

“I love you.”

 Oops. 

You said it. You didn’t really intend to, but it slipped out quite easily with the way this whole evening went. And, frankly, it’s the truth. You loved him and loved him hard. You were his and he was yours. You hum happily against his chest, waiting in silence as he runs his fingers across your upper back. He doesn’t answer you for a long while. 

“I’m glad you had a good time, cariño.”

It takes a moment for you to register that he has very deliberately not said it back to you. Blinking back the shock of it and lambasting yourself for expecting something out of him that he wasn’t ready to give, it’s all you can do to keep yourself from mentally berating yourself over and over again. A silence grows between you as you lay there, thinking about the distinct dodging of your admission. He didn’t even acknowledge it. Did he just not hear you? Or choose not to hear you? Or is he ignoring you directly and on purpose?

You settle on likely ignoring, and it churns your stomach contents. Rather than pressing the issue, you fall silent and try to lull yourself into a hopefully dreamless sleep. Maybe you misunderstood all of this, after all.

He chuckles next to you and nuzzles his head against yours, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Shhh. I can hear your brain goin' a thousand miles a minute, baby. It’s okay. I love you, too.”

You let out a long sigh, his words echoing over and over in your head. Nuzzling your way further into him, you take a few deep breaths and close your eyes, taking in the scent of his slightly sweaty - but clean - skin.

"Fuck. Okay. Good. Thought maybe I made a fool of myself or something."

He chuckles and your breathing settles, a sense of calm and contentment wafting over you.

"Not any more than a normal day, muñeca." He squeezes your arm and you laugh nervously, turning and looking up at him for a moment before he shifts, leaning over you to press a slow kiss to your lips.

"I'll take that, then," you respond. He smiles down at you and you lean in this time, kissing him again.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Maybe this was it for you. Maybe Javi was the one, after all.

~ ~ ~

a/n: Whoops! Happy early Valentine's Day!!! I know this was probably corny asf but it's valntine's day soon. They deserve it.

There are some big feels coming up in the next two chapters (which are already written!!) so this is your fair warning. I am thinking maybe another 4 chapters in total left for these two, but who knows where it'll lead us! Let me know what you think! Your interactions and comments and criticisms and all of it are so appreciated!

xoxoxo

NEXT PART IS HERE (VII)

Taglist: @amyispxnk @picketniffler @kirsteng42 (lmk if you'd like to be added!)

[nyapologies]

please help

Hi. I hate doing this but I lost my job recently due to a mental health spiral that ended with me in the ER, and I've just gotten two large bills that total to $1,106.75 because my insurance is refusing to pay for it, even after an appeal. I can't drive so getting a new job is extremely difficult and I don't have any other ways to make money.

I have commissions open as well as adopts that I have a BOGO sale going on for right now on my toyhouse. I am willing to haggle on any prices if you want something from me that's out of your price range, any little bit helps. Here's some examples of my recent art if you're interested.

I also have links here if you are generous enough to donate. If you do, I'm still willing to send you a little doodle as my appreciation.

P*YP*L: @ wishsoap

V*NMO: @ pygmalionz

Please reblog even if you can't donate, it means a lot to me and I don't really know what else to do.

Edit: the bogo sale is over but I still have stuff on my toyhouse if people want to check it out!

[devilfic]

#✦✎: dc.

disclaimer: I do not consent to reposting of my work, credit given or not. if you’d like to share my work, please share direct links from my tumblr or my AO3. thank you!

likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! ♡

✦: batman | battinson!bruce wayne

✎: series

where two are joined, relentlessly [completed] ↳ gotham city’s bound to discover it’s got a prized bachelor on its hands. selina kyle got it, you got it, and you’d quite like if it stopped there, thanks.

I. go, go, loverboy II. best-kept memories III. sick day IV. nameless V. ballroom blitz VI. favors for a friend VII. clean slate VIII. happy birthday, mr. wayne IX. from now on

right place, right time [ongoing] ↳ you took the hippocratic oath. you swore to help those in need. you didn’t sign up for a man crawling through your apartment window bleeding to death, but you’ve unfortunately seen worse.

I. right place, right time II. of niceties and awkward second meetings III. the tower IV. the hierophant V. curiosity killed the cat VI. do you trust me? VII. twenty-one questions VIII. whatever keeps you around vignette. strawberry candies IX. I'm the well they're gonna drag you down X. we don't fight fair

honeymoon [ongoing] ↳ in a gamble to retake his place as ceo of wayne enterprises, bruce wayne is strong-armed into an arranged marriage with you.

you finding out his secret identity is only one of his problems at the moment.

I. honeymoon II. marriage bed III. on the clock IV. sugar-coating V. sins of the mother

✎: one shots

got you ↳ the wayne family has a special kind of love language.

at the front steps ↳ eventually, the well will dry up. eventually, your patience will wear thin. eventually, you will leave him. of few things he was more certain. unfortunately, how much you loved him wasn’t one of them.

ghosts ↳ there’s a split second between dreaming and waking where the dream exists in the real world: the tender loss of a dream unrealized, and the relief of a nightmare severed. your nightmare is still clinging to you.

good grief ↳ you and batman have something special going on. obviously, people notice.

hard-knock life ↳ even with the riddler locked away in arkham, his followers manage to haunt bruce to this day. thankfully, you’re more than willing to help your fiancé tie up all his loose ends… even if they are a bit ridiculous. or four times the riddler’s followers make a threat on bruce’s life and the one time alfred shoots them for it.

nocturnal animal ↳ okay, maybe the caped crusader is a vampire. and maybe you just want to know what it would feel like for him to sink his teeth into you. it’s not weird.

I want us both to eat well ↳ “It’s so complicated staying alive sometimes.” — your friendship with the elusive vigilante is a special one in many ways.

✎: headcanons

bruce and reader’s mother/misc. headcanons [where two are joined, relentlessly universe]

love languages

bruce making a playlist for his partner

bruce with a gothic s/o

wedding headcanons with bruce wayne

sleeping headcanons with bruce wayne

✎: drabbles

bruce’s first family christmas with you and dick

reader with a villain mbti

dick finds out bruce is batman

bruce's diary [right place, right time]

bruce is a little stalker

✦: catwoman | selina kyle

✎: headcanons

jealous!selina kyle

✎: drabbles

secret admirer and roommate!selina

✦: the riddler | edward nashton

✎: series

boogeyman [hiatus] ↳ he is your shadow as much as you are his. one person, one reflection. you made a deal with the devil and this is the price you pay for redemption.

I. boogeyman II. no god in gotham

✎: one shots

first snow ↳ life wasn’t all pain, there was you. there was you.

✎: headcanons

young!edward nashton headcanons

[winchesterszvonecek]

hii I'm obcessed with your Otis ficss and saw that your requests for him are open, so i was thinking about him and reader at the firemen's ball and them flirting and dancing and sneaking around to have to smutty time together?? i'm literally not able to focus on anything else

The Gala - [ Brian 'Otis' Zvonecek ] 18+

Summary: You and Brian attend the CFD gala together where things quickly turn from boring to steamy

Word Count: 1539

Warnings: female!reader, smut - [ dirty talk - sort of, semi-public sex, p in v sex ]

A/N: there wasn't much flirting or dancing - at all - but hopefully you still liked it :)

Masterlist | Otis Masterlist

Department gala’s were always boring. At least, for you they were. Everyone else in the firehouse seemed to enjoy attending them. They looked forward to them. Talked about them whenever they could, driving you insane in the process as you always dreaded them and would avoid bringing them up lest you end up with a headache. 

