#I can’t even draw anymore without feeling awful

[whatevahwhatevah]

I don’t know how I want to draw him anymore

[gloomwitchwrites]

could you do one about all the members of 141 if the reader is super sensitive during sex, squeaks and squirms, cries but she likes it she’s just very responsive

Sensitivity during sex is subjective as everyone is different in that regard. So, here is my little offering to you, anon.

Content & Warnings: unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), dirty talk, missionary, established relationship, teasing, overstimulation, cowgirl, mirror sex, vaginal fingering

John “Soap” MacTavish: Soap is a bit of a tease. (wc: 374) Kyle “Gaz” Garrick: Kyle talks you through it. (wc: 457) John Price: Wants you to watch. (wc: 404) Simon “Ghost” Riley: Simon pins you down. (wc: 391)

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

Johnny is a tease.

“How’s that feel, love?” he croons with a mischievous smile.

You whimper. Gasp. His hands upon your skin are simply too much.

Without an answer, Johnny goes down on one elbow, changing the position. He’s not even thrusting anymore, simply holding himself inside you, keeping your legs spread wide over his large, muscled thighs.

“Can’t use your words?” he mocks lightly as the tips of his fingers tenderly graze over a hardened nipple.

At the same time, he sinks a bit further, thighs spreading slightly, pushing your legs even wider. You’re unable to do much but writhe and wiggle beneath him. He always does this. Always teases. He loves how sensitive you are, and how your body comes alive beneath him. All the little sounds you make, all the sharp shakes and shivers, only motivate Johnny to draw forth more.

“What will happen if I touch you here, hm?” he asks, his hand dipping between your bodies. When Johnny says “here,” he runs his finger around the place your bodies meet.

Your cry is loud, and it only becomes louder when he trails upward to circle your clit. His name is there, on the very tip of your tongue, but each touch is a zap, stealing your voice.

But this touching and teasing isn’t cruel. You love every second. It only makes the end that much more electric.

“And here, love? What would happen?” he murmurs.

While still moving over your clit, Johnny leans forward, his tongue circling and then sucking your nipple into his mouth. Your body immediately contracts, every muscle tensing then relaxing. A little shiver rattles up through your spine and out to the edges of your limbs. It causes you to squirm, the sensitivity nearly overwhelming.

But there is nowhere for you to go. You are not only pinned to the bed by Johnny’s upper body but by his cock.

Johnny releases your nipple, his mouth forming a smug smile. “Suppose you need some relief, yeah?”

You curl into him, fingers digging into his skin. Johnny brushes your hair out of your face, and that too makes you tremble.

“Lie back,” he soothes, and you melt, molding to the bed as he flattens himself above you.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle talks you through it.

“That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

“That’s my girl. Look at you.”

Kyle delicately guides your legs toward your chest. You’re bent at the knees, trembling, breathing coming fast and heavy. Every touch of his is like a brand against the skin. It is an overwhelming tsunami.

“Kyle,” you beg. “Please.” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Maybe for it all to end even though you crave the sensation.

“Gotta control that wiggling love.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimper, thighs trembling as he puts you into position.

Kyle parts your pussy with his fingers and you cry out. He tuts and then inserts two fingers. Your hips instantly buck and your back arches, wanting to escape from him.

“No no. None of that, love.” Kyle lightly presses down on your stomach, holding you still as he curls his fingers up and drags them, repeating the motion.

Again, you cry out, and then tears sting your cheeks as you claw at the bedding.

“Control your squirming and I’ll give you what you want.”

“You’re awful,” you whimper, every muscle in your body twitching, wanting to move.

“Do what I say, love. Know you can.” You inhale and Kyle chuckles softly. “That’s it. Good. Exhale. Again.”

He has you repeat the process until the muscles in your limbs calm.

Kyle’s hands retreat, and then he reclines beside you, rotating onto his back. His hand palms the base of his cock, stroking gently.

“Get on top, love. Hands on my chest. You control the pace.”

With a gentle tremble, you swing one leg over Kyle’s thighs, straddling him. You do as he instructs, placing your hands on his chest and angling your hips. He guides himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pushing in, stretching you wide, the sensation shooting up your spin and as well as to the tips of your toes.

“I know you can take it. Fuck, love. That’s it. Good.”

You slowly slide down on him, groaning loudly, nails digging into his chest as you impale yourself on him.

“Oh—fuck.” Kyle’s hands are on your thighs, running up and down them in a caress.

It takes every bit of your concentration to focus on the rhythm of your hips. You’re overly sensitive, and this position reaches deep, hitting that sweet spot every time you come down on him.

“Kyle,” you beg, but it’s without meaning. You just need to talk, to say something, to verbalize your need in whatever way you’re able.

His answer is a groan. “That’s it. Fuck, love. You feel amazing.”

Slowly, your eyelids open, and you’re greeted with a beautiful sight.

“Don’t fucking stop,” he says, one hand sliding between your breasts.

John Price

“Look at yourself, love.”

You are unable to move. Unable to squirm.

John has you spread wide over his thighs like a sacrificial offering. His knees are bent toward the ceiling and just parted enough that you cannot move your legs while draped in his lap. He’s got you impaled on his cock, and he is downright fucking smug about it.

While the motion of your legs is useless, you also don’t have your arms. John has them propped above your head because he doesn’t want you touching him or himself. His own muscles forearms snake up and over your upper arms. It allows you no control, but allows John everything. He can touch your breasts like this. He can touch your clit, your neck, and whatever else he wants.

John rocks and rolls his hips, dick appearing and then disappearing back into your pussy. All you can do is flex your hips a bit but it isn’t enough. You are completely trapped. At his mercy. And the sensitivity is overwhelming.

Without any control, you have to submit to John, and while you love it, it only rockets every ripple of pleasure that much higher.

“See what I have to do,” he murmurs into your ear. “You can’t stop moving.”

Tears bloom in the corners of your eyes like tiny dewdrops. You are far too sensitive for this. John is pushing you into overstimulation.

John nips at your earlobe and you gasp. “Look,” he prompts.

The closet door is open. Not by much, but enough that the mirror that hands on the inside faces the bed. Within, you see yourself, and John. You see how splayed out you are, how needy and pathetic you look in his arms.

“Look,” he says again. “Want you to watch.”

It takes all your effort to focus. Every time John rock his hips upward, his brush of skin against you is fire. It causes everything in you to react and jump. But you cannot writhe. Cannot move.

And that only makes you more frustratingly coiled with untamed need.

Your head falls back against his shoulder, eyelids heavy as you gaze upon the spot where your bodies meet, and how much your body stretches to accommodate him. You can see how your chest heaves, the tightness building and overwhelming your senses.

“Now you see what I see,” murmurs John as his hand delves downward to give you some relief.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Quit your squirming.”

“Then don’t be cruel,” you moan, nearly jumping out of Simon’s arms when he sharply thrusts upward.

Simon’s teeth nip at your throat and this time your body jerks, almost sending you out of his lap.

“Stay still,” he growls, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs.

“You know how sensitive I am.”

“I do. Fucking love it.”

Simon wraps his arms around your waist. It’s an embrace, and yet there is power behind it, the muscles there tensing with anticipation. You inhale, and your exhalation is stolen from you.

Simon twists, and you go with him, rolling onto your back.

You squeak loudly only to be pinned against the bed. “Simon—”

He crushes his lips to yours, his tongue delving for your taste. The only sound you make is a whimper. “But sometimes,” murmurs Simon against your lips. Your squirming gets in the way.”

Using his body weight, Simon drives in at a harsh angle, hitting that sweet spot deep inside. That vibration of pleasure ripples outward, and your body reacts as it always does. But you cannot writhe and wiggle. Simon is too heavy, and he knows this, which is why he’s pinned you.

“Oh—fuck. Simon. Plea—. Please.”

“Please what?” laughs Simon softly before moving inside of you again.

The only reply you can make is a strained moan.

Simon grins, completely smug. “Tuck in, love. I’ll give you something to squirm about.”

Simon wraps your wrists up in one hand, pinning them above your head. He starts to thrust in earnest, his free hand holding the side of your throat. He watches on as tears come to your eyes. Your body wants to move, to buck and arch against him, but you are completely trapped.

Simon leans in, kisses the spots on your cheeks stained with tears. The only thing you can move are the bottoms of your legs. You wrap your ankles over his bulging calves and cling.

Every stroke and brush of his skin against yours is a roaring fire, rocketing you toward overstimulation. Words fall from your lips but they are elusive, just white noise in your ears. You know that you’re crying, that you’re speaking to him, that you’re attempting to move.

But Simon is relentless, claiming every inch of your body like he always does.

taglist:

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@coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

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@kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi

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@gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie

@tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair @nomercyforthewarrior @glassgulls

[elliesflower]

MEAN 👏 ELLIE 👏 WITH 👏 A 👏 LEASH

imagine her bouncing reader on her strap while holding onto her leash so her head is forced in a position where she can only look in ellie’s eyes… bonus points if there’s a bit of choking omfg i’ll cream rn if i don’t stop

cw; mean!ellie, dubcon

no bc she’d be so mean. so so so so mean. there’s no borderline anymore, it’s pure sadism the way she’d having you bouncing in her lap like a little bunny in heat, “yeah?” falling from her bitten-pink lips as she watched you chase your pleasure.

your moans and whines filled the small room, your head thrown back to perfectly show off the black leather collar that adorned your neck—a small, almost unnoticeable “e” carved into the delicate leather.

“fucking look,” she’s growling, yanking on the thin leash that attached to the color with a short metal chain. and you couldn’t do anything except look, to where she pulled you down against her lap, hard, the mushroom-tip pressing something painful at your cervix. “no, no, no, fuck ellie! huuurts,” you’d drawl, trying desperately to bury your face into her shoulder. but she’d have you pinned exactly where she wants you, metal tinging delicately beneath your chin as she pinched the connection between your leash and collar to keep your head in one spot.

“aw, my poor, poor baby,” her voice was getting deeper, had that desperate edge that made you see stars, the pressure of her cock so deeply seated in your velvety walls drawing another moan from your throat, and she was laughing at you, oh my god, “so desperate to fuck me and now you can’t even take it? hm?”

“can take it, n’take it ellie please,” you felt delirious, watery eyes trained on the spot where she disappeared inside of you, so full, so full, not enough, “please, ellie please move,” you sobbed, even thought you know it wouldn’t get you anywhere. you had to try, you had to,

“that’s cute,” she’d mumble, a perverted smile blooming on her face at the sight of you crying over her, over how good you feel, over how good she makes you feel. “you want me to move…like this?” and she’d punctuate it with a snap of her hips, causing you to cry out weakly, the pressure of the collar against your neck starting to make your airway tighten.

there’d be no response, only your incoherent babbling and whimpering as she began to thrust into your sloppy cunt, excruciatingly slowly, eyes closing, breath hitching, “uh-uh, eyes right here baby, right here,” with another tug at your leash to keep your head where she wanted it. her jade eyes pierced into yours and you felt like you could explode,

it was blinding, the pleasure, consuming you all at once and spitting you back out into her lap—your vision blurred as your pussy clenched helplessly around her cock, you couldn’t help it, no no no no no, oh no,

“m’cumming,” you mewled helplessly as you creamed around the silicone, but she didn’t stop, only fucking up into you harder, and harder and harder and jesus fucking fuck it hurt,

“fucking slut,” she’d grit as she watched you come apart, without permission, “so fucking needy you can’t even listen to me now? hmm?

yeah, you were in for it now.

[babygorewhore]

Requested by my angel, @redhead1180 I hope you enjoy this!!! Dividers by @cafekitsune

Can’t stop thinking about…Stalker! JJ…and his dirty habit when you’re sleeping…

Warnings! Don’t read if you’re not comfortable with these themes. Dark! JJ! Stalking! Drugging reader! JJ jerks off while you’re sleeping and cums on you. But he doesn’t actually touch you sexually. Non con masturbation.

