#I think he shoves rocks in his nose [canon] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

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Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this.

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces.

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds.

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now.

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin.

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height.

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents.

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with.

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?”

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse.

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door.

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.”

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink.

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing.

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.”

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket.

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt.

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess.

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic.

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.”

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt.

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.”

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you.

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.”

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.”

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after.

It was so quiet here.

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you.

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down.

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’.

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open.

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind.

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light.

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back.

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it.

You are made of memories.

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?”

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.”

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror.

Tall; formidable.

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him.

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise.

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.”

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises.

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping.

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation.

A hand is moved out to you, hovering.

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care.

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting.

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb.

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed.

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork.

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting.

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp.

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?”

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you.

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him.

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls.

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.”

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?”

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind.

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet.

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?”

“Get in your seat, Captain.”

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt.

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood.

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness.

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better.

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass.

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb.

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?”

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone.

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours.

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.”

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone.

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists.

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities.

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace.

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur.

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?”

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.”

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?”

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree.

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley.

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building.

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so.

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another.

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears.

The line is silent.

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!”

“He’s in the alley!”

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull.

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him.

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs.

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull.

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.”

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard.

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway.

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was.

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips.

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning.

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow.

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.”

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing.

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling.

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.”

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back.

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.”

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents.

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence.

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully.

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly.

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin.

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath.

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame.

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.”

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast.

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple.

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead.

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him.

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to.

You loved each other.

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms.

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be.

What should be.

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17.

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.”

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity.

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures.

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen.

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy.

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power.

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging.

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street.

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing.

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.”

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.”

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location.

“Ninety,” you breathe.

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop.

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you.

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on.

Not you.

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love.

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic.

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up.

Emmett was a snake.

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman.

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch.

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now.

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues.

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista.

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation.

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight.

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits.

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!”

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line.

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in.

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing.

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him.

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you?

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known.

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze.

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight.

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before.

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete.

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred.

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion.

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat.

It’s nothing.

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over.

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding.

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse.

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.”

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet.

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression.

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.”

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight.

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base.

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces.

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter.

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.”

Laswell frowns tightly at him.

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.”

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh.

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you.

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers.

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping.

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming.

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump.

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter.

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded.

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully.

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping.

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means.

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond.

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables.

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful.

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall.

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture.

But this might finally give him something to act on.

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door.

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her.

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost.

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer.

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture.

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses.

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say.

But this is something else.

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.”

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it.

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose.

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried.

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them.

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once.

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak.

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.”

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose.

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive.

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality.

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic.

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife.

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors.

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath.

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived.

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop.

But the brain is a funny thing.

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout.

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe.

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs.

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace.

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting.

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own.

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open.

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths.

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back.

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage.

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.”

Your chest is heavy.

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.”

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?”

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind.

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers.

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much.

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words.

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form.

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants.

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for.

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away.

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room.

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor.

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this.

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment.

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.”

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you.

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess.

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow.

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily.

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.”

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning.

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later.

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him.

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath.

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.”

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum.

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all.

“I love you.”

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial.

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed?

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked.

“I love you.”

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all.

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment.

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that.

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

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anonymouslosersworld · 11 months ago

Text

continuing the bloodline

Prompt; Mc is the last of Solomon's bloodline wouldn't a half-demon baby be cute especially if it was with a certain king. (Mc's Depravity just wants to see a specific view after all they offered once.)

Summary: Mc just wants to breed and knock up some very pretty demons.

Genre: smut (m)

Fandom: what in hell is bad

Characters; 2 out 4 Kings of hell Satan and Mammon

Warnings : Dom Mc, creampies, overstimulation, voyeurism, sub! character, m-preg just normal mc horny stuff.

Intro: Satan/Sitri/Ppyong, once told Mc that demons can't have kids on their own, for demons to have kids they would have to go to Lilith and ask for her help due to complications. But many demons just go to Earth and fuck humans because it's more compatible/easier. (this is in-game when they talk about Lilith and her role in demon society a little.)

So Mc, the last of her line looks into this topic (for research purposes, obviously) and finds out it's the demon that gets knocked up no matter the gender. Now Mc can't get the image of their favorite demon knocked up. (Not canon info)

Satan (666 words)

He understands he offered it when he got affected by the angel's blood, but he didn't think you would take him up on it. But ever since he presented the idea, you kind of took it with you. You didn't take the suggestion right away, but you had a certain look about you every time you saw Satan. You basically eye-fucked him almost all the time, but your eyes would linger around his stomach.

At first, he thought you were just fantasizing about his dick or basically just salivating over his abs. But then the touching started, and he could only describe it as oddly comforting but a little confused.

Before, during, and after you guys fucked, you would just rub his kiss marked-stomach. He was constantly asked if he had any cravings or would be inspected to see if his nips were swollen. It wasn't until the angel attacks calmed down and things were finally settling down that your actions were doubled. You were just taking him everywhere. You would pull him away from events with nobles just to do him in a separate room, shoving your tongue down his throat when he spoke to Sitri, making him cum from playing with horns and groping his cock whenever you felt like it. You were insatiable, and Satan began to put things together...eventually.

His horns were like a faucet, leaking all over his body. His hands are tied up with a makeshift tie on his headboard using his own shirt. His pink overall was shoved off of him.

His face was hot. His brain was foggy, and his eyes rolled back.

"so pretty~" He finally hears for a long while.

Your tongue takes a good, long lick of the cream that fell on his nipple from his horns. Satan's body shakes as he breathes heavily through his nose. Your body leaned over his as you continued to lick the devil's essence off his chest; after all, you need it to live.

Satan looks at you, dazed, as you sit back on his cock. He watches as you cheekily smile at him when you finally finish swallowing all of his cum.

"I'm going to make you a daddy, Satan~" You leaned back down to whisper into his ear.

"f-fuck!" The warmth wrapped around his cock was beginning to be too much, but your words made his cock burst. His thighs spread a little more. His cock practically throbbed while in you.

"You like that, baby?" You tease him as your hand presses on his stomach.

"You want a baby right here?" Satan lets out a shakey breath. '' You are the only one that I want to give my baby to." Your hands gripped the base of his horns yet again, and Satan's back arched.

Oh~" he could practically hear your smirk. "I didn't think they would get more sensitive."

Satan's head feels like it's going to explode. His mind is going a mile a minute as he keeps thinking of having a baby with you. Him being full and having a baby in him. His cock is deep inside you; he can feel your insides pulse around him. Satan feels your hips rocking, taking his cock back in and making his head dizzy. Was this why you kept fucking him over and over again? Was this why you kept his cock inside you long after you both came?

You were trying to make him pregnant.

"You'd look so beautiful with you full of me."

He whimpered in response. The tip of his cock had swollen up since you had basically promised him a baby.

He thought of his stomach swelling with your love.

a baby

"F~uugh!" Your lips bit into his neck. Your teeth are breaking his skin, and your tongue is soothing and lapping up after.

"I can't hear you, baby." Your lips moved from his neck to his ear. You take the liberty to nip the tip of his ear. "Go on, keep going."

"F-fuck a baby into me."

Mammon

You took one look at his massive tits and ass. He walks around hell in all kingdoms, claiming you are his master and claiming to be yours. Why wouldn't you think to breed the shit out of his fine ass?

He practically encourages you to be as greedy as possible and lets you touch him ALL over whenever. Something about this man makes you absolutely feral.