You hated them with a passion and most years you were able to get out of going, as it wasn’t like they were mandatory and no amount of begging from the others would ever get you to say yes. But this year was different.

This year you said yes. This year you had a date. One you really didn’t want to stand up, as you’d been secretly hoping he’d ask you on one for weeks now even though you were technically already a couple thanks to a drunken night at Molly’s. You just hadn’t expected him to ask you to the gala of all places, but it was a price you were willing to pay which was exactly why you found yourself surrounded by Chief’s, engaging in yet another spat of small talk about things that honestly bored you to death. Like seriously, you were off work so why on earth would you want to talk about nozzles with a group of old men?

You were not drunk enough for this and unfortunately, you never would be. But luckily for you a shift in conversation allowed you to sneak away and find your date again, as he seemed to have gotten lost on his way back from the bathroom. That or he’d abandoned you. Or maybe fallen down the toilet. Who knows? All you knew was that you wanted him back by your side to act as your lifeline from the mingling around you.

Soon enough you spotted him, Brian, the cutest firefighter in all of Chicago. And you were not at all surprised to see him talking to Cruz, no doubt about something stupid like whose turn it was to do the grocery shopping. You weaved your way through the room towards them, using the cover of others to avoid those who you knew would try and talk to you until you finally made it to the other side. Just like the chicken in that joke.

“Cruz, I don’t appreciate you stealing my date.” You muttered, jokingly, yet partially serious, as you slid your arm around Brian’s waist, his own immediately taking yours the second you were close enough to him.

“Sorry.” Crux replied, lips pressed together apologetically as he held up his hands in surrender, playing along as he knew you weren’t overly annoyed. “Won’t happen again.”

“It better not. I can’t take being pulled into yet another circle of old men who insist on reminiscing about the ‘good old days’.” You complained, air quoting your words and making both men chuckle softly in response, which only had you frown as it was not funny and you were slowly losing the will to live.

“Cheers to that.” Brian said humorously, only dragging your frown further down as it wasn’t like he’d been there to have to endure it. He chuckled again, pulling you in closer and placing a soft kiss on your cheek, feeling the way your lips twitched upwards as you never could stay mad at him for long. 

Especially when his kisses were your weakness. And he knew it, meaning he abused it completely. But you weren’t exactly complaining, not when it meant you got to kiss him.

You turned your head, leaning closer to him and for a second he thought you were about to return his kiss. Only, you didn’t. Instead you got as close to his ear as possible, the tip of your nose brushing against his skin and making him shudder before you whispered, seductively.

“What do you say we sneak off somewhere and have a little fun instead?” 

The moment the words fell from your lips you found yourself being dragged, gently, across the room, neither you nor the clearly eager Brian paying any attention to those around you. You carried on until you reached the main doors of the ballroom, the two of you slipping out and making your way excitedly through the rest of the hotel in search of a little privacy.  

Eventually you came across an empty lounge area, one you were pretty sure you weren’t meant to have access to unless you were staying at the hotel. Luckily for you though, someone had left the door open long enough for you both to sneak in and the second you entered the room Brian’s lips were on yours, kissing you so vigorously that you almost toppled over on your heels. He managed to catch you before you did, securing you in place against his body as he carried on. 

You could feel yourself slowly inching backwards, your feet shuffling ever so slightly with every second his tongue was in your mouth. He kissed you like the hungriest of the men. Like one so starved that he simply couldn’t help but devour you, tasting every inch of your tongue that he could possibly reach. He kept moving you backwards until eventually your back hit something solid, and by what you could make out it appeared to be a table which only got you growing hotter underneath your dress. 

In one quick motion, Brian lifted you onto it without once having pulled away from your lips, and it wasn’t until you were seated atop the table did you part, lungs burning fiercely from the lack of oxygen. Neither of you felt the need to say anything as you gathered your breath and instead you lifted your hips a little, allowing Brian easy access to slide off your panties, soft hums leaving your lips as his knuckles grazed along your outer legs. 

He straightened, tucking your panties into his pocket with a slight grin on his face before he grabbed your hips and pulled you forwards a little, kissing you fiercely and in a way that just got you all the more hot between your legs. You pulled back, glancing down just in time to see him pull his cock from beneath his pants, already hard and dripping with pre-cum as he gave it a few quick pumps, watching as you did nothing but stare down at it with such hunger and lust in your eyes that he couldn’t bring himself to deprive you of it any longer.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since I saw you in that dress.” He said breathlessly, a faint groan leaving his lips when you ran your thumb across his tip, gathering up what had already leaked out of if. He followed your hand with his eyes, focusing intently and when all you did was suck the salty droplet off your skin with a soft moan, he really couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

Closing the gap between your bodies, Brian slid into you slowly, allowing you to feel the entirety of his length as he stretched you open in such a way that you couldn’t seem to form a single coherent thought as your eyes rolled back into your head. He held you close, lingering for just a second inside you until pulling back and repeating the process once more. 

Pulling you a little further towards the edge of the table, until you were barely hanging on, Brian began to pick up the pace, thrusting into you with such vigour that you had to grab hold of either side of the table to keep yourself in place. The moans that left your lips were like music to his ears, his eyes focused on nothing but the way he disappeared inside of you, his cock glistening with the arousal he’d so easily caused you.

“Oh, fuck, Brian.” You panted, throwing your head back as that fire deep down in your abdomen began to burn so hot you thought you were going to come already. “Fuck baby, that feels so good.”

“Yeah? You like that, baby?” Otis groaned, angling his hips in a way that had such a moan leave your lips that he didn’t need a response from you. But he wanted one. “You like when I fuck you like this? You like being so spread open that anyone could come in here and see you? See the way you take all of me like such a good girl?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, biting down hard on your lip as the new angle sent you to highs you didn’t know were even possible and you couldn’t seem to find anymore words. Guess you just hadn’t been fucked by the right guys as you were fairly certain you were ascending towards heaven as all you could see right now was white.

By the time your orgasm hit you, you were already a shaking mess atop the table. One who could barely breathe let alone speak. You weren’t even sure if you’d been dreaming or not, or whether the sex had just been that good, but there was one thing you knew for certain by the time you regained a little clarity… Perhaps gala’s weren’t so bad after all.

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[literary-motif]

Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iv — The Walk

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: character death

The night came down like a quiet blessing, bringing the bleak autumn day to a close. You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets, flexing your fingers to stave off the chill numbing them. It was cold, pleasantly so.

The leaves rustled in the wind, dancing on the ground before you as you walked down the lone road through the secluded area of the park. It was beautiful, the low moonlight illuminating the trees with a faint hue of blue. You wondered what Vic would tell you tonight. 

He had stayed long after the funeral ended, doubtlessly making sure Isaac was alright and keeping Rhoades from drinking himself into a stupor. No matter how insistent he was to continue working, you resolved to keep a closer eye on him from now on. Vic would have had the same thought already. Telling him was superfluous, but you made a mental note to bring it up anyway.

Walking cleared your head. The colder it was outside, the better. Not because it was more pleasant — walking in the rain was a different feeling entirely than taking a stroll on the warm summer night — but because it organized your mind, slicing through the thoughts and emotions bouncing in your skull with a sharp knife.

The cold made you feel glad when you walked back home, entering the mansion you had to yourself and curling up in front of the fire Julian would have lit for you, wishing him a good night and promising to eat the dinner he had set out before basking in the warmth and the comfort it brought. 