JJ couldn’t resist it anymore. You were such a sweet girl. New in town. New to the entire life of the outer banks. You had the brightest and sweetest smile. So…unaware and clueless to what he did when you were sleeping.

It started off with just following you around. To make sure you were safe of course. That’s all. But then it got more intense. He had to also track your location on your phone. At all times. Soon, it escalated to JJ watching your house at night. Just standing there looking at you through the window. You couldn’t know this. A precious girl like you needed to be protected. Even from him.

Yet, JJ finally caved in one day. He hung out at your house and he slipped something in your drink to relax you. Just something to put you to sleep for a while. You looked so beautiful while you slept. A gentle angel as he set you in bed.

Your chest rose and fell as you slumbered. Hopefully dreaming of something nice. JJ’s dick felt like it would explode out of his pants. Weeks of following you, tracking everything you did, he had never touched you. That was his limit. He’d never actually touch you without your knowledge or desire.

But he fell into this nasty little routine.

Some nights when he hung out with you after work, he’d slip the same relaxing content into your drink, carry you in bed and once you were all nice and tucked in…

JJ would take his cock out, pump himself up and down while he looked at you. His hand wrapped around his dick, leaking with precum as he imagined it pulsing in your pussy. God, he wanted to fuck you. He wanted to feel how tight your cunt would be squeezing him but his fist would have to suffice for now.

His fingers dripped from his seed as he tugged himself, thrusting his hips hard as his eyes squeezed shut from pleasure approaching him. He stepped closer, hovering over your sleeping form as you laid on your back. JJ bit his lip hard enough to draw blood as cum spilled all over his hand and onto you. His cum splattered all over your chest and arm.

It was sick. He knew that. But his obsession was only growing when he took out his phone and took a picture.

Would it truly hurt to just sleep next to you? You were so kind to him. Surely you wouldn’t mind. JJ tucked himself back into his pants and crawled next to you. He just pressed his arm next to yours on his side. His blue eyes took in your pretty face.

Eventually, he dozed off. JJ woke to your soft voice and stirred. You stretched with a smile and looked down at him. “JJ? You stayed over? I don’t remember falling asleep.”

He shrugged and grinned innocently. “Yeah, I hope that’s okay?”

“Of course it is. Let me make you some coffee and breakfast okay? It’s the least I can do for you, being so sweet and carrying me to bed.” You giggled and he flashed his eyebrows at you.

“Aw, you’re such a doll. Any more offers like that, and I’ll have to marry you.”

You scrunch your nose and look down. You tilt your head curiously. “That’s weird. I’m all sticky. Maybe I was having a weird dream?”

JJ shrugged innocently. “Maybe! But I was asleep too.”

You sigh and get up from your mattress. “Come on, JJ. I’ll get dressed and be right down.”

JJ obeyed with all his strength. He wanted to confess. Badly. But it wasn’t time yet.

@xxbimbobunnyxx @rafesthroatbaby @marchsfreakshow

[hom3landr]

"just lie to me, okay? just this once."

Necessary Lies

CW - Major Character Death, descriptions of gore and sickness, ANGST ANGST ANGST

Homelander’s intentions had been pure when he arranged to dose you with Compound V. He’s reminded by a friend that’s how the road to hell is paved

You aren’t getting better.

Homelander’s stomach turns.

You aren’t getting better.

He’d done everything right. The whole process was done under the supervision of all of Vought’s best doctors and scientists. Even as you screamed and begged, he’d been confident that any complications could be swiftly dealt with. Sure, you’d been an adult when the V had been introduced into your system but you are strong. You have to be. You have to.

He watches you in your room. It doesn’t seem right for you to be surrounded by so much blank white. You are color and light but even you can’t withstand the way the awful room dims your soul. Maybe if you could see the sun you’d get better. But the doctors insist you are too fragile to handle any environment except the sterile one you are contained in.

He bites his lip anxiously as you continue to hack up blood, the bright crimson automatically drawing the eye. His instincts tell him to scan you, to watch as the V twists your DNA and transforms you into something greater.

I told you not to get your hopes up. You tend to have a less than stellar track record when it comes to mud people.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore the little voice in his ear. He’s wrong this time. It’s a hiccup that’s all. You’re strong. You are.

The voice is blocked out but not by his own efforts. A horrible cry leaves your lips as your bones crack and shift under your skin. More red spews on the floor. He winces at the wet splat as a chunk of something hits the floor.

That was juicy. Wanna bet that was a lung?

Homelander tastes iron as he splits his own lip. It feels like it’s your blood he’s tasting. It’s your blood he’s spilt.

That one was a little mean, I admit. But buck up Bucko, this is what you signed up for. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.

He’s done this before. Why the fuck were you the one with complications?

“There’s a good reason Vought doesn’t do it.”

That’s what he told Madelyn that fateful night.

He’d killed her too

He steps to the side as a squad of sour smelling scientists rush in to stabilize you. But what can they do? What can they do now that the only outcome is for the poison to run its course? He vividly fantasizes about popping each one’s head like a ripe melon as punishment for not fixing this. It doesn’t make him feel better.

Please

He begs the voice in his head.

Just lie to me, okay? Just this once.

The once dependable steady rhythm of your heartbeat is dangerously erratic.

You smell like death.

Please!

He worries the cut on his lip with his tongue. It feels strange to have a wound. The scientists flutter around you nervously. They know you’re a lost cause but Homelander’s icy gaze compels them to at least pretend to be helpful. Their terror burns his nose. He decides to make their demise slow.

No can do Buddy, you know that’s not what I’m here for. I’m the only one who’ll never lie to you.

Your heartbeat grows fainter. Your breaths rattle.

One of the scientists pisses himself.

Please…

You turn your head and despite your eyes meeting his, he knows you can’t see him. You wouldn’t be able to even without the wall in the way. He doesn’t think you can see much of anything anymore.

I told you so. Better go in and say your goodbyes.

I hate you

Aw buddy, I’m the only thing you have left.

Your heart stops and a noise all too terribly familiar leaves your throat. The last noise you’ll ever make. A wail just as wretched leaves his lips.

He didn’t even say goodbye. He let you die in that awful room alone. He wasn’t even holding your hand. You were alone like he was alone all those many years ago. Being poked at like he was.

He vomits bile onto the floor.

You’re gonna need me more than ever now. Better get used to it.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Howlin' for You

[A/N: Highly recommend listening to “Not Afraid Anymore” from Fifty Shades Darker while reading what’s under the cut 😘 Enjoy, my fellow Hotch sluts 😈🖤]

“Oracle of Quantico,” Penelope’s voices rings out clearly through the car, “speak and be heard.”

“Hey, baby girl,” Derek croons from his spot next to you in the driver’s seat, and you chime in, “Hi, Pen! Can you do some digging for me?”

“Can I- Y/N Y/L/N,” she admonishes playfully, and you share a knowing smile with Derek. “How long have you been with this team now? You know I’m a digital shovel. Give me a name, date, or a hint of nefarious activity, and I shall reveal all, my love.”

“It’s, uh, the local sheriff,” you confess through a grimace. “Wilson. Who invited us in. I think he’s involved with the sole witness we can’t seem to find. So don’t send anything to their office, just call us or Hotch, okay?”

“Oh, you smart little cookie, you’ve got it. PG out.”

Derek shakes his head before flicking on the turn signal and pulling over at the newest crime scene. “You’re sure about the picture you saw, Y/L/N?”

“No doubt,” you assure him. “I just need Garcia to find me proof that he can’t deny.”

“If it’s there to be found, she’ll find it,” he answers, turning the Suburban off and pausing with his fingers tucked into the car door handle. “But these small town cops are just gonna hate us even more once we prove your theory right.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan, “however will we go on without their respect and admiration?” You hop out of the SUV, not missing the way Derek rolls his eyes before following you across the lawn to grab a pair of gloves from the forensics team and head inside the latest victim’s house.

Several minutes later, you’re examining the contents of the shelves in the living room when your phone rings, and Penelope animatedly confirms what you suspected earlier today. You enter the bedroom where Hotch is analyzing the scene with a critical eye and gently grasp his elbow to guide him away from the primary crime scene- and earshot of Sheriff Wilson.

“What is it?” he murmurs softly, resisting the urge to pluck your bottom lip out from where your teeth are nervously gnawing on it, keenly aware of the local law enforcement’s prying eyes. When you don’t respond immediately, he prompts, “Y/N?”

“Pen and I found something,” you answer. “And you’re not gonna like it.”

You share the information with Aaron in hushed tones, and his brow grows more furrowed the longer you talk. When you finish with a deep breath, he turns on his heel to chew out the officer, but looks back at you before walking away. Taking a quick peek around to make sure you’re alone, he pecks your lips and commends your intuition with a soft smile.

If you had a tail, it would be wagging right about now.

“I don’t have to listen to this!” Sheriff Wilson explodes out of the bedroom, Hotch hot on his heels as they head toward the front yard. You follow after, fingers twitching at your side and ready to draw your gun when you see other officers taking an interest in their heated conversation, fiery eyes set on your boss- but more importantly in this moment, the man you love.

“Everybody just take it easy,” you counsel, grateful when you feel Derek’s solid form now pressing against your arm. Hotch meets the sheriff’s ire with an eerie calm, speaking too low for you to hear. An eerie calm, that is, until Wilson says something clearly so egregious that Aaron barks, “Get off my crime scene, Sheriff, before I have you charged with obstruction of justice.”

The entire neighborhood seems to fall silent; the birds cease chirping, the wind stops rustling through the trees, the local officers slink away from the altercation, and the sheriff opens his mouth to respond, but no words form on his stunned lips. He stalks off to his police cruiser in a huff, and Aaron turns back to instruct Derek to follow him and find out where the witness is.

You, on the other hand, are frozen in place, in awe of the raw power and authority emanating from your imposing man. Your erratic heartbeat thrums between your legs, and if you had even a shred less of self-respect, you would fall to your knees right now to worship Aaron like he deserves.

Instead, you swallow down the saliva pooling in your mouth at the phantom taste of him on your tongue and follow him back into the house to continue cataloguing the crime scene.

Your hunger will have to wait. 

—————

“Fuck, I’m so glad to be leaving this town tomorrow,” Aaron confesses as the hotel room door clicks shut behind you. He turns to find you blindly following him further into the room, a vacant expression on your face, though your eyes track his every move. “Honey, what is it?” His brows draw together in concern while he tugs at his tie. You watch his fingers work their way into the knot to undo it, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips while the embers that’ve been burning in your lower belly for days flare to life. “Honey?” Aaron tries again, genuinely growing worried now. “Do you feel sick? Or did one of those assholes say something to you to get back at me? Just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll-”

“No, Aaron,” you finally blurt out. “I’m just- I need you,” you confess softly, wringing your hands.

He cocks an eyebrow, and you know immediately that he understands your meaning but is choosing to toy with you now. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“No, Aaron,” you repeat, more forcefully this time. “I need you.” Finally, after days of suppressing your desire, you snap and push him to sit on the edge of the bed so you can straddle his lap, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips when your skirt rides up enough to let you feel the heat of him through your already wet panties. You start grinding on him in earnest, rocking your hips against the zipper of his slacks in search of some kind of reprieve from the persistent ache between your legs. It’s not enough, and you tell him as much amid a whine.

“Oh god,” you keen breathily, “oh fuck, I need more.” His tie already loosened, you tug the loop of fabric over his head and toss it behind you, then pop open the top few buttons of his shirt and mouth hungrily at his chest, moaning at the salt on his skin from chasing down the unsub earlier. You suck a few possessive marks into his skin, whimpering at the feeling of him growing hard beneath you from your repetitive motions, and slide your hands into his hair for a better grip.