Maybe it's the off-the-shoulder, free-the-titties look that really did it for you. But for some reason, you loved seeing and feeling his gold-fingered claws dig into your skin or whatever was in his reach whenever the pleasure overwhelmed him.

The man's tits alone make you salivate at the mere sight, but when you mark them up with HICKIES, bites, scratches, and lick marks,.

It became the norm for Mammon to walk around Tartaros with all types of evidence on him. Mammon would walk with a spring in his step and a beam of pride whenever he even caught a reflection of the physical marks you left him in someone's eyeballs. All because you were staking your claim over him.

"I want everything," you repeated his favorite phrase to him. Both of your hands squeezed Mammon's tits as you had him underneath you. His body shivered, and his nips were swollen from you sucking them. You had taken orgasm after orgasm from him. His body was sensitive, and the remnants of chocolate on his abs clung to him. Your expert tongue had basically fucked his tits and stomach.

"It's all yours, master." The nail marks on your back stung, but you smiled at him as you took one of his fingers to your mouth. Your eyes reflected possessiveness, but your whole aura was bathed in lust. You would give Asmoudues a run for his money.

"I want all of you, Mammon." He whimpered as he felt you move against him again while the vibrator worked deeper inside him. Your ass looked amazing as you rode him. He loved the view of your ass as you rode him. You more than welcomed him to grope your ass as you gripped his thighs, leaving marks. He could feel your cum deep inside him from previous rounds.

"I-iingh, all yours; take everything. All that I am is yours."

"Have my treasure, Mammon." Your voice got a little deeper. " Let me fuck it into you. No one will have this treasure but you."

He can mostly see the back of your head but he could see a hint of a blush. He grounded his hips harder into you at the thought of you breeding him. He was already fucked out, but he couldn't help but want more. All the cum you shot him was safely kept inside him with a deep-tissue vibrator you had received as a gift from Beelzebub. The ultimate way of staking your claim over him

"y-yes, fuck yes!" he moaned loudly as he came " m-master, more" His face was red from blushing as he repeated what he said to you.

''let's make your wish a reality."

#what in hell is bad x reader #what in hell is bad #what in hell is bad smut #sub whb satan #sub whb #whb mammon #whb satan #whb #whb mc #dom reader

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localharpydrawer · 7 months ago

Note

sean macguire headcanons🙏

SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY OML

Anyways here ya go :)))

SEAN HEADCANONS

the guy snores like a truck. Like middle-of-the-night dad snore that can keep a sleep-deprived owl up. Very deep sleeper defo, once he’s out he’s OUT.

almost drowned once because he jumped into a river whilst drunk (he thought it was like ankle-deep but it actually went up to his waist)

Whenever he has a cold it’s always dramatic. Like he’ll hack and cough as if he’s got the black plague, it’s crazy.

his jokes are solid ass. he thinks he’s the funniest guy in the world but his jokes either never work/are too complex/don’t make borderline sense

coughs like a 50 year old man you cannot convince me otherwise

tried to steal some poor bypasser’s horse when he was a teen, he ended up awkwardly trying to shove the rider off whilst hanging off the side of the saddle, got kicked off and nearly got his nose broken in the process

if he *could* write, it would be like trying to translate ancient runes. his handwriting would be so loopy and unstable he probably would have to manually remember what he had written (ofc its canon he’s illiterate but wishes are wishes yk)

“fuck about and find out” kinda person

Gives Ennis head/behind ear scratches constantly

Names anything and everything. Random stick he found around camp that’s a weird shape? George. Rock that’s shiny? Finn. (Once tried to knock someone out with ‘finn’ after they tried to rob him, it went exactly how you think it went)

sorry if these are a bit ass, I don’t really have an ‘in-depth’ kind of view on sean’s lore so if they are a bit inaccurate please correct my shite :]]

#rdr2 #rdr2 sean #sean macguire #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #headcanon #guys holy fuck #so cutie #cutie patootie #irish terrier #for real #red dead redemption two

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cultofdixon · 2 years ago

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Anxious Habits

Daryl Dixon • They/Them Pronouns • You were always there for Daryl. From being neighbors growing up to roommates that were oblivious to the other’s feelings. Now facing the apocalypse together with your found family. But only you knew how to handle a certain habit • SFW/Smol Angst • TW: Canon Violence / Past Abuse Mentioned (Flashbacks) / Anxiety / Injuries

Requested by: Anon

Y/N frowns approaching the Dixon residence which was just another trailer in the trailer park they lived in. They carried their backpack full of the necessities for another Father Dixon Scream Out as they watch Daryl step out of his trailer with clenched fists.

The two found themselves in the woods behind the trailer park…as Daryl kicks his feet in the creek, Y/N took care of the cut on his face and cracked open an ice pack for the black eye he was rocking. He held the ice pack with one hand and chewed on thumb with the other being lost in thought as Y/N finishes putting the bandaid on his cheek.

They noticed how bad he was chewing on his finger and took his hand out of his mouth holding it in their warm soft hands. Daryl stares at them for a moment before relaxing after they did such. The two now just listening to the running water…

________

“Hey”

Daryl continued to chew on his thumb but looked up to the familiar voice of his best friend seeing their worried expression. He continues to do what he was doing but no longer looking at them.

“If you want me to beat up Rick, I will. What he did was uncalled for.” Y/N sat beside him on his cot frowning to him biting his fingers before taking both of his hands into theirs. “We’ll find him though. Your brother is a roach after all”

“He still hates being referred to as such yknow”

“I mean. Am I wrong?” Y/N smirks listening to Daryl laugh as he shook his head.

________

Y/N sat beside Daryl outside of his and Merle’s apartment listening to the eldest dixon yell at his woman at the time. The two were uncomfortable by how he was treating who’s supposed to be his other half.

Suddenly a thud was heard and they both turned to each other anxiously making Daryl start biting at his thumb. But once Y/N pulled his hand away from his mouth squeezing his hand, they both heard Merle yell out more expletives followed by “why did you push me over”. Both were thankful it wasn’t the woman but after that the two saw the cop lights flashing, indicating a neighbor called.

“Time to go”

“We’ll get him later” Y/N grabs Daryl’s hand dragging him the hell out of there.

________

Daryl winces awake causing Y/N to stop chewing at their own fingers bringing themselves to his bedside.

“Yea alright?”

“If shitty is alright, then I’m peachy”

“Right. Well…Andrea won’t be doing that again”

The archer glares at his best friend seeing the guilty look written all over their face. “The fuck yea do?”

“I already apologized so I don’t believe it matters if you know” Y/N frowns picking at the skin they chewed on their thumb seeing the split that made them cringe a bit. Daryl took one of their hands to stop them from messing with it.

“If yea punched her out. Did you at least not tuck in your thumb when yea did it?”

“Hey I’m not an idiot. I know how to fight a bitch if I gotta…but yeah I broke her nose” Y/N sighs, smiling slightly when Daryl couldn’t help the laugh that escape him hearing what they did.

________

Daryl frowns sitting in the only chair of the hospital room staring at the empty bed as he felt the room closing in making him feel worse about what happened. He pressed his right thumb into his left palm trying not to bite at his fingers when he got anxious.

Fuck it. He started biting at his thumb thinking of all the worse possibilities.

Then the door opened as the nurse pushed Y/N in in their wheelchair.

“I’m going to get your discharge papers”

“Alright nurse. But don’t forget to tell that boss of yours to shove it if she doesn’t give you the day off for your daughter’s recital” Y/N yells as the nurse leaves laughing.