The heat would melt away the chill, turning you warm and cozy in a way that was next to impossible to replicate in any other way inside the endless, hollowness of your home. 

It made you feel human in the rawest way, going home to appreciate the warmth that was there. Going home to seek shelter behind the walls that kept out the chill the world shrouded you in.

A bench came into view, leaves cracking under your shoes as you walked towards it. You sat down with a sigh, leaning back against the stiff wood with a wince as it dug into your back. The discomfort was a small price to pay for the view of the city and its bright lights, stretching out in front of you like a beautiful work of art on canvas. 

You shivered as a harsh gust of wind whipped past, wrapping your coat tighter around you. 

Vic was not late, you were early. A few minutes early — maybe fifteen. 

You could no longer stand to stare at the papers on your desk. It felt like the walls of your study were closing in on you, the faint longing for chamomile tea making your heart ache from past mistakes. 

I know people are willing to betray for it.

The whirlwind of your thoughts had made you want to pace, tear apart every wretched document, and disappear forever into oblivion to catch a break from it all. 

You decided to take a walk instead. So you were early, inhaling the cold night air and allowing it to soothe away some of your restlessness. 

The warden was expecting a call. You had put it off all day, again too preoccupied with the Trimedian to turn your attention to Stockton. You wondered faintly if you should attend Tara’s funeral, or if Warden would seize the opportunity to shoot you on the spot. Maybe James would before the widower even had a chance to blink. 

You wondered if that was worth the end, just to show your acquaintance — your friend — the last honors. Because that’s what Tara had been, even with all the animosity between you. That’s what you had lost that day, yesterday, when the markets crashed and a vampire was ready to tear out your heart — a friend. 

And then Dove followed, and you had lost another. 

Bashir had called. You had not picked up, too much occurring between betrayals, and threats, and murders to switch your mind into gear and think about the Collective and world politics. You would call her back. She was a night owl anyway, toiling away behind her bright white desk when Dove had long since gone to bed. 

Except Dove was dead. 

She never came home that day. Never returned to her study. Never got the chance to light a cigarette in the fading twilight, and lean out of the window to observe the leaves rustling in the breeze, the smoke between her fingers drifting upwards. 

No, she was dead. And so was Tara. And both their funerals lay ahead of you and you did not know if you could endure them both without breaking apart completely. 

After Warden had left last night, it was Bashir who had told you about Kennedy — Robert Kennedy — successfully filling the market void by buying the ashen remains of Michelle’s real estate business. He had stabilized the branch in a way Quetza was currently unable to. 

She had asked about the future of the hotel chain now that Tara was gone, and you had told her it was safe, voice choked and back aching. She had asked about Stockton, and you could not answer her. 

The power dynamics of the city were shifting, especially with Kennedy’s new involvement. The gangs would regroup, continuing to wage war with each other perhaps more ruthlessly than before. You supposed it could not get much worse than planting a bomb in a meeting that was supposed to bring about a truce. 

Murdering Tara was as bad as it would get. 

Warden would make sure of that as well, the wrath in him fueling his work. He would keep the gangs and the city balanced, not wanting to risk losing his son in the turmoil as well. You only hoped he would not freeze over his heart to prepare for what he thought was the inevitable impact of a life in freefall — the death of all he loved.

You should call your family. 

The thought was sudden, startling you out of the peaceful reverie that had settled over you as you gazed at the scenery unseeing, grim musings taking up all your attention. 

You knew you should. Hearing their voices, talking to them even of the most banal things, and appreciating them while they were here was better than mourning them while they were still alive. 

The heartbreak you would feel at losing them — inevitably — would be better than this quiet, gray detachment. It would not hurt less once they were gone, and the guilt burning in your chest at having wasted the years you could have still been part of their lives would turn into acid regret, coursing through you with the grief of lost time. 

You would be mourning a husk, a person that had not existed for a very long time because you had lost touch. You did not know them anymore. That would hurt most of all.

You should call them if only to tell them you loved them, and promptly hang up again. 

Did they know? 

You hoped they did. 

It was better to keep this distance between you. It was safer for them. But the funeral had stirred something in you. Rhoades’ words had made you taste ash. You did everything right. No, you could not believe that. 

You would keep your distance, not daring to give your enemies any more ammunition against you in these volatile times, but you did not want to keep them guessing. 

You would call them, as soon as you got home. 

You would bid goodnight to Julian, thanking him profusely for all that he had done for you once again, sink into the cushions of the sofa to soak up the warmth emanating from the fireplace, pick up the telephone, and call them. Two minutes. Five minutes. It would not matter. 

You would call, remind them of your love, and hang up. Bashir could wait another few minutes once you got home. 

Once you got home.

The leaves next to you rustled. 

The corner of your mouth twisted upwards in a smile, but you did not take your eyes off the city lights before you. There was a light sheen of fog rolling in with the night, turning the lights hazy. You thought it made the whole picture all the more beautiful. You opened your mouth, a greeting on your lips. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You froze. 

That was not Vic’s voice. 

Lazarus sat down beside you, heaving a deep sigh as he breathed in the fresh air. “I can hear the spike in your heart rate, you know,” he said, amusement in his voice. His sharp smile only made your heart beat faster. “Suppose I’m not the one you wanted to see. Is that fear I smell on you?”

“What do you want?” you asked, keeping your voice even. 

He adjusted his collar, following the leaves sinking to the ground with a calm pleasure in his eyes that reminded you that he was immortal, and he had all the time the world had to offer. 

“I can smell lies, too, you know,” he said, once the leaves reached the ground, lying still. The wind ruffled his hair. It made the leaves skitter. With the brown strands falling into his face, Lazarus looked soft in a way that clashed with the sharp canine teeth he exposed.

His dark eyes settled on you. It felt like a reckoning, the closing of business that had been left unfinished. 

“I could smell your bluff from a mile away.”

You clenched your fists, feeling suddenly weightless. “Could you?” you asked, grappling to say something. The light at the end of the tunnel was getting further away. The well had deepened. “It did not seem like it to me.”

How would you get out of this one, you wondered. 

“Putting on an act keeps things interesting,” he said, licking his teeth. “You never stood a chance either way. And you, my dear,” he said, hand shooting out to grab your jaw. He turned your head to face him fully.

You did not have time to draw back, flinching when you were in his grasp already. Your hands shot out instinctively, ready to pry his fingers off and claw at his wrist. 

“Don’t,” he commanded, his voice floating on a cloud of calmness and control that left no choice in you but to obey. 

Your movements stilled, a low groan of annoyance and anger tearing out of your throat. Now you knew what Asirel had talked about. Compulsion. It did not feel pleasant to have your control ripped away from you. 

“As I was saying,” Lazarus continued, eyes drifting over your features before settling on your neck. The collar of your coat was in the way, but he licked his lips regardless. “You have begun getting on my nerves, and I’ve decided to do something about that. Can’t have you all up in my business now, can I?”

You gave a humorless chuckle, despite the fear he could taste. You looked him dead in the eye, defiance meeting quiet amusement and anticipation in his dark ones. He tilted his head curiously as he felt you work your jaw, loosening his grip as he realized you were trying to talk. 

“Get in line,” you bit out. 

The thought that all of this was hopeless hit you full force. You could not get out. It was over. Even if you cheated death here — and the dark eyes burning into you promised that to be impossible — you could not run from the inevitable forever. 

“Impatience is my vice,” he said. “It was actually quite interesting to watch your life unravel. I didn’t think you had it in you to shoot Ackroyd, although I should have known you would go to every extent for your fondness of Asirel. And Vic, of course.”