Then you feel Aaron’s strong hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you back and forcing you to detach your swollen lips from his chest, now marred with teeth marks from your desperation. He tucks his index finger under your chin and lifts your head up to find tears welling in your eyes and your bottom lip trembling. “Why are you pouting, sweet girl?” The condescension in his tone and the weight of the power he holds over you sends another wave of arousal pooling between your already slick thighs. “Are you feeling empty?”

You blink slowly, and traitorous tears roll down your cheeks when you drop your head into a nod with a pathetic sniffle. He takes pity on you and slides his thumb into your mouth, allowing you to suck on it and gratefully swirl your tongue around the thick digit as you start grinding on him again. Then he runs his thumb down your chin leaving a cooling trail of your own spit on your heated skin before dipping his hand under your skirt to press his thumb against the embarrassingly wet spot on your panties. Your head falls back and your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out as your brain short circuits. You’re practically vibrating at this point, so utterly desperate for him, and he laughs darkly at your need which only serves to turn you on even more. “How long have you been thinking about this, hm?”

“Since-” You swallow down the saliva flooding your mouth before mustering up the resolve to continue. “Since you yelled at the sheriff,” you confess softly, and he chuckles again.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Aaron tuts. “That was days ago.”

You let out a startled squeak when he roughly grabs your hips and deposits you on the bed without warning. His large hands tuck into the dip of your shirt and then he’s ripping it open, buttons flying in all directions. He flips you over with no semblance of tenderness and you let out a gasp, one of his hands unclasping your bra while the other tugs down the zipper at the back of your pencil skirt.

Suddenly you’re on your back again, and within the span of a few seconds you’re laid bare before a fully clothed Aaron, sans tie and the few buttons of his shirt you managed to fumble open earlier. You stare up at his towering figure in awe, your breath coming in short pants that match the heaving of his chest, the only sign that he’s as turned on as you are.

Then he’s undoing his belt buckle, and your walls flutter at the thought of what’s coming next. “Yes, oh yes, please, please, please,” you beg breathily, squeezing your eyes shut and fisting the sheets at the telltale sound of Aaron’s zipper opening.

He slides his cock through your folds to gather your wetness then presses just the tip in, and you release a downright pornographic moan at the sensation. Aaron ever so gently rests his hand on your throat and squeezes once to get your attention, waiting for your bleary eyes to focus on his face before shushing you softly. “Everyone’s rooms are nearby and they need to rest, so you have to be quiet, okay, angel? Can you do that for me?”

Somewhere in the back of your fuzzy brain, you realize he didn’t say anything about caring if your team can hear how much pleasure he wrings out of you. He just wants to ensure your friends can get their much needed sleep after a trying case.

But then you hone in on the throbbing between your legs again, and you remember he’s waiting for an answer. You’re so desperate for him to be inside you that you’d say yes to anything he asked right now, so you nod vigorously, biting down on your lip and squeezing your eyes shut once more. He smiles proudly and says, “That’s my good girl.” Aaron presses his other hand to your lower belly and finally, finally slides into you agonizingly slowly while reverently professing, “You look so good when you’re full of me.”

You’re helpless to do anything but nod again because he’s right, of course he’s right. This is when you feel the most beautiful, feel entirely whole and complete, when you’re being worshipped by and getting to worship Aaron Hotchner.

You let out a whimper that your partner intuits as a plea for him to move, and he begins slowly thrusting in and out of your wet heat, the hand on your stomach keeping you keenly aware of just how big he is with each drive of his hips. Aaron squeezes your throat gently, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know that means he wants your eyes on him. You lift your heavy-lidded gaze to his, weighed down by lust and love, to find him watching your every micro-expression and easily reading your reactions. He can feel what angle, what speed, what pressure makes your body sing, and he hits all the right spots as he gradually picks up his pace.  The bite of his metal belt buckle against the back of your thigh with each roll of his hips reminds you that he’s still fully dressed while you’re stark naked and completely at his mercy, and the power dynamic has you clenching around him, doing everything you can to be as close to him as possible.

By this point, you’re a hiccuping, crying, desperate mess, and when Aaron releases his hold on your throat to grip your hip instead, you choke out a plea of, “Harder.”

“More, baby?” he asks between pants, and you whimper, “Please, daddy, please.”

Aaron lifts your ankle onto his shoulder to get an even deeper angle, pressing his hand down more forcefully against your stomach so he can feel himself moving inside of you with every thrust. He picks up speed until you can’t even cry his name anymore, just little gasps knocking out of you each time his hips meet yours.

Seeking better leverage, he pauses his worship of your body to slide you higher up on the bed so he can brace himself against the wall with his right arm. The change in angle and power of his thrusts has you seeing stars, your hands fisting in his hair in an attempt to anchor yourself to the real world. “My good girl,” he punctuates each word with a hard thrust, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and a few errant strands of hair falling into his face.

You can’t say anything back, rendered dumbstruck by his expert ministrations, so Aaron carries on with his adoration. “In the field and in my bed, hm? My good little girl. All mine.”

His words are getting breathier by the minute, morphing into whimpers of pleasure that mimic your own, and you start crying harder knowing he’s about to really fill you up. He leans down to lick your tears off your cheeks and you shudder underneath him, raking your nails down his back and clinging to him for dear life.

When you feel his thick cock twitch inside of you, you start babbling, “Yes, yes, yes, give it to me, daddy. Please, oh god, please fucking breed me.” Your desperate command turns out to be Aaron’s undoing, and the feeling of him painting your walls with a surprised gasp has you clamping down around him, every nerve in your body firing at once as an indescribable orgasm rips through you. Despite the muscles in his legs spasming, Aaron continues fucking you through it, evidently trying to make good on your request.

Spent and satiated, Aaron eases out of you, giving you a quick cleanup and shedding himself of his clothes before climbing into bed to help you back down to earth. He pulls you into his lap and dries your tears, dotting gentle kisses along your cheeks, neck, and shoulders. You wrap your limbs around his body, clinging to him, and Aaron rubs your back until you calm down and your hiccups subside to deep breaths instead.

Ever so quietly, he asks, “Better, my baby?” You nod your head where it’s resting in the crook of his neck and murmur, “Thank you, Aaron. I needed that. Needed you so badly.”

“Anything you need, princess, you know that.” There's a thoughtful pause and then, “We’ll talk about that… new thing later. After a good night’s rest.” You’re grateful he turned off the light before getting into bed because a blush warms your cheeks at the memory. Even though he can’t see your face, he knows you’re getting shy and emits a soft laugh. “If you couldn’t tell, I loved it,” Aaron reassures you, then presses his lips to your temple.

He settles back into the bed with you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair to further calm your breathing. “Now get some sleep,” he orders gently. “If you really want me to make you a mama, you need to rest before we practice again tomorrow morning.”

—————

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner

[ghcstao3]

(inspired by this tiktok)

-

There is a lake nearby to where Johnny lives.

It’s about a fifteen minute walk, hidden beyond the thick copse of trees that surround one side of Johnny’s home, and it’s something he’d discovered only a week after having moved in several years ago.

This lake is important to him only in that it’s his place. It’s small, secluded, ideal for when he needs that fresh breath of air away from the bustle of life. It’s where he goes to draw, to read, to just exist. It’s his place, and he thinks if anyone else were to discover it, or at the very least be present when he’s also there, the magic of it all would be ruined.

So when he goes out one winter morning, chilly but not so cold that a few layers won’t do the trick of keeping him warm, and sees the figure of someone moving along the shore of the frozen-over lake just as Johnny breaks the sightline of the area—he can’t help the way his heart falls.

But he doesn’t turn to leave, no. Not yet. Because as Johnny gets closer, he finds the figure isn’t moving along the shore, but is instead skating on the ice.

Even with the dusting of snow that blankets the ice, they move with fluidity and a natural grace, and just watching has Johnny’s discouragement temporarily replaced with awe. They pirouette and jump and glide, and for a moment Johnny considers pulling out his sketchbook with cold fingers to capture the scene.

Before he can, though, Johnny is reminded of his irritation and the disturbance that is the skater.

Anyone, anything else and Johnny thinks he would’ve turned and left, maybe trekked elsewhere through the forest to find himself a new spot. Instead, he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Is that even safe?”

The intruder startles and stumbles mid-stunt, tripping and falling back onto their ass as their skate must catch a divot in the ice. Deserved, Johnny thinks.

They sprawl out for a moment before sitting back up and carefully getting to their feet. They shout back, “Was ‘til you got here!”

Johnny is taken aback by the gruffness of the skater’s voice, a stark contrast to the elegance of before. Johnny shakes his head and marches up to the shore just as the skater moves meets him.

He’s just as surprised by the skater’s height once they’re close. From afar, the idea of confrontation had seemed much less frightening.

The skater then pulls off the balaclava they’ve donned and… Johnny is suddenly much more intimidated for all the wrong reasons.

Even in spite of the garment, the man’s face is stained red from the cold, rosy against otherwise pale skin. Near-white eyelashes frame dark eyes, warm as the hot chocolate Johnny plans on making himself when he returns home, and Johnny is very upset that he feels obligated to be annoyed with this man.

Johnny jabs a finger at the man’s chest regardless, lifting his chin to make a show of his displeasure. “How’d you find this place anyway?”

The man snorts, and throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I live on the other side of the lake,” he says. “Why? This private property or somethin’?”

Reluctantly, Johnny shakes his head. “No,” he grumbles. “I just… I’ve never seen anyone else here before.”

The skater hums, cocks his head. “Then I don’t see the issue.”

Johnny decides he’s not intimidated anymore, not when this stranger is so frustrating, because of course he is. Johnny just wishes he knew how to articulate that this is his spot without sounding like a petulant child.

A gloved hand is offered out to Johnny at his lack of response. Johnny stares at it with disdain.

“Simon,” the skater says.

Johnny glares at Simon. The only reason he finds himself giving his own name, he thinks, is because of those stupidly brown eyes.

A small smile appears on Simon’s face when he does. His hand falls away as he moves to slip his balaclava back on.

“I’ll see you around then, yeah, Johnny?” Simon says.

Johnny doesn’t get the chance to curse him out before Simon is skating away, back across the lake to where he supposedly lives. Whatever.

Johnny retires early that day. He’ll try again for his peace tomorrow, once he’s had time to recover from his encounter with Simon.

And if there’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind that secretly hopes Simon will be there when he returns anyway, then Johnny does his very best to ignore it.

Because it’s his place. His. Not something to be shared, even if it’s with the perfect stranger.

[yournowheregirl]

wip wednesday weekend

i got tagged by the lovely @seths-rogens thank you sm friend! 💖

again, very much in a writing / hyperfixation rut BUT!! i decided to post blurbs from previous wips, in the hopes that it'll light the writing spark yet again.

so please enjoy quite a long blurb from an unfinished steddie fic based on that one scene in mamma mia where sam proposes to donna at sophie's wedding.

Eddie realizes then and there that he might never get an opportunity like this again. Well, he might but not another opportunity that has this level of show-stopping drama and Eddie lives for some drama in his life. 

And so, Eddie does what he does best and steps on top of the nearest chair, drawing the attention of the most chaotic wedding party he’s ever seen.

“Hang on!”

All the eyes in the room are on him in a split second and while he usually basks in all the attention, he also feel strangely nervous. But it’s now or never, everyone is already staring at him like he grew a second head, so he might as well continue. 

“Why waste a good wedding, huh?” Eddie grins as his eyes roam around the room before finally landing on Steve again. “How about it, Harrington?” 