Daryl frowns locking eyes with Y/N who seemed alright for the most part. Even if their left wrist was in a cast, a bit of road rash on the same upper arm to bicep, and a concussion with a butterfly bandage on their right eyebrow.

“You gonna beat yourself up about it?”

“It was my bike you crashed on”

“Yeah but I was driving. So. Shut the fuck up Dixon brain” Y/N rolled over enough to grab his shoulders and shake him. “Stop blaming yourself for shit you didn’t do! And stop biting your thumbs. I like your thumbs and you can’t hurt them” they frown holding his hands even if their wrist was bothering them. Daryl knew they were on pain killers but knew everything they said were true.

“We’re going to your place and you’re lettin’ me take care of yea”

“Mmmm…gotta take the bus back”

“You can’t fall asleep until yea get home. But I’ll make sure you’re comfy at least”

“Darrylllll….”

“What?” He frowns feeling their good hand squeeze his.

“Stop stressing…and can we get soup on the way home?”

“Sure” Daryl laughs holding their hands being comfortable with them as they waited.

________

“We’ll find Carol. I don’t believe she’s dead. She’ll turn up” Y/N frowns watching Daryl pick at his fingers as they carefully took his hands into theirs feeling him pull away at first before giving in.

The archer rests his forehead against theirs taking a second to breathe. Collect himself in the comforts of his person.

Glenn has noticed the two act like such and gain suspicion of what their relationship was. A small part of him wanted that closeness with somebody and he gets it from Maggie.

“Hey Y/N?”

The moment past and Glenn went to Y/N for something but it was more so an answer to a question he’s been stuck with since he’s met both them and Daryl.

“You’ve got a second?”

“Always, G. What’s up?”

“How…how do you do that?”

Y/N tilts their head confused as Glenn took the seat beside them enjoying the cool Georgia breeze they received outside the prison.

“How can you get him to calm down? Relax? You did it back when we found out we lost Sophia. Even helped Carol…but you get him to stop doing that chewing thing. It’s like the chewing nail habit but that’s a hard habit to stop”

“Oh he doesn’t stop” Y/N smiles seeing Glenn’s confusion grow on his face. “Daryl is always worried because that’s how he is. As am I. I worry about those I love and it sends me in a spiral when I can’t fix the problem. So I help Daryl ease his and that helps me…besides, he’s gonna really hurt himself if he keeps biting his fingers down to a rawness”

“Y/N…you don’t have to carry everything yknow”

“I do, and you know you shouldn’t either” They continue to smile squeezing his shoulder before rising and heading back inside the prison.

He suddenly felt a wave of relief and quickly turned the their direction realizing they just made him feel better.

•

After the prison fell, Daryl looked at his bleeding fingers after biting at them for the days he was separated from everyone else. But more importantly Y/N.

“We’ve got bandages in one of the packs. Need’em?” Rick gestures to the fingers watching Daryl shake his head thinking to himself that he deserved this.

He can hear their voice in his head, the sense of worry in their tone when noticing what he’s done before. The phantom feeling of their soft by scarred hands squeezing his.

“Daryl, you okay?”

“I lost’em…I should’ve went back to the prison to get’em…Now I lost my favorite person in the whole world”

“Y/N ain’t dead. I don’t believe that one bit”

“We won’t know…until proven otherwise…” Daryl frowns looking back down at his fingers feeling the sting of pain along with the phantom feeling of them.

He should’ve said something sooner…

about how much they meant to him.

________

“Hey stranger”

Daryl stops pitching his tent when he heard the familiar voice that he thought he lost when the outbreak started. He quickly stood up finding Y/N standing before him with that signature smirk of theirs.

“Daryl why yea stop—-Holy fucking shit” Merle points to Y/N surprised that they’re standing right there before the brothers. “They didn’t die dude”

The youngest suddenly pushed the oldest over to shut it and run the short distance bringing Y/N into his embrace. They held onto him for as long as he needed before pulling back taking his hands into theirs.

“Still stressin? Should be glad I’m back”

“You fucking know I am” Daryl pulled them back into his embrace listening to their laugh logging it more into his memory.

________

“Daryl come with me” Rick states not waiting for him to respond as the archer got up from the porch of their new home that he was still adjusting to.

Carol wrapped his fingers even if he did start to pick at the bandaging. He can’t beat his habit and doesn’t have his person.

As Daryl caught up with Rick to the infirmary he saw the small crowd surrounding the gurney. He gently pushes Maggie and Carol aside before locking eyes with the familiar pair of beautiful E/C colored globes.

“They’re a little banged up but they are alright. I found’em on a quick run” Glenn smiles rubbing circles on Y/N’s back as they slowly rise from the gurney making their family huddle protectively in case they fell.

But they had Daryl to catch them if they did. Even if he didn’t wait to bring them into his embrace.

“Yea can’t leave me anymore”

“Mm…heard from Carol about your fingers, is it just for that reason honey?” Y/N smiles parting slightly from him with a slight twitch of a frown when seeing the bandages on his fingers.

“You know I can’t live without yea” Daryl chokes up on his words feeling the tears get the best of him as he didn’t care who was looking at them as he kisses them firmly before squeezing them in his embrace.

“I can’t live without you either Dar” Y/N eases into his embrace feeling as if it was just them in that room while the world around them blacks out.

Just the two of us.

#cultofdixon #the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction

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acewithapaintbrush · 1 year ago

Text

Happy Halloween

Marine number 47 cowers behind a much too small crate and prays to every deity he knows to save him.

His crewmates have long since abandoned the ship. Or maybe they are dead. Who knows. Not Marine 47.

Marine 47 had wasted no time. The second that infamous Jolly Roger had emerged from the fog with agonizing slowness, 47 had booked it. Had shoved past his equally terrified friends and superiors and had hid here, down below deck, behind a much too small crate in the ship's only cargo hold.

Screams and shouts and rifle fire.

And then silence.

His breath is loud in the tiny space but not loud enough to drown out the rapid footsteps coming his way.

tap tap tap tap tap.

Fast. Joyful.

Deadly.

tap tap tap tap tap.

Up and down the hallway. Passing the room he's hiding in once, twice, a third time.

Maybe… maybe….

The door is thrown open and all the air seems to be sucked out of the room. 47 clutches at his chest, his heart is suddenly beating hard and fast to a rhythm he has no control over. It skips and jumps and beats against his ribcage and he wants to scream but he doesn't have the breath for even a whisper.

He can see the rest of the room behind him. It's being mirrored in one of their canons standing upright at his feet.

'Polish them until I can see myself in them', their admiral used to say.

Bastard.

Number 47 can see everything now and it's the last thing he wants. He can't close his eyes. When he tries, the beating of his heart vibrates in his eyeballs and it hurts. So he keeps them open and watches that… thing enter the hold.

The canons are not perfect mirrors, so the figure is slightly distorted. Arms and legs longer than they should be, head misshapen. But 47 sees enough. He sees blinding whiteness and red eyes and a large grin. Sharp enough to bite clear through his jugular.

The figure laughs, loud, jarring. Number 47 slaps his hands over his ears but it's futile. This laugh, it penetrates everything, every thought 47 might still have had other than terror.

He closes his eyes. It goes bump bump bump behind his eyelids. He snaps them back open.

"Yo!"

Number 47 rears back and the crate seems to swallow him. It's not wood anymore. It's soft and malleable and 47 sinks into it. The thing crouches on top of the crate that is not a crate anymore and stares down at him, upside down.

Red eyes stare out of a face framed by white clouds rocking in non-existent wind. The eyes are swirling with an unholy light, madness lies in them, a depth as deep as the deepest sea and just as dark. They dance, seem to jump from number 47's forehead to his nose to his chin and back again.