You remembered suddenly that you had forgotten his umbrella. It stood in your foyer, long since dried. You wondered if someone would bother to return it after this. You wondered if he would ask for it back. 

“The whole business in Stockton was unfortunate. She was so close to a breakthrough with the gang, from what I hear — I forget which one. The city is terribly confusing. Well, it does not matter. The Trimedian are off limits, you should have known that. You should have stuck to crashing markets and immoral weapon exports instead of chiseling away at Samuel Kennedy. He’s the main act. You were in over your head from the start.”

His concentration dropped, and you found that you could finally swat his hand away, freeing your jaw. He let you, laughing — a deep, ugly sound laced with venom and contempt — while staring at you as if you were a particularly entertaining puzzle. 

You wiped the skin his fingers had touched with the back of your hand. “Well, I did not expect vampires when I first set out to investigate,” you said. 

You were faintly aware that you were staling, but what were a few more moments when it would all end soon enough? The truth was, you were scared. No matter how much the theory of your death was a familiar musing you had gone over time and time again, the practice of it — truly, irreversibly dying — felt like another thing entirely. And you were scared. So very scared of the end.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” he quoted, trailing off to leave the line unfinished. Then he asked, “What does death look like to you?” 

You startled, fingers clamping down on the wood of the bench beneath you. The overwhelming urge to flee, to run, run, run before it was too late took hold of you completely. You felt your knee jerk, a new high of adrenaline crashing over you. 

Damn it all, you thought wildly. What did it matter? Making a run for it would be better than sitting here like a sacrificial lamb. Death was next to you. 

I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.

What else was there to do but run for your life in a suicide frenzy? 

You made to push yourself to stand, ready to dart towards the city lights. It was futile, you knew that as soon as your muscles contracted. It was useless.

Lazarus’ hand shot out, gripping your shoulder and halting your movements. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, before pulling you back onto the bench roughly. Your back hit the wood, and a sharp pain ran down your spine as you gasped breathlessly. 

No, the game was over. 

“How rude of you,” he said, a smile betraying his amusement as he watched your face contort in pain. If you had remembered to bring Vic’s umbrella, you thought you may have had a good shot at beating him to death with it. “Don’t be surprised now. You knew this was coming. Answer the question, before I make you.”

The cold air had turned freezing. You were sure your being early had morphed into Vic being late. You hoped he was alright.

“I suppose it looks like you,” you said. 

There was a bitter acceptance in admitting that this was your last encounter. This was where the threads of fate had spun you to be. This was the end of everything for you, and if you had shared the late Mr. Cain’s enthusiasm for stoicism, you would have recognized the acceptance of your fate to be one of the pillars of a life dedicated to duty — Amor Fati. 

His pleased hum filtered through the night, nearly hidden beneath the rustling sound of the leaves fluttering through the air. “I look forward to sinking my teeth into your neck. I’d say I’ve never had blue blood before, but that would be a lie,” he grinned at the memory. “This will only hurt a little.”

“The scenery is beautiful,” you said, keeping your eyes on the skyline. “I should have appreciated it more often.”

The city lights glinted in the night like diamonds or broken glass. The fog had gently thickened, dousing the view in peaceful calmness. The bright dots morphed together and you realized that the lights were as sharp as they had always been — cutting through the darkness with delicate precision, creating the illusion of warmth as you sat miles away from them, listening to the leaves and feeling cold — but they were turned soft by the tears in your eyes.

The moon was a constant, hanging in the sky with the promise of eternity. 

“You should have,” Lazarus said, finality creeping into his voice. “It’s too late now.” He did not like to wait.

You looked at the lights, eyes narrowing as if seeing something long forgotten in the distance. Not forgotten, pushed out of mind, buried under all the chaos that had unfolded in the last few days. You blinked away the tears. 

“Can you give me another twelve hours?” you breathed, surprising yourself with how steady your voice was. 

He frowned. “Borrowed time?” He looked at you, impatience and pity in his expression. “What would you want with that?”

“I’m expected at a wedding,” you said quietly, fiddling with the silver ring on your finger. Your hands were shaking. 

The thought of Julian standing in front of the chapel — his dark suit pressed to perfection, a red rose over his heart — as he checked his watch repeatedly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, heart breaking with every passing second because you weren’t showing up and you had promised, lodged itself like a wedge between your ribcage, breaking it open until what remained of your heart seeped out, dripping onto the leaf-covered ground. 

Your wordless pleas hung heavy in the air, drifting towards the moon and into the void above. They were met with quiet, chilling silence. 

You knew his answer before Lazarus even drew in a breath to speak. “They’ll have to manage without you from now on,” he said. 

After all that Julian had done for you — and you could not fulfill the only request he had ever voiced. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, battling the helplessness settling over you. Memento mori. It had only been a matter of time. You could not help the heaviness in your chest. 

You could have done so much more with twelve hours. You could have done more with only a single one. Tie up the loose ends, leave with no unfinished business. Everything you had failed to do weighed you down, filling you with deep regret. 

Death did not wait for you to finish up your plans. It did not wait for you to make the call, or pay the visit, or say goodbye. 

How easy that was to forget sometimes, that the future was uncertain. That after the walk might never exist — that youwould never make it home one day.

You wiped your eyes. “What cruel words coming from an immortal raised from the dead,” you said. 

“Every life is a tragedy in five acts,” Lazarus said, baring his teeth. “And the curtains are closing on yours.”

[sammysmaddy]

Ransom (Geralt x Reader)

Summary: King Bryce, the father of Princess Y/N, wants to marry her off to an enemy in an attempt to reconcile the relationship between the two kingdoms. Geralt of Rivia makes his appearance in perfect timing and Y/N promises to pay him handsomely for holding her as 'ransom'. 

Pairing(s): Geralt x Princess!Reader, OC!Lyd x Geralt x OC!Rosni (mentioned, but not explicitly)

Warning(s): Angst, mention of blood, alcohol, prostitution, p in v, desperate!geralt, fingering, creampie

A/N: There is a noncon version of this story linked if you would prefer that. This is the first I've written for Geralt. I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoy reading it! ;)

W/C: 6k+

Noncon Version

Masterlist

"Hm," The low hum of Geralt's voice filled your ears. While it was one of the few words you have gotten him to say over the course of the past week, if you could even call that a word, you were happy to have your remarks validated nonetheless. 

You walked on the snowy dirt road next to Roach, treading a little bit behind as the horse was much faster. Geralt was adverse to you walking at first, but you had managed to convince him that it would warm your freezing bones. 

Geralt's eyes traveled back to where you were every few minutes, you assumed to make sure you were still there, yet barely acknowledged any of the words you spoke. 

You had learned that this was simply who he was over the past few weeks of traveling with him. And you had also learned to be quiet. This allowed you to enjoy and appreciate the serene atmosphere in silence, which was difficult at first and much different than the lively setting at the castle you call your home. 

You missed your kingdom. You missed the warmth and your clothes, the maids and the dances, but most of all, you missed your father. You never wanted to let him down or make him disappointed, because he was the only person who truly understood the pain of missing your mother. On top of all of that, he loved you more than anyone ever could. 

You knew your father wouldn't understand your dislike for Prince Loren. He was a handsome young man, yet only you could see his arrogance and lack of concern for anyone but himself. So, Geralt was your only option. 

You knew witchers preferred to be paid in gold in return for their bravery, and luckily you had more than enough. You also knew that even though this wasn't necessarily a common task for a witcher, no monster was worth the amount of gold you were willing to pay Geralt for holding you as ransom. 