The wedding guests once more erupt into hushed whispers of shock but Eddie can’t even hear them anymore. His sole focus is Steve, who looks at him like he’s certifiably insane. And maybe he is, maybe it is insane to propose to your ex from seven years ago during your friends’ canceled wedding, but Eddie’s just gonna take a chance. He’s not gonna run away, not this time.

“What?” 

Okay, not the answer Eddie was hoping for but he gets it. Maybe Steve needs a little more convincing. 

“Aw, c’mon. You gonna need someone to boss around in that newly empty apartment of yours and it might as well be me.” Eddie hops off the chair, his head cocked to the side and doing his best impression of Bambi to sell Steve on the idea. “What do you say?”

“Are you crazy?” Steve splutters, hands on his hips. His brows are furrowed and his lips are pursed in that famous Harrington scowl that Eddie knows and loves. 

“For you? Yes.” 

“You have a girlfriend!” Steve exclaims - which is quickly followed by grandma Wheeler’s 'oh dear'.

This makes Eddie frown because he very much doesn’t have a girlfriend, hasn’t had one in months not since- “Who? Donna? Nah, we broke up ages ago.”

“But- but- we live in totally different states.”

“I can pack up my things and move to Boston, no problem.” Eddie counters. “What else you got, because as you know, I can go on for hours.”

Steve apparently takes that as a challenge because that panicked look on his face melts away and is replaced by a cocky smirk and raised eyebrows. “What if I’m already dating someone?”

“Last thing I heard from Dustin you were dating that god-awful guy named Brad and considering that he isn’t anywhere to be found-” Eddie dramatically gestures around the room. “I figure that you did the right thing and dumped his ass.”

“You wouldn’t want to get married without Wayne here.” Steve counters, crossing his arms in front of his chest and God, Eddie had forgotten how hot Steve looks when he's up for a challenge.

“We’ll just have a second wedding. Periwinkle isn’t really my color either, but I’ll make an exception for you, sweetheart.” Eddie winks.

tagging (with zero pressure!!) some old friends and some new ones: @cheatghost @sidekick-hero @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe @spectrum-spectre @stevebabey @steddieas-shegoes & @steddielations big (consensual) kisses for you all, mwah!! 💖💖

[kuuverse]

WHEN DESIRING HURTS TOO MUCH - SO YOU ARE LEFT WITH NO CHOICE BUT TO FULFIL UNCONDITIONALLY

I can’t remember the exact quote, and to be frankly honest, I’m too lazy to search it up. But it was Neville who said something along the lines of if you’re hungry enough you’ll fulfil yourself and get what you want. Something along the general gist of that.

You see, I think I’ve realised that dwelling in desire is ‘comforting’. Sure it may not be so, but if the alternative is fulfilling one’s self without conditions or reason being imposed on us, is that really more comfortable than staying in a state we’ve grown all too familiar with?

But eventually the states we wander in, those filled with lack and desire, wanting more but never getting so- the ‘What ifs?’ and the alternative of just staying put in where you are— starts to hurt even more. Then it’s like your soul is being crushed down by the weight of never changing, never experiencing what you want that it hurts too much to not change. When you’ve fallen to the bottom of feeling all this hurt and desire that you can’t hurt and desire anymore- you can only fulfil from here on.

I’d like to talk about a story that happened to me quite recently. I lost my expensive iPad pencil on my school bus. I was terrified, I wanted to draw and now I couldn’t- and I have strict parents who used to as of now, punish me for everything I did wrong, however small, however big. I was filled with these terrifying thoughts of how I’d face my parents, how I’d deal with the loss and it all crushed me so badly I just stopped feeling all the hurt and went, very calmly- “I have my iPad pencil with me.”

It was a simple statement, but I said it with such certainty and conviction there wasn’t any panic left in my body- because there was no panic left for me to be felt. I’d simply accepted that I had my iPad pencil, because the alternative state of lack had grown too uncomfortable to stay in. Then, like magic- my body was gently guided to where my iPad pencil was, and I was reunited with it.

In that moment when my minds already cycled through the state of lack and realising how awful it was, my hunger for better led me no choice but to move states into something better. I fell into myself instead of imposing reason because I was so desperate for an alternative. I couldn’t bear to let myself accept what had just happened, I had to change it, and it had become clear that staying put was infinitely more uncomfortable than changing states.

I think eventually for some of us, we’ll all get to this state where staying put hurts more than finally fulfilling ourselves immediately instead of just hoping for change. Of course it doesn’t take something bad to happen for you to give yourself something good. But as I’ve noticed in a lot of this community and myself, we’ve grown too comfortable in hope and desire. Perhaps for some of us, in order to finally change, we needed to be forced to.

Anyways, thanks for being here to read my rambles. Maybe they opened something up for you!

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt - epilogue

well it's love, make it hurt series

epilogue: I will never make another promise (without you)

series masterlist | prev chapter |

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Words: 4.6k

Summary: You and Din travel in your quest to reunite the baby with his people and to seek out the Tribe.

Warnings: bdsm, d/s dynamics, enthusiastic consent, preestablished safeword etc, dom!din djarin x sub!reader, soft din djarin, din djarin is a good dad, vaginal sex, communication, major life decisions, author plays god with the timelines (sorry), canon adjacent?, canon divergence?, no use of y/n, tooth-rotting fluff, they deserve it, you deserve it

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

9 ABY - Winter

“Alor,” Din says, bowing his head.

“Din Djarin,” she says. “You have an aruetti with you.”

You’ve known her for twenty seconds, and you’re in awe. Her voice is strong and unwavering, demanding attention. And, respectfully, she looks badass. You had never seen another Mandalorian, and from what Din had told you, you assumed they all looked similar.

But she looks every inch a queen.

“She wants to swear the Creed,” Din says.

The Armorer gives you her full attention now, having only spared you a glance before. “Does she wish to speak for herself?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s true. I would like to learn to walk the way of the Mand’alor, if you’ll have me.” You try to keep your spine straight and your head up, not to hide away from the appraising stare.

“Hmm,” she turns her helmet back to Din. “Is this the hunter you spoke of before?”

“Yes, alor. She is a very skilled and honorable fighter.”

“Well,” you interrupt, face heating from his praise. “I don’t know about skilled. I’m not formally trained, but I’d be honored to really learn.”

They both look at you now, and you wish you hadn’t spoken. But if you’re going to do this, you know you can’t allow cowardice to rule any part of you anymore.

And you want this. With or without Din. You’re surprised a little, now that you’re here, and it’s a real possibility, by the ferociousness of your desire.

The first choice you had ever really made for yourself was asking him to work with you. The second was leaving him.

This will be the defining moment for the rest of your life, you think.

She nods. “It is settled. You will continue on your quest to Corvus,” she says to Din. “You,” she turns, “will remain here and train. When he returns, you will be ready to begin an apprenticeship to earn your beskar’gam.”

“I can train her,” Din says, shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t imagine you’d be separated. Not when he’d only just gotten you back.

“No. Paz will train her. You will continue on your mission in the morning.”

Din doesn’t like it. You don’t need him to say it; it’s written in the sharp lines of his shoulders and tapping of his thumb against his thigh. You catch his anxious hand and thread your fingers between his, bringing it up to your lips.

“It’ll be okay,” you say. You’re back on the Crest, though they had offered you both lodging. But given that they were living in a small cave system, there wasn’t likely to be any privacy. And you really wanted some privacy.

Din sighs but uses your linked hands to tug you into his lap. You settle with your thighs spread over him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

You press your forehead to his helmet. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

He doesn’t say it, but you know he’s remembering that you promised last time, too. His arms wrap around your waist, bare hands skimming up the back of your shirt.

Even his touch feels sad, so you go in for the kill. “I love you, Din.”

His grasp tightens, the sudden press of his nails drawing a gasp from you. “I love you too, cyare.”

Hearing you say it still makes his heart catch on something sharp and intoxicating. Even after the day you left Batuu, when he finally fucked you in the bunk on the Crest again, right where you belonged, and you had sobbed it over and over while he teased you for hours.

He thinks maybe you need a repeat of that to hold you over while he’s gone. When he says as much, you shudder and rock your hips against him.

“Actually,” he says, sliding his hands to your hips. “You just keep doing that for now.”

It doesn’t take long before you’re practically panting. You’ve shifted so your aching cunt is dragging over the armor on his right thigh, hands clenched in his cowl while you whine.

“What a little slut,” he muses. “Look at you. So desperate you’d fuck anything, huh?”

You shake your head.

“No? If I told you to go get yourself off on the edge of the table, would you do it?”

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Yes, sir.”

“So I’m right, then.”

“No. Wouldn’t f-fuck anything. Just anything you want.”

He moans, hips pushing up and jostling you.

You try to take advantage of it and shift to rub against his crotch, but he tightens his grip and laughs. “Nice try, sweetheart. But I know you’re always desperate for my cock. I want to see you crying to cum just from this.”

He gets his wish soon. You’re already on the edge of begging, and his words just make it worse. “Please,” you whine. “Please just let me have it.”

He withdraws a hand from your shirt and smacks your ass. “I gave you an answer.”

“Ah, fuck, please.”

He can sense the shift in your tone. “Please what, cyar’ika?”

“Please, more.”

Instead of teasing you, he simply shifts you over his lap. He makes sure your cunt can still grind against the edge of his armor before he yanks your pants down over your ass and gives it a hard slap.

“This what you wanted?” He asks, striking you again.

“Yes, please, sir,” you cry, squirming and digging your hands around his calf to hold steady.

He delivers a few more blows and pauses to rub a soothing hand where your skin is already hot. “You beg so prettily. Do it again.”

And there it goes. He grins, feral behind the helmet, as fat tears well up and spill over onto your cheeks.

“Please, please hit me. Please, I’ve been so good. I want to be good.”

He hits hard enough this time that you have to bite your hand to swallow the scream. “You are good,” he murmurs between strikes. “You’re my good girl. I’ve got you.”

He spanks you until the tears run dry. By that time, you’re not squirming or struggling in his grasp. You’ve calmed, floating away in the safety of his cruel, caring hands. Your breathing is deep and easy, though he knows you’re awake by the soft moans.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he says, tugging you up by the hair. “Get down and clean it up.”

When you sink to your knees, he can see the faraway look in your eyes and soft contentment in the slight upturn of your lips. You lean forward and obediently lick his thigh plate clean of your arousal, eyes on him the whole time.

“Fuck, pretty girl. C’mere, I need your cunt.”

He’s not sure you’ve ever been this deep in subspace before. You don’t jump and scramble to obey, but lick your lips clean and slowly climb up into his lap, holding onto his shoulders carefully as he peels your pants off the rest of the way. You watch as he pulls his cock out with glazed eyes and an open, aching mouth.

He considers letting you suck it for a moment, given how you’re looking at him like a sweet to be devoured. But he runs a finger through your dripping folds, and the low keen it draws from you changes his mind.

You scoot forward when he taps your leg, looking right into the visor as you hover over him.

He gives you a nod, and you sink down slowly, shoulders curling back and eyes rolling closed as you take your fill. He brings a hand up to your neck, and you lean your head back, arching to give him better access.

There are no words to be said, now. No teasing or taunting, no begging or crying. He tightens the hand around your throat when he starts to fuck up into you, his other hand holding you steady by the hip.

Your lips part, tingling as he slowly cuts off the blood flow. Soft, wavering gasps leak out, but you couldn’t make a sound if you wanted to. He brings his other hand to your face and slides his thumb into your open mouth.

You close your lips around it, trying to suck even though it feels like you’re struggling for air. He curls the other fingers around your jaw, releasing your throat only to drag that hand down to your clit and start to unravel you.