They are the only light in the room.

"Yo!" The thing, this otherworldly being, repeats, grin wide and threatening. "Why are you hiding in here? Are you a coward? Hahaha I hate cowards, you know?!"

Number 47 shakes his head. He doesn't know why.

The being cocks his head, humming, chuckling. "Your friends ran away! They were cowards too. What's your name?"

Never tell them your name. Never give your captors information.

Not even Gods devils.

"Marine Nr. 47-3981. Infantry Beta Alpha 39-"

The being laughs and throws himself backwards, holding his stomach and rolling around on the floor. The floor turns into the sea, a rolling storm making 47 sick. "What a funny name! Omoshiroi!"

He laughs and laughs and laughs and number 47 chokes on the matching laughter in his throat. He doesn't want to laugh. Nothing about this sound echoing off the walls is funny.

It's terrifying.

The being stops and sits up, blinking large eyes at his surroundings. "I better get Robin." he mutters, dreamlike, eyes staring at nothing. "She'll know what to do about you."

The smile as he turns away is distracted, his thoughts already a mile away, the marine with the funny name nothing but a footnote in his journey not worth thinking about any longer.

Marine number 47 doesn't know any of that. He doesn't know that he is nothing to a God. Doesn't know that he is about to walk out of this ghost story of his own making with nothing but hurt pride and some food to tide him over until he reaches the next island.

Marine number 47 panics and hefts his rifle, pointing it directly at the back of the one being God man that could be his salvation.

His finger curls around the trigger but before he can take proper aim something moves in the shadows behind him. A huff of breath hits his neck, hot and cold at the same time. The sound of steel sliding free almost gets lost under the oblivious God's easy humming.

47 freezes, can only turn his head an inch. It's enough to witness his end.

Green hair. Dark eyes. Golden earrings.

"Bad idea." the demon growls and three swords descend upon their chosen victim.

Marine number 47 only feels the first blade.

#one piece #One piece fanfic #one piece halloween #gear 5 luffy #one piece gear 5 #gear 5 spoilers #Luffy is terrifying #Fitting for a god #But there is someone even more terrifying

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hey-heigo · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 9

oh god oh fuck he's back

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

Hey Byakuya I'm glad you had your little reconciliation moment. We're still in a killing game though so don't forget

There is not as much of a focus on the other chars...trying to change that for the future because they're just as fun to write

Toko, girl...I do love Toko as a character but as a person she does some questionable stuff. This hasn't changed for this fic

@moonlighttogami betaread this!!

Content warning tags: Monokuma shows up to move the plot. I'm not sure what to tag this one with to be honest...canon compliance stressful events I guess?

< previous - from start - next >

“So you guys are…like, better now?”

It’s Asahina who asks this, walking boldly up to where he’s sitting at breakfast the next morning. He raises an eyebrow at her, setting down the piece of toast that Makoto had delivered him.

“What on earth do you mean?” He asks right back. He has the feeling of eyes, following his every movement. It’s annoying, but he supposes it makes sense; being locked up in a building with no new information meant the common masses would be slavering for entertainment. Relationship drama, or gossip thereof, was one way to sate that need.

“Oh, you know…you guys seemed like you were arguing before,” She says casually, rocking on her heels. “Like, you would leave any time he was in the same room, you wouldn’t talk to him, and he stopped bringing you breakfast…” She trails off, voice ending in a pointed lilt.

“I don’t know what assumptions you’re making, but I’m not interested in feeding your delusions.” He replies coolly. Let them draw their own conclusions. “Why not bother Makoto about this?”

“What do you think they’re doing?” She jerks her chin behind her. Makoto is surrounded on all sides by Yasuhiro, Owada…and Ishimaru, who for some reason seemed oddly friendly, especially with Owada. The weight of three, overbearing personalities seemed to be physically crushing the boy, as he tries to avoid Mondo’s belting, burlish questions by ducking into his cereal.

He wonders if Makoto was looking at him, probably making pleading eyes for assistance, and purposely looks away. He quietly congratulates himself for his forward thinking; after waking up some time before seven (warm and tangled up in sheets and limbs, and with his internal clock thrown entirely off-course), he immediately kicked Makoto out, shoving the groggy boy bodily out of his room, specifically to avoid drawing this kind of unnecessary speculation.

(He worried, afterwards, about whether he had inadvertently ruined their recently repaired deal. But then Makoto said ‘good morning’ when he entered the cafeteria, and then brought him breakfast as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. And suddenly, it felt somewhat foolish of him to have been concerned in the first place.)

“Like I said. Draw your own conclusions.” He hums, lifting up his mug for a sip of coffee. It was bitter and watery, but there’s some slight improvement from before; his constant hassling of Ishimaru must have yielded results. “Is that all? Can you leave now?”

Asahina wanders off, apparently annoyed that he won’t reveal anything more. With her absence, he suddenly becomes aware of a presence behind him, and as he sets down his mug, he manages to identify the person by smell.

In the time since becoming blind, it seemed that his nose had sharpened, though that wasn’t necessarily a pleasant adjustment. He sighs, “What, Fukawa.”

The shuffling footsteps that had been inching steadily closer to him stop, then scurry off. What a strange one. He suspected that she was of the same crowd as Fujisaki, an admirer that has confused expected appreciation of superiority for romantic infatuation. For the time being, she was still relatively harmless, and somewhat useful in how attentive she was, cleaning up after him at mealtimes. He could have Makoto chase her off later…somehow or another.

Breakfast was drawing to a close. People began putting away their dishes, meandering towards the exit. Byakuya stands up and begins walking towards the library, and not long after he enters the hallway does he hear the sound of footsteps, sneakers squeaking to catch up to him, and allows himself a small smile.

___

Ding dong, bing bong.

He pauses outside of his room door, looking up in the direction of the sound. How odd, but he didn’t think it was ten PM already…he’d been very careful to have Makoto pay attention to the time on his wristwatch, so that they would leave the library with ample time to spare. He glances over his shoulder, and sees Makoto standing in the middle of the hallway, staring confusedly at the nearest speaker.

“Ahem! School announcement, school announcement.” Monokuma’s voice grates from the speakerphone. “Nighttime is quickly approaching, but before it arrives... All students, please gather in the gym immediately. Emergency! Emergency!”

This…could only spell trouble.

Around them, their peers were beginning to peek out of their rooms. Some of them seemed to be trembling. A clamor of anxiety was beginning to build, people voicing their worry for what could be coming next.

“I-It’s not a b-b-body, right?” He hears someone stutter behind him, along with the sound of audible counting.

“No. We’re all accounted for.” Kirigiri's voice cuts through the hubbub. “But we better get moving. It’s not a good idea to defy him here and now.”

Her words help snap people into action. He walks on ahead, ignoring Makoto, who had begun to drift over to him. He still needed to maintain some semblance of normality, after all, and having the other boy hover over him too much would grow too annoying. That conversation from breakfast was still on his mind.

The gymnasium is the same as he last remembers it, save for the removal of Enoshima’s body. From what he can tell, even the floorboards that had been pierced through have been replaced. How meticulous. He wonders if it was Monokuma that took care of the repair, and is struck by the sudden ridiculous image of the bear toddling around with a box of tools and some wooden blanks before wondering if there was something wrong with his head beyond his eyesight.

Speaking of Monokuma, the insufferable toy wasn’t here yet. The others murmur among each other, uneasy and on edge.

“What could he possibly want?” Ishimaru wonders aloud. His unusually relaxed, easygoing demeanor from earlier today was gone, replaced with the stiff, high-energy nervousness that he usually displayed around Monokuma.