Your father did not know you devised the plan and he had no clue that Geralt played a part in any of it. Both you and Geralt were free of any accountability and you could both walk away happily. 

You cut your arm as you went, leaving a trail of blood out of your window which was on the second story. You drafted the letter before you left, listing the price of the ransom. You had claimed to be a very powerful force in Prince Loren's kingdom who would, at any cost, kill you if you had stepped foot into the kingdom. 

Listing a bunch of random but reasonable motivations for your own death, you wrote a date to meet two odd months later. Then, you sealed the letter with a stamp you had borrowed from one of Prince Loren's guards. 

You knew your father would pay whatever price he could to have you back. And you figured that it would be a good chance to explore the world on your own without the weight of being a princess.

Now, three weeks later, you could feel the lack of food and mead in your stomach. Your clothes seemed to fit looser from the lack of calories and the constant travel, your feet ached and your shoes were almost completely worn. In addition to your troubles, your company was less than pleasant to be around. 

Your dream of traveling didn't take long to be unattainable, as you were still a princess and Geralt was very obviously a Witcher. You had stopped a few times, sometimes in the brush of a lush green forest and as the atmosphere got colder, you began to stay at a few inns. 

Geralt was antsy at the lack of hunting for monsters, but you did your best to remind him of the handsome pay he'd receive for measuring your safety. He seemed to be annoyed with you most days, but you assumed that was his normal demeanor. 

Luckily for you, there were women at nearly every stop, allowing Geralt to blow off steam and for you to have some time to yourself. 

The next stop was only a day's travel from the next, and as the sun dimmed you knew you were close to your destination. As the road became wider and easier to travel, you started to smell fires being burnt and saw houses lit with candlelight. 

"Where are we?" You asked Geralt, your voice slightly coarse from the cold air and the lack of use. 

"Gelibol," He answered curtly, carefully climbing off Roach. 

You knew more questions asked would not be answered, so you walked next to Geralt and grew more cheerful as you smelt food. The local inn was not hard to find and your stomach ached as you walked through the doors, leaving Geralt behind as he tied Roach up in a stable. 

"What can I get you, princess?" The bartender asked as you sat down. Your cheeks grew red and your heartbeat fastened as you realized you were recognized, but you still attempted to play it off. 

"Princess?" You asked coyly, with a small yet nervous smile on your face. 

"Just something I like to call pretty ladies who walk into my bar," He said with a thick accent, winking at you as you sighed in relief. 

He was handsome, light facial hair, and he didn't smell horrid. If he were dressed properly, he could surely pass as a nobleman. 

"I'll take two of whatever ale you've got," You gave him a small smile.

As he walked away, you glanced across the room, tactfully avoiding any eye contact between yourself and anyone looking in your direction. Of course, the inn was full of men and very few women- all of whom nearly had their breasts spilling out of their corsets. 

Your ale was brought to you and you placed one at the bar seat next to yours as a way to claim it. You didn't have to turn around to understand the silence that took over the inn, knowing that Geralt had made his entrance- his face sure to scare any living creature. 

The sound of his large body slamming down on the stool next to you would have scared you had you not already been used to it. Geralt didn't say a word as he completely downed his ale, signaling to the bartender for another. 

"This one yours?" The bartender looked at you, surely asking about Geralt. 

"She's with me," Geralt answered gruffly before you could speak. 

"I'm traveling with him. Needed a witcher to make sure I don't accidentally kill myself on my journey." You corrected Geralt, giving the bartender a small smile. 

"Didn't realize witchers did anything but stink and kill rotting monsters. This one doesn't smell as bad as the others," He placed down the ale in front of Geralt with a small smirk. Geralt chose to sip the ale rather than down it, glaring at the bartender over the rim. 

"We'll also need two rooms tonight." You announced. "And a bath drawn."

"I've got one room left and enough hot water for the both of you, but the witcher can make do on the sofa." The bartender answered and you nodded your head lightly. "I've also got a few women working tonight who have their own chambers if the gentleman is willing. We like to make sure our witchers get taken care of so that our creatures do as well. And I attend to the ladies before heading home to my wife." He winked at you. 

"Thank you, we'll take the room and the bath," You could tell that Geralt's low gruff was in tune with the idea of women at his disposal, and you chose not to comment at the bartender's last sentence. "And a few more ales."

•••

You didn't mind bathing with Geralt, so long as your backside was turned to him. All of your life you've had time to grow used to being indecent around many people, whether it was alterers or guards- the male gaze never seemed to faze you. 

You did however mind when there were two other women accompanying the witcher. You didn't like the fake laughs they gave or when they asked about the scars, you had heard the stories many times before through previous baths with other women. 

And somehow after every one of these baths, you felt a lot dirtier than you did before bathing. So, you tried to wash yourself as quickly as possible. 

Normally there'd be two rooms for the both of you, but unlike normal, these women had their own chambers for lustful men. You grunted as you climbed out of the bath, annoyed that the business could not have started in one of the women's rooms, and you quickly threw on your robe. 

"To bed, I assume?" Geralt asked as you tied your robe, the two women caressing his chest as you glanced over. 

"Not quite tired, might head down for another pint," You answered in a shrug, slipping your shoes on. 

"Don't," He replied and you rolled your eyes before turning back to him. 

"Geralt, have your fun. I'll be in bed before you've even got to the second one," You gave him a small smile and he grunted lowly. 

"I don't want you down there without me. It's not safe," He hummed, barely paying attention to the other women. 

"Why don't you join us, love? We could use more young, pretty women like you here," The brunette giggled and you scoffed at the idea. 

"She may be too elegant to join whores like us," The second woman joined in but giggled afterward as she returned her attention back to Geralt.

"You really think I'd make it?" You asked jokingly, feeling a strange form of pleasure from being doted on. 

"I think any man would pay a thousand coin just to watch you undress. Of course, you'd make it, love," The first woman commented. 

"I think the women in this town would hate their husbands if she were like us, Rosni. They'd never be home!" The second chimed in and they seemed to be in tune with one another. 

"Well, maybe I'll press my luck and begin my new career tonight," You joked and the women shrugged with small smiles on their faces. 

"No," Geralt chimed in. "No selling yourself and no men. It's not safe, Y/N." 

"I think the 'no men' rule is a little far, don't you think?" You crossed your arms, staring straight back into his glare. 

"Come on, we get by just fine don't we, Lyd? I'm sure Y/N would handle herself quite well." Ronsi spoke up and the other woman nodded. 

You were more than grateful for the women encouraging you, especially so against the witcher. You loved nothing more than winning an argument.

"Rosni and Lyd are still alive and well, I bet I could do the same," You smiled whilst agreeing. 

"I said no," Geralt reiterated, this time much quicker and sharper. 

"That's alright, then. I think I'd much rather receive than give. I don't reckon I'd make it in this line of work." It was partially a lie on your behalf. 

Men could rarely ever do the trick for you, most often you'd end up finishing yourself, but by the Gods, you were going to choose them rather than having those same men pay to have their way with you. 

"Lucky woman. Wish I could say the same, but I have my suspicions the witcher won't be a letdown." Rosni giggled as she turned her attention once again toward Geralt. 

"Sometimes, just sometimes, you get a treat like this man and you know you won't go to bed without satisfaction," Lyd doted on Geralt and you internally cringed at the thought of pleasuring a witcher, someone who knows little to nothing about human emotion. 