You whine when he pulls his thumb from your mouth, only for it to stutter when he pinches your nipple between his finger and the wet digit. He tugs on it, his breath catching as you arch and press your chest into his hand, not to run from the pain but to offer more, more, more. To pour yourself out in his basin and let him soak you up as he pleases.

It’s a gift he could never refuse, so he lets up on his soft strokes to your clit and indulges in the soft moans and sweet cries you make when he torments your breasts, and the way you get tighter and wetter around him.

A particularly cruel pinch finally tears a plea from you on a whisper.

“Yes,” he growls, and holds you to him through your climax by the tight clamp of his fingers on your nipples. The pain that blossoms when you jerk against his grip uncontrollably pushes you into a second orgasm from the crest of the first.

“Fuck yes, give it to me. Give me everything,” he huffs, bucking into your spasming cunt. When your cries turn a little sharp, he eases up and rubs his thumbs soothingly over your aching nipples before pulling you against his chest.

You cling onto him, face buried in his cowl as he bounces you, cock buried deep with each staccato thrust.

After he fills you, he keeps you there, seated on his cock, with his cum slowly leaking as he softens. He cups your head where it rests against him and savors the way the silent ship is filled with peace.

You’re blinking sleepily, but he doesn’t have the willpower to move to the bunk, content to stay here on the bench with you dozing in his arms.

Your bodies regret it in the morning, but it’s hard to care when the warmth and safety overpower the aches in your neck and back. You share a rinse in the refresher, chaste until it isn’t. After the kid wakes up, you play with him for a few minutes until the sun is finally breaking the horizon, and you know you have to go.

Din offers to walk you in, to stay until you’re settled, but you shake your head. At the top of the ramp, you stop him with a hand to his chest. You slide both hands up to his shoulders, and he settles his on your waist, bringing your foreheads together.

While he’s distracted with the kiss, you unlatch his cloak from around his shoulders. He pulls back, head tilted.

“What’re you up to?”

You grin, folding your prize in your arms. “Just helping myself to a blanket.”

He laughs and pulls you in close, savoring the feeling and hoping it holds him over until he can return.

“Be safe,” you whisper, trying not to tear up.

“Kick Paz’s ass,” he whispers back.

It works. The laughter chases away your sadness, and you press a kiss to his helmet before turning to walk down the ramp.

When you get to the mouth of the cavern, you turn and wave. Din has the baby in his arms, both of them waving back as the ramp raises.

You thought it would be harder. But you smile while you watch the Crest ascend. Your chest feels tight but warm, and you turn to face your new adventure.

Three Weeks Later

You’re sitting on the floor of the large cavern, the sandy floor cushioning your aching tailbone. Your flightsuit is drenched in sweat beneath the weighted flak vest you’ve been living in.

Technically, Paz said to wear it during training, but you’ve been trying to acclimate to what life will be like with armor. He hasn’t commented, but you think he approves of your choice.

His booming voice echoes in the chamber. “Two minutes and we begin again.”

You nod, still trying to regulate your breathing. You sip carefully from the canteen and wonder, as you do with every spare moment, how Din and the baby are. If they’ve found a Jedi. Or a jetii, you suppose.

“What does cyar’ika mean?” you say suddenly. Paz has been teaching you Mando’a while you train, but it hasn’t occurred to you to ask.

You would have rather asked Din, but you forgot your commlink on the Crest. It’s made the days a little harder than you anticipated.

Paz laughs. Your face and ears burn, and you wish you hadn’t said anything.

“Is that what my vod calls you?” he says.

“Sometimes.” You do not like the tone of his voice.

“I’m not laughing at you, vod’ika. Just at how soft he’s gone.”

You scowl.

“It means sweetheart,” he finally explains.

You burn even hotter.

“What about cyare?” You ask, turning your humiliation into determination. And your brain backpedals. “Vod’ika?”

“Cyare is the base for cyar’ika. What do you think it means?”

“Oh! So… I’m going to guess ‘big sweetheart’ isn’t it. It’s like a more serious nickname?’”

“Exactly. It’s probably closest to ‘beloved.’ And then vod’ika would be…?”

“Little brother? Or, well, little sister?”

“Very good,” he says. His praise warms you, but in a much different way than Din’s.

You think back over the words. “Oh,” you say.

“What?”

You hadn’t meant to be speaking to Paz or out loud at all. “You called me vod’ika.”

Somehow, you find that more surprising than the revelation that Din has been calling you his beloved.

“Yes,” he says.

“I haven’t sworn the Creed yet.”

“No matter. You will. And Djarin is my vod, no matter how irritating he is, so anyone who is to be his riduur is my vod, too.”

“Riduur?”

“Spouse. Wife,” he says.

That slows your brain like molasses. “I don’t know about that,” you say with a forced chuckle.

“Regardless. You’re doing well and will make a strong addition to our tribe. This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” you can’t help but agree.

“Enough resting. Pick up your weapon,” he says gruffly, readying himself to spar with you once more.

You grab the bevii’ragir and use it to pull yourself to your feet.

It’s late afternoon when your lesson is interrupted.

“I call next challenger.”

You turn immediately to the voice like a flower to the sun, grinning and dodging Paz’s spear.

Din meets you halfway and pulls you to him. You slide your arms under his to wrap up around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his beskar’ta before burying your face in his cowl.

“You take good care of my girl, vod?”

“Your girl can take care of herself,” Paz rumbles, suddenly close. He puts a hand on Din’s shoulder near where you’re clinging to him and shakes a little before pulling back.

“Yeah, she can,” Din says, voice thick with adoration. You lift your head to meet his and realize the next time you do this, the next time you share a mirshmure’cya, you’ll be in a helmet.

As if he can tell what you’re thinking, he asks if you’re ready. He’s addressing you, but Paz answers.

“She’s been ready. You’re late.”

Din watches the hopeful smile blossom across your face. Not the one that makes him want to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to stop being surprised by being loved, but one that tells him you might just be starting to understand.

“Did you go easy on him, ner kar’ta?” he teases, thrilled to be rewarded by your laugh.

He leaves your side only to go collect Grogu from the Armorer, who was fitting him with beskar chainmail forged from the spear he brought home.

They find you on the shore after. The kid toddles over excitedly, eager to show off his new, shiny shirt. You coo over it and praise him, but the smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

He sits down next to you, watching as Grogu torments the tiny, shimmering purple fish in the shallows. “You know,” he starts.

“I’m not changing my mind,” you interrupt. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I want this. It’s… it’s a good fear, I think.”

“Spoken like a true Mandalorian,” he says. “Courage can’t exist without fear.”

“You sound like him when you say that,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes, helmet to the sky for a moment. “We did grow up together.”

“I know. He said you were a parasite that never left him alone.”

“I should have come home faster. Leaving you with him was a mistake,” he grumbles. He fills you in about the village, then. About Elsbeth and Ahsoka Tano. About her refusal to train Grogu.

“She can’t train him because he loves you too much? That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t want to be an obstacle for him.”

“He’s a baby! He needs a father far more than he needs whatever lonely life they live.”

He loves the sentiment. He does. But you both know he’ll continue on this quest until it’s completed, one way or another. And you know you’ll follow him wherever it takes him.

At dusk, as you kneel in the shallows, the pull of the gentle waves sink you into the sand bit by bit. It’s not a long ceremony; it’s perfectly Mandalorian in its succinct and practical nature. But you can feel the heaviness. It pulls you down faster than the water, and you let it fill the gaps between the sinew of your ribcage.

When your alor places the helmet upon you, the first things you see through your new eyes are Din and the baby, waiting for you to come back to shore.

“This is gonna take some getting used to,” you say as you shift around, trying to figure out the right arrangement of pillows to support your neck in spite of the helmet.

“What if it didn’t have to?” Din says.

“What do you mean?”

“Marry me.”

You sit up and turn to face him. “You're serious?”

He sits up and switches on the light. “Completely.” For the first time, he has no idea what you’re feeling or thinking. You’re holding very still but without seeing your face… this must be how you felt all this time.

“You’re serious,” you whisper. Your modulator barely picks it up.

“I am. Marry me, cyare.”

“Okay.”

“‘Okay’? That’s it?”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t translate. You haven’t adapted to exaggerating your body language yet. “Yes, Din. Of course.”

“Right now.”

“Right now?!”

“Did Paz teach you anything about riduurok?”

“Just that it means marriage.”

“I ask him to do one thing,” he grumbles.

“Hang on, what? You asked Paz to teach me about Mandalorian marriages?”

“Yes, that shabuir.”

“Oh. You—you actually planned this,” you say. “This isn’t impulsive. You planned on proposing to me in bed.”

“I planned on proposing to you once we were home. You’re the one who went to bed right away.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, right now. Marry me right now.” You can’t believe you’re saying it. Or maybe you can. Because it’s Din. It’s always been Din. “How does it work?”

“It’s just us. There are vows. And then, we share ourselves with one another. Then we can know each other completely.”

“Teach me.”

So he does. He shows you the words and their meanings; he shows you the ways he’s been giving you his heart and making room for yours.

You leave the words open on the datapad so you can see them. Somehow, you’ve ended up in his lap, inches from each other. The vows are easy, the decision so painfully obvious you don’t have a single doubt. The Mando’a tumbles from your lips slowly, in harmony with him.

Mhi solus tome. Of course you are one together. That’s never been a question.

Mhi solus dar’tome. It had been true even when it wasn’t. You were one while apart, if only in that you held each other in your hearts for all those years. But it had been enough.

Mhi me’dinui an. There wasn’t a thing between you left unshared now.

Mhi ba’juri verde. Din may have his doubts about Grogu’s future, but you know he loves him. Unconditionally, eternally. And maybe, someday, you’ll share that love with more.

You rip your helmet off without hesitation. It’s easy still, for you.

Later, you’ll grow accustomed to its heft and the way only your aliit can see the you beneath. Later, you’ll appreciate better what it takes for Din to do the same.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You saw me three hours ago.”

“You’re beautiful every time I see you.”

Your face burns, but you don’t have to be embarrassed for long. In fact, you stop thinking about it immediately as he raises his hands to the bottom of his helmet.

You squeeze your eyes shut automatically.

He sees you once he’s removed it and huffs a breath. “Cyare, open your eyes.”

“It feels wrong,” you say.

“Ner riduur. You are mine and I am yours. Please open your eyes.”

You do. Your heart is thundering, a painful clench in your chest. You lean back, cupping his face in your hands.

No words come. All you can do is stare, lips parted, greedily taking in every piece of him. Your fingers follow your eyes, brushing through his dark curls and tracing the curve of his cheek.

He’s barely breathing, staring up at you with big, beautiful brown eyes, wetness starting to well.

“Din,” you breathe.

“Hi,” he says softly, cheeks flushing.

You gasp, lips curling into a pleased grin. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

He’s never felt so unmoored. The flush spreads as he tries to bear your focus.

“I thought it would be weirder. To see your face,” you say, running a thumb over his chapped lips, fingers stroking the scruff of his chin. “Your helmet has always been you, to me. I was afraid this would be like seeing a stranger. But it’s not. I know you. Ni kar’tayli darasuum.”

He whispers it back, pressing a kiss to your thumb before leaning against the wall.

Your brow furrows, and you fix him with an outraged glare.

“What?” he asks, and you almost get distracted by the way his eyes widen and mouth opens with bewilderment.

“You used to call me ner kar’ta.”

“I still do.”

“No, I mean, you started calling me your heart so long ago.”

“You weren’t ready. But I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t change that it was true.” He sees the sadness creeping in and cups your cheek. “It was worth the wait, ner kar’ta. Would you like your gift now?”

You know he’s trying to distract you, but it works anyway. “A gift? For what?”

“For our riduurok, silly girl.”

It’s your turn to flush, ears burning. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know I was going to have a husband to get a gift for.”