“Indeed. What might await us this time?” Celeste hums, calm as ever.

Nothing good, I’m sure. He thinks to himself. But really, there was only one possibility that was in his mind.

“It’s likely a new motive.” He says, and at that, a hush falls over the group. They all knew what that meant.

“A-a-a-” Yamada trembles where he stands. “A new motive?!”

“Nooo…not again!” Yasuhiro moans, hands fisting in his own hair. “And not after the earthquakes last night!”

The ripple of anxiety that had been running through the group is interrupted by confusion. “...Earthquakes?” Makoto asks.

“Yeah! There was, like, a lot of rumbling last night.” The clairvoyant nods emphatically, hair bouncing like the branches of a tree. “I was sitting around in the main hall last night, meditating, when I suddenly heard a lot of, like, loud booms and stuff. I totally thought it was construction or something at first.”

“Construction…?” Asahina tilts her head. “Would it be the mastermind trying to build something?”

“I mean, I don’t know if it was construction for sure. It was just, like, kinda loud, you know?” He waves his hands, as if trying to support just how ‘loud’ it was by movement alone. “Like, I’m surprised no one else heard it!”

“The rooms are all soundproof.” Kirigiri interjects now. “Most of the rest of us were in our rooms by ten o’clock.”

“Y-yeah, I know, but- wait, does this make me seem suspicious? But no one’s even dead!” The few shreds of interesting information he had to offer were gone, and now all he spewed were inane words again. “I just lost track of time and was staring off into space! Serious!”

They continue to prattle on, and Byakuya tunes them out. Construction noises…he’s not sure what it could imply. Nothing good, surely, if there’s been no sign of the rescue that Asahina had talked about earlier, then that meant the mastermind’s domain extended past the mere limits of the school - the noises Yasuhiro heard were also supportive of that.

“Hey hey heyy, everyone!! What’s everyone talkin’ about?”

A voice pierces the air, and they turn just in time to see Monokuma vaulting onto the podium. It’s a cartoonish sight, but Byakuya feels tense, an uneasy chill building at the base of his neck. And judging by the sudden stilling of the others around him, it seemed that he wasn’t alone in this reaction.

“What Hiro heard wasn't the sound of construction...but it could have been an explosion!” The thing laughs. “Or maybe a machine gun! Puhuhu...That can kinda sound like construction in a way!”

“What are you talking about…?” Makoto asks, and Monokuma rolls over in another fit of giggles.

“Ah-ah-ah! You won’t get that out of me so easily! You might as well try gutting me for stuffing first!” It wags a paw at them. “It’s a secret little secret, y’hear?? And speaking of secrets…”

It digs behind its back for a moment, and seemingly out of nowhere, produces a stack of what looks like large, blank, white cards, fanned out in its paws like a blackjack hand. “Ta-dah!!”

Byakuya fights the urge to squint. Subtly, he steps quietly over to Makoto’s side. “What’s it holding,” He hisses quietly.

“Envelopes…with our names on them?” As Makoto responds in a whisper, Monokuma tosses the envelopes, and they scatter over the floor.

“Everyone pick up yours!” The headmaster orders, and a few people hesitantly obey. “If you don’t, you’ll regret it~!”

Damn. Byakuya stares at the mess of papers scattered around them. He could crawl on hands and knees for a million years, and never find it… “Why should we?” He snarks, glaring at Monokuma. “What’s this all about, anyways?”

“Ohh, good question, little heir!” The bear nods, like a pleased teacher contemplating an enthusiastic student’s question. “Well, if you don’t want to hurry and grab your envelope just yet, I suppose I’ll give you an explanation. You see, I’m a bit bored these days…every single day is so blah and humbug, you know? I’m suuuree you understand!” It waddles, kicking at a few of the envelopes at its feet. “Gosh, it’s got me so frustrated, I’m about to start tugging all my threads out…that’s how bad I want some stimulation, y’hear?! Something rife with danger and intrigue!!”

With those words, Byakuya feels that dread, cold and dripping, crawling down his back. Somewhere behind him, Owada snarls. “The fuck’re you getting at? Spit it out!”

“Patient, be paa-tient! Goodness, it’s not good to be so angry all the time!” Monokuma shakes its head. “But I’m a good headmaster, so I suppose I’ll just go ahead and be frank for my eager lil’ students. Y’see, it’s taking too long for another blackened to show up, and I’m getting so, so, sosososo bored…so, I’ve come up with a new way to motivate you all!” It twirls, and gestures once more towards the envelopes. “This time, I’ve collected up some of everyone’s most embarrassing memories and secrets! And I wrote them up and put them into pretty little envelopes for you all to read through!”

The chill in his back turns icy, and his gaze flicks down to the envelopes scattered on the hardwood floor. Around him, he can hear others diving for their envelopes, snatching them up hurriedly - but he can’t move. Even if he tries, he won’t find it - he can only hope that Makoto had found his, and wouldn’t betray him by reading it. Or else…

And others have started reading already. He hears gasps, terror, disbelief, the crumpling of paper. Before him, Monokuma looks up, tilting its face in an impression of curiosity.

“Oh? What’s this? Not moving?” It reaches out and pats at his knee, and he takes an involuntary step back, disgusted. “What, are you Jesus or something? Free of sin? You think you have no dark or dirty secrets to hide?”

Ironically, it was this stupid taunt that brought him back from his growing panic. Calm down, he snaps at himself. He’d do himself no favors making a fool of himself here.

He forces his face into a sneer. “I’m not the kind of person to be moved to kill by such a pathetic motive.” He says loudly, so everyone else could hear. “You’ll have to do better to make me participate in such a miserable excuse for a game.”

“Still not impressed, I see? Such a shame…” Monokuma looks down, apparently unhappy by this declaration. “And I worked so hard on these too…oh well. Whether or not you look at it matters, if you don’t mind someone else reading it…right, Miss Fukawa?”

There’s a squeak. Byakuya’s head jerks to the right, where he remembers seeing Fukawa last. Sure enough, the girl is hastily shoving something back into an envelope - one of two envelopes, that she has clutched in her hands-

He’s crossed the space between them before he’s even aware of what’s happening, and grabs the envelope out of her hands, fingers crumpling the paper. Before him, Fukawa flinches and cows, shrinking down. “U-um, I didn’t-I was just…”

He glares, and her words die out. Behind him, Monokuma cackles. “Puhuhu! Oh, that’s too good!” It rolls on the floor with laughter, feet kicking merrily. “This is just like a reality drama! …But, it’s not what I’m after.”

The toy wiggles its legs for a moment, then toddles back onto its feet. “Everyone! You have twenty-four hours! If no one is blackened by then, I’ll reveal everyone’s secret to the whole, wide world! Wouldn’t that be so embarrassing??”

“We’d never kill over something like this!” Makoto’s voice pipes up. He’s standing there, hands clenched at his sides. “Sure, this is something I’d rather not want people to know, but…it’s not something to take someone else’s life over!”

There’s a brief pause, and then a small chorus of agreement. “He’s right!” Ishimaru shouts. “Your plan is doomed from the start! No one’s going to murder someone for this kind of thing!”

“Oh, is that what you really think?” The air in the room seems to chill by several degrees. Monokuma’s voice, previously playful and lighthearted, suddenly takes a sinister tone. “Well…whatever! If that’s the case, I’ll be revealing anyone’s secrets in twenty-four hours anyways, to make myself feel a little better. Everyone…farenotwell!”

And he turns, waddles off, and disappears into the depths of the gym.

In the end, they decide to simply ignore it.