"You ladies sound like you're in for a fun night. My night will be just as fun but will rather consist of another ale and then a long rest," You gave a small smile, preparing for your exit. 

"You may have one," Geralt's voice rang around the room. "Then bed. And definitely no fucking innkeeper will attend to you."

"Of course, Witcher," You answered before leaving the room, hearing Geralt's grunt at the nickname. 

You knew Geralt would be too busy to even know whether or not you exceeded the limit he had set for you, there was no sense in arguing with him. 

•••

You had two ales just to spite Geralt, despite becoming completely exhausted halfway through the first. While the bartender became more and more handsome with every sip and you really did want to continue to spite the witcher, you found that your tiredness would overtake your attraction toward him. 

So, you made your way up to the room. The fire was lit and the small snowstorm tapped lightly on the outside of the window, your slight drunkenness made you feel even more at peace. The bed was warm and your belly was full, sleep was imminent and calling your name. 

You climbed into the warm and rather large bed, lying right in the center and wrapping all of the blankets around you. You hadn't gone to bed this satisfied in weeks.

It seemed as though you had only dozed off for ten minutes before you heard those familiar boot stomps on the bedroom floor. You didn't think to open your eyes, partially hoping that you were still dreaming, but large hands slid under your body jolting you awake. 

Before you could respond, you were lifted up as if you were a feather and pushed towards the right side of the bed. You landed softly and the covers were thrown onto you rather hastily. 

The bed dipped as the weight of a witcher began to sit beside you. Watching as Geralt toed off his boots and threw his tunic onto the floor, you felt as though you were wide awake again. 

"I thought they had their own chambers," You mumbled in annoyance and he grunted as a response. "Or I hoped that you would take the sofa, but I suppose this is fine."

"Go back to sleep," Geralt climbed under the comforter, staring daggers at the ceiling.

Your first guess as to why he was grumpy was that the women weren't willing to put up with a witcher, possibly leaving him high and dry. You knew just how difficult handling Geralt in any situation could be. You just stared at him, your eyes not wanting to close. 

His eyes remained focused upward, and you took the opportunity to examine every one of his features. He was handsome, you weren't sure why any woman would deny him- especially for money. 

At first glance, he was rather large and strange-looking, the attraction wasn't immediate. Then, as you traveled with him for the first week, you realized how stunning he was. After that, the attraction faded as you realized how impersonal he was. 

You didn't like feeling alone whilst with someone else, and without Geralt's two emotions he displayed, you would have gone insane. Now, he was just a puzzle piece to your next destination. 

"I can feel your eyes, princess," Geralt hummed, not breaking his staring contest with the white ceiling. 

"Sorry, your hair is just a lot more gray than I originally thought," You poked fun at him, not expecting a response and not gaining one. "But, if it makes you uncomfortable, I too will stare at the wall above." 

You turned your body and looked up, watching as nothing seemed to be happening. Like normal, you assumed Geralt was just lost in his thoughts. You stared for a good five minutes, hoping to become sleepy again. 

"What are you thinking about?" You asked him, the deliriousness of your exhausted yet energized mind becoming apparent. 

"None of your concern," He answered. 

"Will you sleep soon?" You asked, looking toward him again. 

"Will you?" He retorted, but you answered as if he were asking seriously. 

"Probably not. Too many thoughts and too much alcohol inside of me," You answered honestly and he hummed at your answer. "It was a long, but very good day with a happy ending. I'm sorry you can't say the same." 

You felt his unease as his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes shutting for a split second. "Happy ending?" Geralt inquired, which was something he never did. 

"Yes, I had a good time tonight and now I can't sleep," You answered simply.

"I guess you just don't listen, do you?" He replied with a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

"What?" You asked, confusion laced in your voice. 

"Go to bed, princess," Geralt said bluntly as he turned his body away from you, you swore you could see steam blowing out of his ears. 

As you retraced your words, and even your thoughts, you recalled Geralt's clear instructions pertaining to the innkeeper. You quickly figured out that Geralt assumed you had slept with him. 

You didn't want to make your ego skyrocket, but you sensed there was a bit of jealousy coming from Geralt. A jealously that spawned from you having a night full of pleasure and him not being able to. He was just jealous that you had ended up having a good night, even if he was mistaken.

"You're jealous of me!" You couldn't help it. You read him like a book for the first time ever and you were proud of yourself. 

"Go to sleep," Geralt uttered and you smirked to yourself as you stared at the back of his head. 

"I, a princess, but more importantly, a woman, made The White Wolf jealous," You didn't care that his jealousy was based off of something that didn't even happen, you were just excited to produce an emotion from him that wasn't annoyance. 

"I'm not fucking jealous," He said in return but his tone said otherwise. 

"Yes, you are," You retorted, staring back at the ceiling in accomplishment. 

"No, I'm not!" He raised his voice, becoming more apparent in his discontent with you. 

It was almost loud enough to scare you. However, you didn't begin to feel scared until Geralt suddenly sat up and turned toward you. 

"This is all your fucking fault." Geralt stood up and grabbed his tunic off the floor, putting the cloth on before heading to the sofa. 

"What's all my fault?" You asked, less excited than before and more anxious. 

"You. Everything you've done tonight. I was so fucking worried about you whoring yourself I couldn't even-" Geralt stopped himself but you could assume that he was referring toward his lower region, making perfect sense as to how he ended back in the room for the night. 

"I've not done anything, Geralt," You sat up, pressing your back against the wall as you crossed your arms. 

"Did you really get off by letting him have you after drinking more than I asked you to?" Geralt sat on the sofa but continued to face you. 

"No, I-" You began but were interrupted.

"Then why disobey my direct orders? Do you know how unsafe it is for you to put yourself in another man's care, let alone his embrace? You're a princess for fuck's sake!" Geralt seemed increasingly angry with you whilst you attempted to explain that nothing happened in the first place. 

"I wanted him, but I-" You began again, but were interrupted once more. 

"But you, what? How could you possibly justify putting yourself in that much danger?" Geralt stared daggers into your eyes, making you have to swallow that familiar lump in your throat. 

"I got too tired, Geralt. I had two ales and then I went to bed. That's the truth." You replied, deciding to be as blunt as possible so as to not further upset your traveling mate. "It would just have been a bit of fun, nothing you're not inclined to."

"I am stronger than you, you couldn't defend yourself against a gnat," Geralt huffed. 

"The innkeeper was harmless, do you really think he'd harm me after I came here with a witcher? Especially after he offered you his finest women?" You asked rhetorically and Geralt rolled his eyes. 

"That's not the point, Y/N,"

"That's exactly the point, Geralt. You're concerned about my safety and justification over something that didn't even happen, and I'm giving you a reasonable answer." At this point, you knew you were tired. 

You knew the argument was pointless. But you wanted to be right so badly. 

"You should have just stayed with your whores and let me be."

"And you should have never engaged with those whores in the first place," He looked away from you, his jaw tense. 

"Kind of hard when I had to share a bath with them. What does it matter to you anyway?" Your annoyance was growing quickly, the witcher yet to back down from his grumpy state. 

"All they fucking did was talk about you. They talked about your breasts as they had their hands on my cock and talked about how much they wanted you to join us, and now I can't come back here because I-" Geralt stopped before his final explanation, each word uttered leaving you shocked. 

You hadn't been admired by women like that before. Although Geralt was clearly upset with you, you couldn't help but let a smile creep onto your face.

"Because you what?" You asked, that similar cocky feeling slowly creeping back in. You felt an immense boost after hearing the way the women talked about you. 