He shakes his head, a fond smile on his face. A smile you can see. It’s a world-shattering feeling.

He rifles around for a moment and then offers you something shiny and very familiar.

The pauldron is unpainted silver, the same as his, with a mudhorn on the front. It’s shaped a little differently, a little longer and narrower. A better fit for your shoulder.

You reach out and run your fingers over the signet.

“Din,” you choke through the tight grip of your throat. “But… I didn’t earn it yet.”

“But I did. We’re a clan of three, now. As my riduur, this is yours to bear.”

You almost start to sob, but the tears are held off by a sudden realization.

“Did everyone know we were getting married but me?”

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

Your indignant laugh breaks into another sob, tears finally falling free.

He wipes them away with his thumbs, the pauldron abandoned on the bed. “Hey, save those tears for later,” he murmurs.

It has the desired effect. Your eyes widen, and your hips grind against him just a fraction. “You know how most people celebrate a marriage?”

“We aren’t most people, cyar’ika. We’re Mandalorians.”

It’s still weird to hear yourself referred to as a Mandalorian. But it sinks under your skin and spreads euphoria through your veins. It feels right, like your whole life you’ve been following a starmap to this moment.

“Well, how do we celebrate a marriage then?”

He smirks. “We fuck.”

“Right now?” you ask, making a show of batting your lashes and delighting in the way his eyes darken and lips part. “Please, sir?”

You could always sense the change, before. The way the air shifted. But it was another thing entirely to watch him become the predator. There’s a glint in his eye, a curve to his lips that wracks you with shivers.

His hand slides up to wrap around your throat. “Yeah, sweetheart? You want to get fucked by your riduur? Going to let me take what’s mine?”

“Oh fuck,” you whisper. Your heart is pounding, and from the way his smirk grows, you know he can feel it under the clench of his fingers. They twitch a little tighter, and you’re already feeling lightheaded.

He eases up after a moment, withdrawing his hand just to bring it across your face in a harsh slap. “Have you forgotten how to be my good girl? Answer me when I speak to you.”

When you open your mouth to try, all that comes out is a moan. He slaps you again, grabbing you roughly by the throat after and pulling you closer.

“Yes,” you finally gasp, “yes, please, sir.”

“Please, what?”

“Please fuck me. Please take what’s yours.”

“And what’s mine to take?”

“Everything.”

His lips press against yours in a crash of teeth and flesh. He bites his way into your mouth, pushing you down on your back with the force of his kiss. Your legs are still wrapped around his hips and his cock presses against your panties.

“Wait,” he gasps into your mouth. “I have another gift.”

“Can’t it wait? Can’t you let me get you something first?”

“No, cyare, this isn’t a present for my riduur.”

“No?” Your voice has gone small, soft.

“No, sweetheart. It’s for my pretty little slut.”

You flush, and he sits up, reaching over to the shelf for a box. Inside is a thin chain that almost looks like beskar.

You watch him watch you with starving eyes, a hunger that seeps into your skin where his gaze lands. “But I like my collar,” you whisper.

“I know, I do too. This is a little different. It’s thin enough to lay under your cowl without being seen.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to wear it all the time. But when you want to, when you’ll let me have you outside of this, I’d like you to.”

It goes against that rule, your one big rule, from so long ago. Nothing outside the ship could come back in, and vice versa.

You find it doesn’t bother you, now. Not if you can have that little reminder, not if you can feel his love physically all the time.

You know he’d never take advantage, never try to control you in a fight. He didn’t need to, anyway, not with the way you moved and worked as one.

“Yes, sir.”

😭thank you, thank you, thank you, I love you. see you on dec. 21 for the Life Day Special ft. our favorite clan of three.

*title from "Set Phasers to Stun" by Taking Back Sunday

[bearlyfunctioning]

Don’t panic ‘The Bear Minimum’ will still show up every now and again, just a lot less than it used to. This is a continuation of my thoughts on the comic I posted here last. I’m just not enjoying making art anymore, like -not at all- & it’s really getting me down. Art is an intrinsic part of my identity, so not wanting to do it feels awful. This reticence has been building for at least 4 years now & as of last year I have been acting on my desire to leave art as a career, before I burn out to a crisp. Please note this is the first time in a long time I am feeling mentally healthy & have the resources to go without my portion of our income for some time (while I try to get IRL work). So, I really need to seize this moment of security to make big life changes. Even if it means we’re going to have to tighten our budget a lot while I try to find work. Some of you may remember that I am attending school full-time for an assistant administration diploma, ideally to have a broad skillset to bring with me while job hunting. I’ll be graduating from that course at the end of May if everything goes as planned. I have been on a commission hiatus since the start of this year to put schooling in action, continuing only with the weekly comic & monthly Patreon exclusive work. This brought my monthly income down to 1/3rdof what it usually is, but that was all I could manage alongside fulltime school. Doing so much less drawing has been incredibly beneficial to my RSI hand pain! For the first time in years, I can go to sleep without restrictive arm braces & I don’t need maintenance from the physiotherapist. I honestly thought that was permanent so I can’t even convey my relief there! However, despite drawing a lot less, my love for making art did not return. I enjoy making comics, but they are a whole lotta line-art & that can be a very repetitive process. Being a comic artist has been extremely good for my growth online; to the point where I owe half or more of my current following to it. Some people don’t even know I draw other things, that’s how good their reach is compared to my other art. Despite that I am going to be taking the comic off schedule. Even if it means sacrificing most or all my Patreon income and kneecapping my reach on every platform. I’ve been making the comic 4 times a month, with little break for 6 years. It started as a good outlet for my thoughts & an exercise in consistency, as I had never had a schedule of any sort prior. Doing the comic weekly was a great lesson in self motivation, but no one is forcing me to continue with it other than me. Plenty of times the deadline came I didn’t have a good idea & just made something I wasn’t proud of, because it was income and because I had just done it every week for so long. If you don’t enjoy my non bear/comic art, then I suppose we’ll part ways. In the end I must do right by me though & I feel like this is the best choice right now. Patrons have been notified on what will be happening over there in their own post.

[subjecta5newtella]

some nalby for @mazerunner-rarepairs month - AU square

It’s late evening after a light post-season practice, and Alby and Newt are headed for the dining hall when Minho catches up with them. 

“Alby!” he calls, jogging over and blocking their exit from the soccer fields. 

Alby sighs. “What?”

“Three of the freshmen challenged Thomas and I to a scrimmage, and everyone else has already left.”

“I’ve already cooled down, I’m not going to start running again.”

“Aw, come on. Thomas and I could beat them two-on-three, but that’ll damage their morale.”

“Call someone else back, then. I’m done for the day.”

Technically, he’s done in general. He’s a graduating senior who doesn’t have to come to practice at all anymore, but as the outgoing captain, he still feels a sense of responsibility. And maybe he’s not quite ready to let go, but that’s another thing entirely. Still, he draws the line at getting all sweaty again because of Minho’s pride or whatever. 

In a stunning display of self-restraint, Minho concedes that battle, then turns. “Hey, Newt?”

“What?”

“If we all promise to go easy on you, do you wanna join?”

Alby catches the exact moment when something sparks to life in Newt’s eyes.

It’s probably a bad idea. Newt can run on his bad leg, but only short distances, and his ankle and hip both have a tendency to hurt the next day. The shift in his balance makes dribbling more challenging than it used to be—he can do it, but it’s not the simple thing it once was. Newt knows all that intimately, of course, but Alby also knows he misses soccer like nothing else, had spent an evening on the bathroom floor in tears between bouts of throwing up vodka on the anniversary of the day he’d been told he’d never play competitively again. He’s a student coach now, and a damn good one in Alby’s (admittedly biased) opinion, but that’s far from the same. 

“You’ll go easy on me, eh?” Newt says, with a smile that looks a little dangerous.

“Well, you know, it’s been a while, we don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to convince me to play against you.”

“Aw, come on. The freshmen are getting way too cocky.”

“Fine. But if you mention anything about going easy on me again, I’m betraying you and joining them.”

He hands his backpack over to Alby, who can’t help but say, “Be careful.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.” He jogs out onto the field, managing his limp with relative smoothness.

Thomas does a little bit of a double take when he sees Newt joining them, but he drops back to take up a position on his right. He’d played right midfielder when he’d transferred to their school, before Newt had moved him to the left to cover a skill gap, and that combination of Thomas and Minho on their left flank had scored them the game winning goal in conference championships. 

It’s not just Alby’s biased opinion, really. Newt’s a good coach. He’s already gotten an offer to stay on next year as a paid position, and he’s probably going to take it, which means Alby needs to find a job here, even though neither of them have actually talked about that out loud. It’s the two of them. It’ll always be the two of them. 

A couple minutes into the scrimmage, Newt strips the ball from George and sends it up to Minho to do the rest of the running, and in that fast, fluid movement, Alby remembers the way he used to be. Starting lineup, number five, center forward. Quick. Vicious. Glorious. Other teams complained about facing him, and every time they did, Alby felt a stab of pride. People watched him, people admired him, but there were times when Newt would pull off something impossible and look back with a smile that was sharp and wild and beautiful and Alby had known it was for him.

Alby loves this version of Newt without question and he knows he will for the rest of his life, but sometimes it’s hard not to mourn the way things were supposed to be. It’s selfish, maybe. His life is not the one most affected. Knowing it’s selfish doesn’t stop him from feeling it sometimes, 

Newt’s alive, though, which is something Alby doesn’t take for granted, and in the present moment he’s celebrating Minho’s goal. It’s a little tasteless, maybe, but it’s also their first time playing together since sophomore year and they’ve already scored, so they might be entitled.

The game continues and Alby loses himself in it, watching the way Newt and Minho click back into being a solid offensive unit, how Thomas works well with the two of them even in a position that he hasn’t played in a while. It’s easy to forget that he and Newt have never actually played together. They’re a good team. They could’ve been a great one, but that’s the kind of unproductive reasoning Alby tries to shut down whenever Newt gets caught up in it, so he does his best to close it off within himself as well. 

After about ten minutes, Newt slows, then stops, mimes bowing out. He joins Alby on the sidelines as the others keep messing around, retying his hair as he does. “Can’t keep up with the youth anymore.”

“Hurt?”

“Nah. Just old. No stamina anymore.”

Alby’s not sure he believes that, because Newt’s barely even breathing hard, but Alby lets it go because he also doesn’t look like he’s in pain, either. He’ll take an excuse over a breaking point any day.

“You looked good out there,” Alby says, handing Newt’s backpack back to him. 

Newt gives him a sarcastic little salute. “Thanks, Captain. I was awaiting your approval.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Newt says, then after a moment adds, “Thanks.”

Things will never be what they used to be. It’s a waste of time to pretend otherwise. But he has Newt, and Newt has him, and they’ll get through together. They always do. 

Alby laces his fingers through Newt’s, and they head off for dinner. 

[whatisreggieshortfor]

can you see me

Hagakure x reader

With a Quirk like Map Out, you were favored to be a useful Support Hero, and that’s all you wanted. To support and to help.

Your Quirk let you design hologram maps from just a touch of the ground, creating more advanced blueprints than even the most intelligent people could make, and you could include accurate appearances, stature, and movement of people on location.

But the first time you had used it in a class-wide training, no one could be sure why you had flushed and stuttered.

Until you approached Hagakure at the end of class, still in her Hero costume, and apologized with a bow but never attempted to make eye contact.

Because your Quirk let you see her… and seeing how her costume was only gloves and a pair of boots? Well, you saw all of her.

And she was so much prettier than you’d ever have guessed.

You said as much to the only person you trusted enough to confide in about why you couldn’t look her way anymore.

A snort came from where your cousin sat in your desk chair, “Couldn’t be me.”