Perhaps ‘ignore’ is the wrong turn of phrase here. Byakuya thinks bitterly, as he watches the other begin walking out. In truth, they had hesitantly tried suggesting sharing secrets now, to eliminate the motive, but several (including himself) were strongly opposed to the idea.

In the end, Ishimaru sent them off with a hesitant, awkward suggestion to ‘not act too hastily’, which was about as much as he could offer in this situation. Byakuya grabs Fukawa’s shoulder as she begins to leave, feeling his skin crawl at the very touch of her.

“Ah- huh?! Um…” Her head jerks, between him and the door, and begins squirming in her shoes. “M-mister Byakuya…”

“Give me your envelope.” He says coldly, and she freezes. “Well?”

“U-um…I can’t…” He grabs it from her hand, and she squeals. “W-wait-! L-let me prepare my h-heart-”

“Makoto.” He turns to the boy standing a ways behind him. “Come here.”

Makoto trots over, and Byakuya thrusts both envelopes in his face. “Which one?”

“Uh…” He hesitates for a moment, then points to the one that Byakuya had already been holding.

Byakuya shoves Fukawa’s envelope back towards her, and she fumbles for it a little too late. It flutters to the ground. “Stay away from me.” He spits. “And if I hear any whisper about the contents of this envelope, I’ll make you regret ever being born. Do you understand?”

He turns before she can respond, marching towards the door. Makoto’s footsteps dog after him.

“H-hey, wasn’t that a little…harsh?” He asks, quietly. Byakuya shakes his head.

“Hardly.” He grits out. If anything, he should have been harsher. His hand is still clenched tight around the envelope, the edges digging into his palm. The fury from earlier simmers; he could hardly believe the audacity that girl had dared to have.

He doesn’t even know what was written in his own envelope, and he doesn’t think he’s interested in reading it either. At the very surface level, it would be something about the blood competition that his family had held for the title of heir, and the lengths he had gone through to win it. If the mastermind had been really scouring for something embarrassing, he supposes it could detail about how he once spent a period of his life disguised as Polaris, though that was hard information to come by. Either one would be annoying to deal with once revealed, but it wouldn’t kill him. It was hardly the worst thing a Togami has done in the course of history, and as heir, any such information would be suppressed before it could reach any important ears.

But, it would be considered a blunder on my part. A blot on his perfect record. He chews at the inside of his cheek, feeling the raw and bloody flesh from the other day run over the grooves of his teeth. To allow such a thing to happen would reflect poorly upon him, draw doubt onto his position.

It’s not like killing was the better option, however.

He sighs, and stuffs the paper into his pocket. Better to put it out of his mind for now; if time runs out and it gets revealed, he’ll just have to figure out a way to deal with it then. He’s gotten out of tighter spots. And no matter how much he and Makoto had smoothed things over, he still couldn’t trust the boy to the degree of having him read it out to him, especially if it was a secret that could affect the family name.

For the time being, it was time to go to bed, and mull it over in his sleep.

< previous - from start - next >

#thpff chapters #thpff #danganronpa fanfiction #byakuya togami #trial 1 went similar to canon but don't expect the same for trial 2!!!!!#makoto spent his days without byakuya doing free time events but noticeably bummed the whole time #everyone thinks they're dating or something. or that byakuya's stringing him along. so on and so forth #some of them are rootingn for him to forget byakuya and move on (to kyoko most likely)#others are rooting for them to get back together #others are just observing for the hot goss and drama #toko has also noticed these rumors. hence her weird creepiness. she's trying to be more forward here

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chris-continues · 2 years ago

Text

It’s suffocating,

A Vash/reader (or my self insert but name isn’t mentioned) that deviates from my canon. Unrequited love.

It’s when I can barely handle his smile that I know it’s a lot.

It always has been, I mean, he’s far too kind and wonderful and sweet-

He’s too perfect.

And now he’s casted away and I’m grateful to be acquainted with him- his unwarranted unwanted reputation doesn’t suit him.

It’s when I feel my head and heart sink. That’s when I know it’s wrong. He smiles at Meryl, she teases and laughs all the while and I feel sick.

How could I get my hopes up? He doesn’t owe me anything, what did I expect?

“..It’s them, isn’t it?”

“Who?”

“Them.” Wolfwood gestures out the van window to them sitting at the campfire. There’s no need to explain it.

“Yeah.” My voice pathetically squeaks and he looks at me with.. pity? Empathy? Something. “I get that.”

I feel suffocated, seeing them together.

Quite literally, that’s when the first petal comes up. I walk with Wolfwood, Vash and Meryl teasing each other a few feet ahead.

It’s a few bloody petals.

A week later and it’s small buds, I cough behind the van while Wolfwood offers me water.

5 days after that and it’s whole, beautiful flowers. I can feel them leaving my throat and making me strangely pretty. I have to bury them in the sand once everyone goes to bed.

Only Wolfwood knows, along with Roberto, who had walked in once when he heard me coughing. I feel like shit.

I gag and cough and cry, throat tight and dry and I’m nauseous and lightheaded. I’ve barely eaten in the past few weeks.

“Jesus..” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “you’ve gotta eat.”

… “eat.” He insists, shoving a small portion of rations in my chest. “Thank me later.”

“I’ll just thank you now. I appreciate your help.”

A week ago I’d discovered what it was once I’d asked around a tavern curiously. Well, not really asked around. A barmaid was kind enough to inform me and listen once they’d caught my weary eyes on Vash. Who was laughing with Meryl.

“He’s a cutie, huh?”

“Yeah. He really is.” She turns, offering me a free drink. “It’s on the house, no need.” I nod, “Thank y-“ before I can begin, I hack and cough. Her towel helps to catch the blooms and now prickly vines that I feel poke my throat painfully.

“Hanahaki, huh?”

“Hm?”

“You cough up flowers thanks to unrequited love. It’s unknown why it happens.. but I’d recommend you enjoy your last few days.”

“What?”

“It’s fatal,” they explain. “I’m sorry.”

“..thanks for the free drink.”

I head up to my room early that night, and Roberto is kind enough to check on me. I cry, really cry as much as my tired throat lets me sob. Crying is even a privilege.

“And you’re still not mad at him?”

Even though it’s fatal?

“How could I be?”

Ever since we met it was always about making him happy. I left Jenora Rock to travel with him. I listened to him.

I was..

Just a really good friend. He needed that from me, nothing more.

“He doesn’t owe me anything. I can’t be mad at him for liking Meryl.”

Meryl was smart, and educated and older.

I was just.. me.

Roberto and Wolfwood make us stay in the tavern a few extra days. I’m laying on the bed again, I’ve barely left my room the past few days. One of the guys is kind enough to offer me food, but one day Vash greets me at my door.

“Wolfwood told me that you were sick. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s not your fault, uh..” I silently take the food from him. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” And he smiles. That beautiful, heartwarming grin. “If you need any help let me know, I’m just a room or two over.”

“I will.” That’s a lie.

I think it’s a slap in the face that very night that I get another coughing fit. I wish I could call him for help to rub my back, gently move the hair out of my face and hug me. But I know that wouldn’t help me at all.

Just saying hi to him pains me.

And so do the petals that grow, the vines that encase me beautifully, tearing my heart open and leaving me gorgeous.

I hope she looks at him the same way I did.

#hanahaki #unrequited love #vash our beloved #vash the stampede #vash x reader #vash x you #angst no happy ending #angst no comfort #drabble #Chris writes #trigun #tristamp #trigun stampede

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crackinglamb · 2 years ago

Text

WIP Whenever

Tagged by @serial-chillr and @mogwaei. Thank you both! 😘

Tagging @ir0n-angel, @fadedsweater, @pikapeppa, @anneapocalypse and @rosebud1773. No pressure.