"Because they laughed at me!" Geralt admitted in a thundering voice, standing up and looming over you. Once again, the happy feelings fled as the scared ones took over. "Fuck." Geralt ran the back of his hand against his forehead, going to sit back down on the sofa. 

"Embarrassed are you, Geralt? What could a witcher possibly be embarrassed of?" You asked, a little scared to do so but your curiosity got the best of you. You just had to know.

"Because I finished too quickly and couldn't get it up again at the thought of you with that fucking bartender. I looked a fool!" Geralt admitted in a huff, with something you had definitely not expected. 

You'll admit it took a second to kick in as you stared right into Geralt's eyes. He wasn't jealous of you having sex with another man, he was jealous of the man having sex with you. 

Not only that but having other women talking about you whilst pleasuring him pushed him over the edge so quickly that it caused embarrassment. You didn't know whether to feel uncomfortable at the thought or incredibly flattered. You had no idea that Geralt thought about you in that way.

You couldn't help the smirk from forming on your face. Your mind raced with all the thoughts of what could possibly come next, and you weren't sure if you were becoming rapidly attracted to him because he was wildly gorgeous, because he seemed to be into you, or because you were deliriously exhausted. 

"A good night's rest will cure all of your frustrations," You hummed, deciding to bask in the attention rather than progress it. 

"If you weren't here, there'd be no frustration at all," Geralt replied, rolling his eyes at your smug face. 

"Luckily for you, another month and I'm off your hands for the rest of eternity," You reassured him.

"Do you understand how you've frustrated me or do you simply not care?" Geralt was still tense, you didn't know exactly how to ease the situation but you felt in no danger. In fact, a small rumble in your core began to flood your senses. 

"You are not the first man to come to me with frustrations and you won't be the last," Giving him a small smirk, you slid down into the comforters once again and closed your eyes. 

You knew you weren't going to bed, especially not after having a witcher confess his attraction toward you. You were simply teasing the man until he grew the balls to say something of substance. 

"You're... you're just going to go to sleep? After all of this?" Geralt asked, you could hear him becoming more desperate by the tone of his voice. 

"Yes. That's what you've asked me to do and I'm doing it. I'm obeying, you were displeased when I didn't do so earlier." You answered simply, trying to fight the small smile on your face. 

"Y/N," The witcher growled lowly, trying to gain your attention. 

"Geralt," You answered in a similar tone to which he grunted at. 

"I need your help," Geralt admitted in a low voice, like he was ashamed to say it. 

"And why should I help you? I'm already paying you in more gold than you could imagine," You replied. 

"Because you and I are traveling together for the next month and we're both bound to need some sort of release," Geralt tried to rationalize. 

"Almost a fair argument, but you're going to have to give me an even more legitimate reason," You could have given in much earlier, but you were relishing in the desperation. 

"Because I have never fucking wanted anyone more badly than I want you. No one has ever entranced me as you have, not even people I've loved before." Geralt's words tempted you to open your eyes, and you were met with soft yellow ones. It was the softest gaze you've ever seen the witcher give. 

You sat there for a second. Narrowing your eyes as you looked at the expression on Geralt's face. With the tiredness and alcohol consumption combined, you found the witcher attractive now more than ever. 

"Fair enough, but don't tell me you love me or you'll ruin the mood," You said teasingly, watching as his brows furrowed in anticipation as you stood up. 

You only had to untie your robe to be fully naked and as the soft cloth fell to the floor with a swift motion, you watched Geralt's eyes as he seemed to take all of you in. You made your way over to the sofa, taking your seat on Geralt's lap as he slowly began to lose his tenseness. 

You didn't say a word at first, only examining Geralt's facial features as your fingers combed their way through his silver hair. He seemed to be content with the silence. 

His lips inched closer to yours ever so slightly but before they could touch, you pulled back. You looked down at his tunic-covered chest, deciding to pull the edges over his head until it was on the ground. 

You grabbed his wrists, placing his hands on the parts of your hips where you wanted them to be, slowly stroking his arms all the way up until his neck. 

"We play by my rules, Witcher," You demanded, cradling his face between your hands. 

You weren't sure how he'd act if you took control or if there'd be an issue between your dominances, but as you felt him throb underneath you, you knew he was so desperate for you that he didn't care how it happened. 

After a few seconds of letting anticipations rise, you tilted your head to fit with his. Your lips collided at a fast pace, the both of you hungry for one another. His lips were softer than you had imagined, much plumper and luscious as well. 

Geralt's hands began to roam up and down, your body covering itself in goosebumps as your nipples became erect. Geralt seemed to sense this immediately, his right hand traveling to play with your breasts one at a time. 

You slowly rocked your hips against Geralt's covered crotch, moaning slightly into his mouth each time his member moved underneath you. Your head tilted backward as Geralt pressed your core firmly onto his and you couldn't help but let a louder moan escape, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples as he began to suck. 

Your fingers ran through his silver hair, the heat in your core rising due to the friction of your body against his. Geralt's hands grabbed your ass, spreading your middle even deeper onto his own. You were surely wet enough to have left a damp spot on his pants, and the hum of his moans against your breasts was enough to make you tremble. 

Tilting his head up with your index finger, you kissed him one last time and his lips chased yours as you climbed off his lap. You laid back, propped up by your elbows on the sofa, suggesting how you wanted Geralt to take you. 

Geralt gave you a slightly devious smirk which confused you before he placed his forearm over your abdomen. You writhed a little before realizing it was no use and that you were somewhat trapped, the juices flowing out of you a little faster as tensions continued to build. 

Geralt kept his arm over your stomach, looming over you as he began to kiss you feverishly. You desperately awaited for him to unbutton his slacks, but instead, his fingers began to easily slip up and down your completely drenched pussy. 

Geralt's thumb somehow knew exactly where your weak spot was as he began to trace circles on it. His index finger found your welcoming hole and began to pump in and out of you at great speed. 

Geralt smirked into your kiss as you tried to manage breathing, kissing him, and moaning in pleasure all at once. He knew exactly what effect he was having on you, yet didn't allow your lips to leave him for even a small breath. 

"Luckily for you," Geralt eventually let up, adding a second finger before pumping furiously. "I prefer to give."

You couldn't even reply before his lips were back on yours and his thumb began moving faster over your bundle of nerves. You could feel that familiar bubble boiling in your stomach, your climax sure to make you burst. 

"Geralt!" You whined into his mouth as your body began to try and retaliate against his touch. His strong arm kept you in place until you felt like you were going to erupt. 

"Let it happen, Y/N," And as if it were on queue, the rubber band inside of you finally snapped. 

You took a big breath followed by a long gasp mixed with a moan. Your body began to shake as Geralt's fingers continued to assault your body, you felt as though the forearm keeping you in place was going to bruise your abdomen. 

"Geralt, please," You tried your best to keep up with his fast-paced lips against yours, pushing your hands against his chest as the continuation of your orgasm began to become too much for your body. Tears welled in your eyes as you tried to remember how to breathe. 

"We're playing by your rules, remember? You like to receive and that's exactly what's happening." Geralt's fingers seemed to be entirely unfazed as he continued to hit the sweet spot inside of you. Only when you began to whine a bit did he finally relent. "What do you want, princess?" He asked with a smirk, seeming to be extremely content with your desperation. 

"I want you inside of me," You answered, knowing damn well you were no longer in charge of what was happening. 

You were still riding the high of your climax, but you knew undressing Geralt would give you the time you needed to recuperate. Propping yourself up, you began to help Geralt with his pants. Your nimble fingers quickly got the buttons undone before his large ones could even begin to struggle with the task. 