“Bite me, Toshi,” You rolled your eyes at Shinsou, “Like you are so much better around Kaminari.”

“I can talk to him without looking like Kirishima’s hair.”

“You insult him, there’s a difference.”

“Not to him.”

But you opted to say nothing to Hagakure, not for weeks.

You would be polite in class, you’d answer when she spoke to you, you would spar against her as you always had, but you didn’t start the conversations anymore. You didn’t tell her what you’d seen.

You never planned on it.

But sometimes, zoning out bites you in the ass.

“I bet Hagakure would be blonde,” Kaminari said on day, the class was talking about something else when you stopped paying attention, but they seemed to have moved on. “She’s fun like me!”

“No way! She screams brunette vibes!” Ashido countered, gesturing to where the invisible girl was laughing at the argument, “Can’t you just picture her pretty face with long brown hair?”

“Actually, her hair is white.” You hadn’t even looked up from your notebook, absentmindedly telling them a fact.

You still didn’t look up as the rest of the class looked your way.

“What do you mean ‘is’?” Todoroki questioned skeptically, catching your attention. And when you looked up, the eyes of all other twenty students, Mister Aizawa, and your amused cousin were on you. “You said like you knew it was true.”

A flush hit your skin, averting your gaze back to your desk, “I do know it’s true.”

“How?” It was Midoriya this time, though you weren’t looking you could feel his eager eyes on you.

“I know what she looks like.” You muttered quietly, “From the training exercise a month ago.”

Shinsou snorted, thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment, “Yeah, they know exactly what she looks like.”

“You… you could see me?”

You had expected offense, anger that you had seen her so exposed, but Hagakure’s voice was filled with awe.

“Oh, man,” Mineta practically salivated, “can you show us everything you saw, L/N?”

Your nose wrinkling in disgust for a moment, you turned to the girl in question, “I could show you your face, if you’d like.”

“Really!?” The class watched sleeves of her uniform move, her hands having flown up to her face, “I haven’t seen what I look like in… I don’t remember that I ever have!”

You gave her a shy smile, pulling out the sketch book you would use to lay your maps out more permanently than your Quirk allowed, moving to the corner of the room with express instructions that no one follow. You wanted her to be the first to see.

And you began to draw.

The class fell uncharacteristically silent, everyone waiting in anticipation of seeing what their loved Invisible Girl really looked like.

But what caught her attention the most, skimming just above the thrill of being able to know her own face, was the smile painting yours as you worked.

Hagakure had seen you smile before- she was even pretty sure she noticed more than anyone else in class. But this wasn’t happy, or joy, or amusement, or sympathetic.

Your smile was crossed between peaceful and lovestruck.

Maybe it was her wishful thinking, maybe it was her hope, but she liked the thought that she could leave you looking infatuated like that.

Clutching the pad to your chest, you hesitantly approached her desk, laying it out for her.

Hagakure didn’t exactly have an ego, but even she didn’t believe she could really look as beautiful as you made her. “Wow,” she whispered, reverently brushing a finger down the page following the curve of her cheek, “Really?”

You nodded, a sweet admiration in your eye, “Really.” Shinsou smacked you in the back and, as she watched him curiously, he seemed to be telling you something the rest of the class wasn’t privy to hear before he was spinning you back her way, “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” You told her suddenly, no confidence to it but full of honesty at the same time, “even before I could see you.”

Though no one could see it, not even you without your Quirk, her cheeks burned happily as her lips pulled into a grin.

[azures-bazar]

Peculiar Scents

Let's be honest, almost everyone agrees that 1899!John rarely takes baths and is somewhat dirty all day long ! lol

And here is another very weird one-shot my brain managed to work with ! I wrote this between 2 coffees while on a break, please don't mind my awful mistakes ! :')

The gif can be explained later in this one-shot ! This is not a ship.

John Marston x GenderNeutral!reader

Word count : 2k

Short summary : You can’t stand it anymore. This smell is terrible ! John didn’t wash in three weeks... and you can't let him keep going.  

A/note : This is NOT A SHIP ! The reader is having a very friendly/sibling-like relationship with John Marston. I’m too much into John x Abigail (or even John x Javier), sorry :’)

Tags : cute, John is terrified of water, ancient rubber duck, flowers, bath, good and bad scents, John is always dirty, chapter 3, siblings

"No !"

John’s voice sounded across camp. You and Sean had been chasing him for over an hour to convince him to wash himself. You had first attempted to be very nice to him, gently asking him to just rub a piece of wet cloth over his body, which did not seem to work much. Sean was more brutal, carrying ropes to lasso him while John kept walking around camp to get away from the two of you. However, despite giving your best effort to convince him to clean himself a little, John was not ready to accept your request. Abigail had begged you while Arthur had given up, you kindly obliged. 

"Pa’ always stinks !" you heard Jack say almost twice a day

"I can’t walk by his tent no more." the girls had told you

"Sometimes I feel like there’s a rotting corpse in his tent !" Pearson often complained 

"I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he’s peeing by his bed every morning to mark his territory…" Bill usually sighed when passing by John’s tent

In fact, you were one of the first victims of his terrible smell. Your tent was right next to his, and his horrible scent of sweat could only make you feel nauseous as soon as you would wake up and while he would open his tent flaps, unleashing his body odours for at least five minutes. The two of you were always paired to go on guard duty at the same time, so it meant that you were sharing the same schedule when it came to rest in your respective tents. Dutch had firmly refused to move your quarters away from John’s, believing it would certainly enrage Ms. Grimshaw and disturb her overall organisation. He also thought it would lead other members to actively start asking the girls and Arthur to move their tents depending on their moods… and Sean would have been the first to ask for his tent to be moved closer to Lenny’s. 

As far as you could recall, John had always hated baths, and it was painfully hard to convince him otherwise. When you got inducted into the gang by Dutch, just five or six years after John, you could easily remember his smell and how bad you felt when he was too close to you, feeling nauseous most of the time. You adored him, he was the closest to a brother to you, you were always paired with him and hanged with him quite often, but his overall body odour could not make you stay near him for more than a hour without leading you to get some serious migraines. He would wash every once in a while, probably three times a month, which was a miracle considering his hatred for water in general. 

Quite often, Arthur had to hogtie him and drop him into the nearest lake or river, or even go to the closest saloon to give him a proper bath. And, indeed, John hated that. He hated being hogtied and forced into water and would never miss the opportunity to complain whenever someone would do that to him. 

"Get back here, Marston !" Sean shouted from behind you 

"I said no !" 

"Oi, ya ain’t gonna go far, we can track ya with yer bloody scent !" 

Arthur watched you pass before him with a smirk, proceeding to draw a scene of you and Sean chasing Arthur in his journal. He could feel empathy for the two of you, despite this sight was probably the most delightful comedy he had ever watched so far. He had been at your place for years, and seeing someone else have to catch Marston to give him a bath was a very nice comedy to watch ! 

"John, please !" you shouted 

"Leave me be !" 

You kept walking around camp for a while as Sean was preparing his lasso. John’s quick walk was also quite comical to watch, the way he moved his hips and arms made him look like a real clown. A dirty clown. You grumbled as John started running away from camp, quickly getting on your horse as Sean followed you, climbing on Ennis. He was ready to lasso John, who was trying his best to get away from Clemens Point by running as fast as he could. What a surprising thing to watch, just a few weeks ago, he could barely walk due to his recent scars ! 

"C’mon Marston !" Sean laughed. "Some water ain’t gonna kill ya !" 

"Leave me and my dirt alone !" Marston shouted 

"Ain’t got a chance !" you laughed 

John was not going to let anyone take him to take a bath. He hated water, he always had. Bessie had been the only one who had successfully convinced him to bathe, he would do it as soon as she would ask. However, since her passing, it had been overwhelmingly difficult to get Marston to take a bath. He was deadly scared of water, for some reason. Arthur did try his best to teach him to swim, but Marston never succeeded, nearly drowning more than once. It always took a few gang members to drag him into water by now, and you were often among these poor fellers that would be chosen to give him a bath. 

After a very short time, Sean successfully lassoed John, you went down your horse, you tied his hands in his back. He started swearing, begging you to let go, wriggling as much as he could to set himself free. You had to pinch your nose, what a terrible smell ! Even Sean, who’s overall body odour was mix between whiskey and cigarettes, smelled better than John ! 

"Yer goin’ to take a bath, Marston !" MacGuire happily said, dragging John to Ennis 

"Leave me alone !" he responded, wriggling his arms to get the rope away from his wrists 

"I can’t stand your smell anymore, John." you grumbled. "I seriously can’t. So you’re going to take a bath or…-" 

"Or what ?! I ain’t a kid no more, Y/N ! You can’t just scold me like a child ! I ain’t a…-" 

"Next time, I’ll take our boat right here and throw you into the lake so you won’t ever reach the edge of Clemens Point." 

John gasped and grumbled, nodding in shame as Sean dragged him on Ennis. You led the way to Rhodes, heading to the saloon in which MacGuire paid for John’s bath, but refused to come with you. You were going to deal with him alone, while Sean would certainly drink at the counter and probably pass out. All the work was on shoulders, but you agreed with that. You led John to the bathroom, quickly pulling his pants down. Indeed, you were going to have to get him naked, which would certainly be the hardest thing you would ever have to do. 

"H-hey !" he blushed 

"Wanna get wet clothes ?" you asked 

"No, but do you really need to undress me ?" 

"Unless you do it yourself." 

John rolled eyes. You headed to the door and locked yourself in with him, he rose his hands for you to untie them. You obliged and turned around, giving him enough privacy to undress, grumbling a little while sliding into the bathtub. The water was foamy enough for you to avoid seeing his body parts, making you feel much more comfortable. Indeed, you did not want to see John bare body, so you would not dig your hands in the warm water. You turned back, John was keeping his knees close to his chest, giving you a death stare as you approached. 

"You ain’t gonna drown here, John." you said. "Relax."

"I hate you, Y/N. I hate you and Sean." 

"No need remind me, I already know that and love you too." 

"I said I ha…-"

"Me too."  

You walked around the bathtub, looking around the shelves, picking a very peculiar yellowish form into your hands. A rubber duck, you had seen many of these on the shelves of a variety of shops, they were relatively new in stores. John could not relax, you quickly threw the rubber duck in the tub, making him gasp as water got splashed over his grumpy face. 

"What the hell is that ?!" he asked, rubbing his eyes 

"It’s a rubber duck." you answered. "I think they got these to keep children entertained." 

"Do I look like a child ?!"

You nodded with a large smile, causing John to turn shades darker. You had been aware about him being constantly belittled by Arthur, frequently being told he was a child… you even heard Hosea mention that even little Jack was far much docile !

"When you refuse to take a bath, I swear I feel like I’m having Jack right here. It’s funny, though." you laughed

"Damn." 

"It ain't my fault if you can't behave better than your four-year-old boy."

"You can't be serious right now."

You laughed and shrugged, causing Marston to sigh. You watched John looking at this strange realistic looking rubber duck while washing his hair, calmly rubbing his scalp. He quickly became obsessed with this rather strange duck you have him, not even realising anything about his current situation. It gave you more space to wash him without a single complaint. You still allowed him to do clean the bottom parts of his body, not wanting to go any further than his chest. John sighed, still keeping the duck under his arm as MacGuire knocked at the door. 

"Dead-Eye MacGuire here !" he shouted. "Open the door ! "

"Don’t let him in." John grumbled. "Please, don’t."

"If I make him stay outside, you can be sure this place will be on fire in a few minutes."

"Christ sake..." 

Marston sighed and turned his down. You went to the door and opened, making Sean break into the room. While quickly looking at him, you noticed him carrying a broom in one hand, and a bottle of whiskey in the other. 