So, serial's was a 'memory and past' thing mog's was a 'whenever' thing, so combining those we have...Mira nearly losing her shit in a mine collapse. (Btw, this is a canon circumstance for Bull and the Chargers, taken from one of Krem's stories.)

---

She came to beneath Bull, who was holding himself on his elbows. Her eyes and nose were filled with grit and there was nothing to see but shadows. From somewhere light spilled through the cracks between rocks, but it wasn't much and the fear that only ever lay dormant in the back of her mind was pressing against the rational walls she kept around it.

“Chief!” she heard from the other side of the rocks. “You in there?”

Bull shifted, turning his head to one side. “Yeah. Maybe don't shout. You'll bring the rest of the place down.”

Dust and scree filtered onto them as he failed to take his own advice. Mira felt like she couldn't breathe, even though nothing was touching her that wasn't him.

“We've got shovels on this side,” Krem said, at a much lower volume. “We've started to dig.”

“Good,” Bull called back. He seemed to remember her then, tucked into the safe space he'd made of his body when the first tremors began. Or maybe he noticed the choking little whimpers she couldn't seem to help making. “Mira, look at me.”

He was only inches away, but she couldn't find his features. Not even a gleam from his eyepatch. But his breath hit her face and his warmth was all over her and while her brain fought to scream that she had been buried alive again, her body only knew protection and care from the press of his weight. That was enough to keep panic at bay...at least a little. Her hands found his chest, found the strap of his harness. She felt her fingernails bend with how tightly she gripped him.

“Mira. Talk to me, Chestnut.”

“Bull...?” she whispered.

A sound of relief breathed out of him. “You okay?”

“I'm...” I'm in the dark, and I can't get out. Fuck, I can't get out! I can't... “I don't like the dark.”

“Won't last long. The boys are already digging for us. You think you can scoot out of there if I raise up? My legs are pinned.”

“I...I think so.”

“Keep a hand on me if you need to.” His voice was low, in that grounding tone that made her always feel calm. But behind it she could hear the barest strain of something else. If his legs were pinned, he could be injured. Badly.

She shuffled backwards out of his embrace, leaving one hand to trail up his neck and the side of his head to his horns. There was debris all around, but it was small enough to shove out of her way until her feet were clear. She kept her movements contained so she didn't accidentally kick him in the face. Once she could get upright, she breathed easier. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark and she could pinpoint where the walls of the tunnel were before the cave-in. They'd been in the lead from the rest on their way to find the leader of the bandits and had just entered this passage when the mine collapsed. Thinking back, she couldn't think of a reason why that would have happened. Unless...

“This was deliberate,” she said aloud, just to hear herself say it.

“Yeah,” Bull agreed.

“Why would someone collapse the mine?”

“I think that's pretty obvious,” he said drily. “To kill us.”

#tagged #wip whenever #the iron bull x ofc #driftwood fic #the iron bull #mira foret #so much fun taking krem's stories and expanding them

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prettyboyeddiemunson · 2 years ago

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the UK is dying from heatwaves atm and i keep on seeing loads of people on the street shirtless or in shorts and tank tops, etc, etc. it got me thinking.

a very hot day in hawkins, the suns out all week, and low and behold, eddie munson rocking up to school with a white tank top.

i’m going feral.

please do something with this.

OMG EDDIE IN A TANKTOP IS SOMETHING I DIDN'T KNOW I NEEDED

imagine if it's also a crop top, too. like he's gotta have that extra skin exposed to stay cool, right? he just shows up one day, wearing a white tank top with the bottom cut off (which he did that morning before school, because why the fuck not?). also, i've kinda adopted the headcanon that he has nipple piercings in canon, because we never saw his nips, so who's to say? they poke through the white tanktop, and he loves showing them off anyway, so there they are. protruding through the thin fabric of the shirt, on display for god and everyone.

and you're just foaming at the fucking mouth all day, every time you see him. the two of you never really associated with one another much--aside from the classes you shared and maybe an occasional "hello" and a smile in the hallway. you had a big crush on him, though, and your friends always told you that he felt the same. they would tell you of the quick glances he made at you, how he would stare at you in class instead of paying attention, how he was always blushing when you met his eyes and looked away. you always denied it, but it made you wonder whether or not they were onto something. you would always shrug it off, shoving it down inside for a possible later time.

but today, jesus goddamn christ. you're a whole new level of flustered. every time you see him, with his stomach showing, the faint traces of his happy trail visible above his pants, his nipple piercings showing through the shirt, his long hair flowing around him, doe eyes lighting up every time they see you? fuck. you really didn't stand one chance in hell. your best friend convinced you to just talk to him, to give it a shot, and you swallowed your pride and decided to do it. fuck it; how could you not, with him looking like something straight out of one of your many wet dreams?

long story short, it ends up going pretty well, to say the least. he takes you out behind the gym during lunch, and makes out with you pretty heavily back there. your hands up his shirt, playing with his nipple piercings as he moans into your mouth, his tongue running over the roof of it as he fists your hair. one of his hands delves under your skirt as you toy with his piercings, and then it's your turn to moan as his fingers dip into your panties. the feeling of his cool rings on your hot skin is too fucking good, and you shiver against him as you mewl.

he’s grinning when he breaks the kiss, both of you breathless as your head swims from what is happening. you’re both sweating a little from the outside heat, and also from the intensity of the kiss. then eddie is going back in for more before you can speak, his tongue touching yours before your lips do. he presses you against the wall with his body, grinding as you pinch one of his pierced nipples. you can feel his cock, rock hard and straining against his jeans, rubbing against you, and you reach down to palm him. it goes on like that for awhile--hands wandering, tongues pressing against each other, sighs & moans passing between you…and then the bell is ringing.

you whimper when eddie pulls away, missing the weight of his body on your own. he winks at you, taking your hand in his and kissing the back of it as he meets your eyes. he pulls you to his body, kissing you chastely before nuzzling his nose to yours, while his hands settle on your lower back.

"meet me at my van after school," he whispers. "we'll go to my trailer and pick up where we left off."

#eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson smut

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kittyofalltrades · 2 years ago

Note

I know Steven prob won’t celebrate Christmas, but this could be a winter themed request? You don’t have to fill this request if you don’t feel comfy, but I think he’d be so sweet about warming someone up if you’re cold 🥺🥺 wandering hands 🥺🥺 sharing body heat 🥺🥺

Cold Hands

Warming up with Steven after a cold day out. This is a Winter fic not a Christmas fic!

Words: 717

beta: me I can't spell

warnings: Show Canon DID, ass grabbing

It snowed! For, the first time in ages it snowed and at the first sign you dragged Steven out to play in the snow. You challenged him to a snowball fight, where he’d thoroughly demolished you before you built a snowman. It was a shabby snowman with no nose but a pair of lopsided rocks for eyes and the scarf you’d worn outside. You stepped back to admire your handiwork with a smile.

“You can’t just leave your scarf, love, the snowman won’t appreciate it as much as you,” Steven had chastised with a smile.

You shrugged and unwound the now soggy fabric from your rubbish snowman frowning at that unfinished snowman. You didn’t like how unfinished it looked but you’d leave it for now if Steven asked.

“Marc has an ugly scarf in the back of the closet, we can give that to your poor snowman,” Steven told you with a sweet smile. That he was offering the scarf meant that both of them hated it and it made you laugh.