Although you could see the large imprint behind the cloth, when Geralt's pants began to slide down his legs your eyes went wide. You shouldn't have been surprised that a man like Geralt was specially gifted, but it caused a slight nervousness to race through your mind. 

"Think you can take it all, princess?" Geralt cockily glared down at your shocked state. 

"Fuck around and find out," You replied to which he jumped at, pumping his cock in his hand a few times before guiding it toward your entrance. 

You spread your legs wide enough to accommodate him and moaned in sync with Geralt as he slowly slid into you. Once you felt fuller than imaginable he slid a few inches deeper, pressing the weeping head of his cock against your cervix. 

Nervousness and anticipation began to ensue, you had never had a man quite as large as the witcher, but as he began to work himself in and out of you- you felt nothing but pleasure. 

"Fuck," One of Geralt's favorite words, began to flee his mouth at a constant pace. He started the pace slow enough for you to get used to his size, but he began to move faster as he moaned louder with immense pleasure. 

You gasped as his large hands gripped under your knees and pushed your legs toward the sofa your back was resting on. With the new position, Geralt began to hit places inside of you that you didn't even know existed. 

Sweat droplets began to form on Geralt's body, most noticeably on his forehead and chest. His eyes traveled back and forth from watching himself slide into you to your colored orbs. As your eyes met again, he examined you for a second before crashing his lips down onto yours. 

"Geralt!" You couldn't help his name from escaping past your lips again. 

The intimacy mixed with the body heat mixed with the way his cock began to build yet another climax was almost an overload. 

"I've wanted to fuck you like this since the moment I saw you in that fucking castle," Geralt began to sound more primal and his hips began to snap faster, bottoming out with every single thrust. 

You moaned your reply, any words would have come out incomprehensible anyway. Geralt's thumb found your sweet spot again as he continue to attack you with his cock and his lips like there was no tomorrow. 

"I want you to cum on my cock," Geralt grunted between peppered kisses. 

"No promises," You said shakily, clearly lying. 

This only motivated him to work harder as his thumb began to move in a way that was sure to have you coming undone in less than a minute. 

"Oh, fuck!" You whined, tears forming again, as you felt the rubber band snapping too quickly to begin to even try to hold off your orgasm. 

"That's it, princess. Just like that," The praise flooded your ears, officially pushing you over the edge. 

"Geralt!" You chanted over and over. Your hands found Geralt's rock-hard biceps, holding onto him to relieve some of the tension as your climax hit you like a tonne of bricks. 

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so fucking hard." He exclaimed, every vein in his head a little more prominent. If you weren't aware of the context, you'd assume he was in pain. 

Geralt's once relentless pace began to get sloppy, yet his thumb continued to work its magic. Your body began to shake and you were quickly becoming overstimulated, but you knew he was near completion. 

"Cum inside of me, Geralt," You eased him on and his eyes tightened shut as he thrust a few more times. 

With one particularly harsh and deep thrust, the both of you yelled out in pleasure as you felt his hot load spill inside of you. Geralt stilled, still deep in you, and continued to groan out curse words as his climax washed over him. 

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was as soft as before, and he reached down to give you a small, intense kiss. You could feel his small chuckle against your lips and the smile that spread across his face. 

"Maybe I'll keep you around and forget about the ransom." 

•••

If you'd like to read the noncon version next, here it is!

[meitantei-lavi]

guh. well. I wasn't looking forward to making another commissions post yet here we are.

here's the deal: on Feb 15/16, i had to go to the ER for some serious abdominal pain and other unpleasant issues that i won't go into. while i'm still waiting on the results of their labs (they're assuming it's an infection of. some variety), i'm also waiting on the bill. which i know won't be pretty. i'm estimating at LEAST $2k. that coupled with my other medical expenses from past and future appointments (as well as my cat's medical expenses) puts me in a position where i COULD potentially pay everything off with my savings, but then i would have literally nothing left. which isn't great since i do still have to pay bills and buy groceries and such.

to avoid that, i am once again asking for commissions. i'm putting my rules/price structure under the cut. PLEASE consider commissioning a small trans artist like moi and PLEASE reblog this post to spread the word (but don't tag as s*gnal b**st, thank you!)

pricing and rules:

prices depend on time and medium, but expect the base price for most pieces to be around $170. as always, i am willing to negotiate pricing so long as it’s reasonable HOW I CALCULATE FEES: $170 (rounded up from 168 cos i like numbers that end in 0’s and 5’s)  = $28/hr * 4 (the average amount of time I spend on a fully colored/rendered commission) + the “Starving Artist Fee” (50% of the hourly sum, this pays for gas, groceries, and cat food)

i will only start a piece after i have confirmed payment through p*ypal or v*nmo. please tell me the best email to use for invoicing and i will send you an invoice (through p*ypal) with the price we discuss. dm me for my v*nmo username 

i am also taking commissions for D&D miniatures. my goal is to buy a light box for photography so i can better advertise them. the base price for a standard 28mm mini is $50. if you’re interested, please message me for details

additional info:

stuff I’ll draw: Oc’s (references/descriptions please!) D&D characters (same as above!) Mild blood/gore LGBTQ+ stuff Furry stuff

stuff I won’t draw: R-18 Hate speech (if ur a terf or a nazi or whatever, get the fuck off my page, numbnuts, lol!) Excessive gore/violence Mechs (i have no patience for it) P*dophilia. Fuck off with that i will report u

COMMISSION SLOTS:

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

OPEN

~*~*~*~*~

If my commission prices are a bit out of ur price range BUT you’d still like to support my art, check out this post detailing my ko-fi prices!

[cursedalthoughts]

SHIPGIRL APPRECIATION DAY - Duke of York

HMS Duke of York

The vampire duchess herself, the Duke. The most enigmatic and elusive of the King George V-class, and maybe of the entire Royal Navy.

Rumors are abound of her true nature. Her vampirism, which many may consider a curse, is an open secret that follows her sparce appearances in public. However, the Duke considers vampirism the highest gift she could ever attain: Immortality and lust (mostly) satiated with blood.

Her old and wise words make her double entendres hard to hear, for thy mortalkind relish for but a second in her umbra of vast esoteric knowledge. Her Estate, only rumored to exist, is a safe haven for any shipgirl willing to become her companion - no matter their walk of life.

She prices loyalty to herself and her image above anything else, to be her little plaything to kill her boredom; an action she pays handsomely with the most expensive and exquisite meals, the most refined ancient bathhouses, lessons in archery, horse riding and more, access to ancient tomes of knowledge from all around the world - but most preciously, her company. The Duke might have a rough reputation, in part thanks to her harsh relation with her sisters (except Howe), but one thing is true: If the Duke deems you worthy, you will feel worthy.

Overall, Duke of York is one of my favorite shipgirls in the game. Her relationship with her sisters is rocky, yes - King George V can hardly stand her, a mere mention of her name making her roll her eyes. Prince of Wales respects her legends of being able to lay any person, both in battle and in bed, yet is far too influenced by George's opinion. Howe adores York, as the Duke gifts her with many gadgets as well as dessert recipes from all across the world, and loves pampering her little sister. Monarch, while not officially a sister of the KGV-class, struggles keeping her adoration of York a secret; however, outwardly, she will follow the same steps George does.

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First Shipgirl Appreciation Day post. don't expect this level of quality for all of them btw. Will use the tag #shipgirl appreciation day for these posts.