"It’s cleaning time, Johnny !" MacGuire happily shouted 

"Wait, what ?!" 

"Let’s get this dirt out of your body, fella !" 

"Get away from me you damn creep !"

"Sean, wait…-" you gasped 

Sean happy sipped some whiskey and dropped an empty bottle on the nearby chair, allowing you to close the door behind him. John curled up into a ball as Sean started rubbing the broom on his soap-covered back. Marston groaned, painfully holding the rubber duck against him while his fists clenched on the sides of the bath. You watched Sean scrubbing John’s upper body until it was red, preparing a new set of clothes while John was screaming how much he hated you. Both of you. 

"I want you to rot in hell !!" 

Thankfully enough, Sean quickly stopped scrubbing John’s body, allowing him to leave the bath to get dressed while you were not watching. John refused to mount on Sean’s horse and decided to get on yours instead, grumbling all the way back to camp while holding your onto waist. Arthur came to greet you with a warm smile, John pushed him aside and quickly got into his tent, closing its flaps. 

"Damn, he smells much better !" Arthur said, gently patting your shoulder. "How d'you do this ?" 

"Well, we had to convince him in a rather kin…-" 

"We had to use violence, English." Sean stopped you. "Bad business. Very bad business."

Sean walked away as Arthur looked at you with wide eyes. Violence ? What kind of violence did you use ? You gently shook your head, quickly explaining that the treatment you gave to John was not as violent as Sean depicted it to be.

"Violence ?" Arthur smiled. "You really used violence ?"

"Sort of." you shrugged

When the night came, you could finally rest. No more bad smell, you could breathe without feeling like a cow had just covered John’s tent with shit ! However, as the smell was gone, you could hear John groan, and Hosea’s voice sounding inside his tent. You had seen Matthews preparing a mixture to help John’s back to heal after being scrubbed so violently by Sean, and thinking about him applying his balm on Marston made you chuckle to yourself. You could hear how painful it was for him, he kept whining each time Hosea would touch his back. 

"At least, you smell better !" Hosea said with a smile 

Yes. At least, he did. 

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Ok so I’m the one that requested the white lead reader, maybe her talking about Katakuri her favorite older brother that always cared about her and never cared that she had the disease, and her getting sad that since her siblings were banned from seeing her she can’t see him anymore

-You were coloring at a large table, crayon drawings all around, showing you had been busy, but you looked so sad, your eyes droopy and no smile anywhere on your face.

-Odin was the one to approach you, sitting beside you, seeing the different drawings you had done of all of them, Muninn and Huginn loved their picture together, praising you which did make you smile, but only slightly.

-Odin patted your head gently, “Are you okay, Y/N? Are you still feeling sick?” you shook your head, as technically you were still in recovery, but you were allowed to do low impact stuff like coloring.

-You hesitated in answering, looking down at your newest drawing and Odin saw a tall man with dark pink hair, a scarf covering his mouth, and wearing an outfit that was mostly black, covered in silver spikes and studs, and matching dark pink tattoos, “I miss my big brother Katakuri.”

-Odin’s eyes went wide, as soon as the order that your mother wasn’t welcome, along with your siblings without permission, you had been separated from the one person that didn’t care about the Amber Lead Syndrome you had.

-Katakuri knew it wasn’t contagious, and he always made sure to dote on you, treating you nicely, even sharing his donuts with you, at least a piece of one, as his donuts were bigger than you were.

-You told Odin this, drawing a donut this time, using a rainbow of colors to make the sprinkles and he smiled softly, sitting with you and asking you more questions about your drawings.

-When he told the others about your big brother, many wanted to allow him to visit you, so you would be happy, because you were still a child, and while being safe with your new family, you did miss the one you had before, at least Katakuri.

-Hermes went to deliver the invitation to Katakuri himself, and Mama was furious to learn that only he was invited to come, nobody else. She caught him before he left, demanding that he bring you back, wanting all of her children at home.

-Katakuri knew that he wasn’t going to, as he knew how she treated her children, even the strongest ones like him, you were all pawns to be used for her own gain, usually to marry off or carry out heinous deeds like stealing ingredients and killing those who have those ingredients, rather than just buying them.

-You were in tears, happy tears, when your big brother walked in, immediately running over and leapt into his arms after he kneeled, catching you and hugging you close.

-Your family, your new family, smiled, seeing you so happy as Katakuri was in awe, brushing your hair from your face, seeing that it was true- you were really cured.

-Katakuri was allowed to spend the whole day with you and for the most part he got along with the other members of your adoptive family, he was very unlike your mother, calm and collected but also respectful.

-Zeus gave you and Katakuri permission that he could visit whenever he wanted, but only him, nobody else was allowed to come and you were both okay with that.

-You hugged your big brother who returned the embrace, ruffling your hair gently before returning home to a furious Mama, who blamed the gods and warriors in Valhalla for not returning you, after Katakuri was able to convince her that you were still weak in recovery and that by leaving you there, you could get stronger and stronger.

-She bought it, thankfully and your new family was grateful for his help.

-You went back to coloring, now more cheerful than before as you wanted to make pictures for Katakuri when we visited next time.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Nineteen

We decide to pack up and leave the beach just a few days after the festival. Neither Claire nor I can stand to be in the mobile home anymore since Kelly’s turned it into an unlivable place. As I fold my clothes away and pack up my books I wonder how I ever stayed here, it’s pokey and old, and smells of stale cigarettes, an environment made even more unpleasant by the dark, heavy presence of another person who outwardly hates me stalking around, waiting until I leave the kitchen to go and make herself a cup of tea. We never discuss the festival, and I don’t expect her to ask about it, but I kind of did expect her to at least acknowledge us when we came home on Monday. 

Claire ran into her once on her way out to the bins, she was sitting on the steps painting her toenails, and it was just a couple of days after we’d returned so she tried to confront her, saying that she never wished her a happy birthday. 

“Oh, just fuck off, would you?” Kelly had said. “We’re not friends anymore.” So that was that. I assume the sentiment applies to me too, so I never seek her out for a chat, and I go on for days avoiding her, ignoring her with a horrible, guilty feeling in my stomach that only serves to make me feel more awful than I already do. 

We can’t think of anything worse than driving back to Tullamore with her in the car, so Claire ends up calling her dad, who comes sweeping down the country in his big black BMW to collect us. It’s nearing the butt-end of August now, and the slow wind down of the summer makes me melancholic. The evenings are slowly drawing in again, and the leaves on the trees have lost their brilliant, luminous green of June. Everything is starting to look rustier, burnt around the edges, and I know that in a month the air will be cold again, and yellow leaves will rustle through the village. Bigger, angrier waves will crash against the shore in place of the peaceful, sparkling waters that I see now on the horizon. I stand on the deck on my last evening at the mobile and look out over the beach, knowing that I might never see this beach in autumn. I might never come back here again, eat ice cream from the surf shack, swim in the balmy, green water. 

Barry, Claire’s dad, who always wears suit trousers even as casual dress, gives her a big hug when he arrives, his gleaming, cosmopolitan car looking out of place pulled up onto the grass outside the Healy’s fusty mobile. “How was your summer, love?” He asks her in his booming, business man voice. 

“Oh it was grand.” She says. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” She stands back and beams at him. She loves her father, and they’re alike too. The same nose, eyes, and dirty blonde hair, even though hers has been dyed platinum for years now. I watch them as I sit on the steps biting my nails. He would do absolutely anything for her. Everybody would, she’s just one of those perfect girls. 

“How did you get on in Menorca?” She asks him then, and I listen to them talk about her father’s luxurious trip to the Baleriacs for about three seconds before I get antsy and start hauling our bags into his boot. I know Kelly isn’t going to come outside and try to talk to us or anything, but at this point even being in proximity to her is making me anxious. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want this trip to be over, and I want to go home. 

After we’ve finally piled into the car, we pull away from the mobile. I keep watching the blinds to see if they twitch, some sign that Kelly is watching us, or that she cares at all that we’re leaving without a goodbye, but there’s no sign of life. I think I’d prefer a fight to a freeze-out. This just feels unfinished. 

As we cruise up the narrow coastal roads we pass a road sign with a big smiling sun on it that’s saying goodbye in five languages. I glance out the back window and look back at the beach, the flip-flopped army zipping back and forth over the footpaths, enjoying their last days here and acting like they won’t be propelled back into the grey banality of their September to May lives within mere days, acting like they don’t have any dread inside them at all, but I know they do. They must. It can’t be only me. 

I slump back on the leather seat as soon as the village is out of sight and stare out the window ahead to the vast expanse of motorway in front of us. Claire and her dad are so busy talking that I know they won’t turn around and see me, so I let my defences down for a second, and a tear brims over and spills down my cheek. I still haven’t felt much of anything but a dull, aching sadness ever since we rolled up our tents and left the campground, and all I can do is keep replaying my conversation with Jude over and over in my head, remembering all the nice things he said to me, and then I can’t help but remember the hard things too, but everything makes me sad. I don’t really sleep well, and I don’t feel hungry enough to eat that much. My week has consisted of just this: moping around in my room and periodically crying into my pillow. I haven’t gone for a swim once. 

I haven’t heard a word from him since I last saw him, nor have I tried to text him, because I don’t know what to say. Maybe he doesn’t want goodbyes, maybe he just wants to disappear and I should give him the space to do that. I’m convinced he has more important people to spend time with, with the clock  running out and the date approaching so quickly. It’s Thursday now. He flies out next Wednesday. The 25th. 

I quietly scold myself for acting stupidly. You can’t be upset about losing a person that you never had. He was never mine to lose, I should be driving away from my holidays thinking about how much I enjoyed all the things I did, the people I met, and have a huge, dopey smile on my face, wishing him well with the rest of his life, but I can’t do that. My insides feel twisted and rotten, my chest tight and my eyes are stinging with tears. 

We get back to Tullamore after two and a half hours, and by then I just feel like a husk. I’ve thought about Jude so much that I’m tired of thinking, like my brain has been doing strenuous pushups for ages, or like there’s an elastic band inside it that’s worn loose and saggy. Claire’s dad is really nice and brings me right up to my front door, and then takes all my bags out of the boot. I thank him and compose a smile on my face so I can wave goodbye to my friend. 

“I’ll see you next week, won’t I?” she calls out the window. “Are you coming to the hotel at Shane’s debs and get some photos with me?”

I nod, not really understanding why people want to do things like stand outside a hotel awkwardly while their friends go to the debs. It sounds boring, but I’ll do it for Claire, and then probably think about how I’m not going to any debs at all and feel somehow worse about myself than I already do. 

“And then induction in school on Friday.” She says, holding finger guns to her temple and pulling the imaginary trigger.

“Yeah, can’t wait for that.” I drawl. 

Her dad starts the car and she blows me a quick kiss. “Okay, see you soon babe!” 

They pull away from the footpath and I gather up my bags and bring them up the path towards my house. There’s so many. I don’t remember leaving this same house with this amount of stuff, but I can’t even think of what I bought.

My mam opens the door before I can, and she stands there with a look of delight on her face. The house smells like apple crumble, which I’d usually run and stuff my face with, but today the idea of that makes my stomach turn. I come inside and she gives me a huge, warm hug. “Welcome home, Evie! We missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.”

 “Tell me, how was your summer with the girls?”

I try to tell her that it was good, and that we had lots of fun and went swimming all the time, and that the weather was so fine! We even went to a music festival for Claire’s birthday and I heard so many new bands, and actually, I think I might save up and buy an iPod Touch, but of course, I can’t say any of that. I open my mouth and unleash a rack of sobs instead, dropping all my bags onto the floor with a loud thud. She makes a concerned sound, but doesn’t ask, she just rocks me in her arms and lets me cry it out like an infant for a full half an hour, the door swinging open behind me. 

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