After, a few more snow angels you finally dragged Steven back into the flat. Your hands had gone numb around the second snow angel but you didn’t want to stop the winter fun. You took off your heavy coat and hung it next to Steven’s and walked further into the flat. Steven was bustling around the kitchen making hot chocolate to warm you up after your adventure.

You stood quietly shivering while you watched him not wanting to interrupt him with your problems. When he looked over, you gave him a cheerful smile but didn’t tell him about being cold. A few minutes he turned to face Gus’s tank with an intense look on his face, listening to Marc. Once Marc finished saying his piece he turned to you with a stern expression on his face.

“Why did you tell me you were still cold love? I could have warmed you up instead of making a mess of the kitchen,” Steven chastised while he took your hands. He hissed at the cold and tucked them under his shirt against his chest. “You are freezing.”

“Hot chocolate would have warmed me up,” you answered softly around the clattering of your teeth.

“Love you have to tell me these things. Sometimes I don’t notice,” Steven whispered. He felt like a bad boyfriend for not noticing that you’d taken a chill. It made him feel even worse that Marc had to point it out to him. He looked down at you to find you smiling up at him and he wondered what you saw in him.

“Don’t frown, you're warming me up now.”

You shifted your hands to his lower back sighing happily at the heat returning to your fingers. Not as quickly as you would have liked but still better than nothing. Steven didn’t complain as your hands moved, he was enjoying the closeness even if your hands were like ice.

“I feel like a rubbish boyfriend for not noticing sooner,” Steven whispered.

“You’re not a rubbish boyfriend, you did the best with the information you had,” you assured him with a press of lips to his cheek. “I absolutely adore you for warming me up now.”

“Promise me you’ll tell me next time love,” Steven said softly against your hair. He wanted reassurance that you wouldn’t let him fail in his duties of taking care of you again.

You shoved your hands down the back of his pants grasping his ass while he yelped in surprise. “I promise I’ll let you take care of me next time.”

“Your hands love…”

“Are cold and your ass is the warmest part of you. I can always move them round to the front.”

Steven shook his head quickly, he didn’t think he’d survive your icy hands on his tender parts. “Maybe once your hands warm up, we can explore that option.”

“I thought so,” you told him smugly and rested your head on his chest.

“We’ll stay like this as long as you like,” he told you softly.

You appreciated how he didn’t stop you from using his ass to warm your hands, and you appreciated him being there with you even more. Maybe you could persuade him to let you use his thighs to warm your cold toes.

#steven grant x reader

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nastybuckybarnes · 3 years ago

Text

Hoist The Colours - 3/3

Pairing: Pirate!Bucky X SeaGoddess!Reader

Summary: An encounter with the man you used to love lands you and your new crew in peril, stuck on a ship with the people responsible for binding you. And what they have planned for you is far worse than what you’d first imagined.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Fluff, Violence, Injuries, Death,

Word Count: 2.2K

A/n: Oof another thing is finished. I’m gonna start actually finishing stuff but Idk what to write I’m sad that my stuff is ending :( But I hope you enjoy this!

~*~

The door to your cell gets wrenched open, pulling you from your light sleep.

“You!” Rumlow snarls, grabbing you by the throat and lifting you to your feet.

“Where have they taken my prisoners?” You furrow your brows, yanking out of his grip.

“How am I supposed to know? I was left behind.” He grinds his teeth together and grabs your bicep, dragging you out of your cell and onto the main deck.

The clouds are dark and gloomy, the waters wild and violent, but not by your doing.

“You must’ve helped them, that other witch too! So tell me, how did you do it?” He shoves you and you gasp, tumbling onto the wet wood of the deck.

“How could I have helped them? You have me chained up like a dog!” You spit, glaring up at him. He stoops down to your level, grabbing your face harshly.

“You will watch your tongue or you will lose it. You do not need your voice to do my bidding.” He shoves you back down and you bite back a yelp of pain.

The sky darkens further, thunder booming and clouds rolling in.

“I will never do your bidding!” You snarl, a flash of lightning punctuating your words.

Rumlow’s eyes widen for a moment, and then he’s got his sword pointed at you, the tip just brushing your throat.

“On your feet, witch!” You obey, standing up with your chin held high.

“You will do my bidding, or you will join all those who you have sent to the depths. It is your choice.” You follow his gaze over your shoulder to where the plank is being extended over the raging ocean.

You look back at him, jaw set, and he knows you’ve made your decision.

The wind whips around your hair as he walks you to the plank, his sword digging into your back just hard enough to cause discomfort, but not pain, not yet.

You carefully step onto the plank, taking deep breaths of the salty air as the water rages beneath you.

“I will give you one last chance, wench. I will spare your life, all you need do is swear your powers to me. You’ll have the sea back in your grasp, the power to do what you please. You need only do so at my side.”

Raindrops splatter against your face, just gently at first, until you’re consumed in an intense storm, the water pelting down against you.

“You’ve forgotten, Captain, that you are not sending me to the depths,” you look over your shoulder at him with a small smile, “you are sending me home.”

You look down at the water, preparing yourself for the cool embrace, when a particularly harsh wave rocks against the ship, sending you stumbling back a step.

A wave rises up over the ship, a spiral of green swirling inside of it and for a moment you think that you’ve already died.

The wave crashes against the ship, sending the men falling and scrambling, submerging the deck for a moment.

But you stay rooted in place, the familiar green hue just touching your fingertips, the ends of your hair, then slowly becoming part of you once more.

You hear the men shouting and coughing, feel Rumlow’s sword pressed against your back once again, but you only turn around to face him.

The storm continues, the waves fighting the ship, and you cock your head to the side, sending a gust of wind towards the man threatening you. He stumbles back, eyes wide with fear.

“H-how do you...” You take slow steps towards him, waving your hand behind you as his crew-mates try to run at you. The wind pushes them back, keeping them a safe distance from you and the captain.

“You will give me answers and you will give them to me now!” You hiss, glaring daggers at him.

“Whatever it is that you wish to know, I will tell you. Just please, spare my life.”

You watch him for a long moment, fighting tears as the question bubbles out of you.

“Why? Why did he do it?”

Rumlow only shakes his head, on his knees and ready to beg for mercy.

“’twas me... I caused him to do it. With the help of a siren for the price of his left arm, I got the binding spell from him. He knew not what he was doing, though he gave the information.” You let out a shaky breath, a weight lifted off of your shoulders.

“All this time I had thought it was he who betrayed me... but it wasn’t.” You turn your gaze to him, eyes glowing green with the influx of power.

“It was you. You and your greed.” He shakes his head and scrambles back desperately.

You step aside as a sword comes down right where you were standing, and Rumlow uses your momentary distraction to sprint away.

“Kill her! Kill the Witch!” He shouts, grabbing his own sword.

You shake your head, the wind whipping strong enough to keep them away.

A nagging in your mind stops you for a moment, and a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“The King and his men stole the queen from her bed... and bound her in her bones.” Your voice travels on the wind.

“The seas be ours, and by the powers, where we will, we’ll roam.”

“Captain! We’ve got a ship coming up starboard!” A man shouts, pointing his sword at the familiar ship.

“They’re upon us! Battle stations!” The men scramble to their stations, trying to get prepared as the ship approaches.

“Yo ho, all hands, hoist the colours high. Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die.” The voices ring out to you clear as day, responding to the call.

It’s only a matter of moments before canons start firing and men start boarding the ship, swords clashing and guns firing.

Your eyes scan the crowd, freezing on a man approaching you. You simply look at him and he crumples to the ground, grabbing at his throat.

“Rumlow!” You shout, following your instincts up to the foredeck and finding the captain cowering, exactly how you thought he would.

“You want to throw me overboard, captain?” You sneer his title, taking another step towards him. He stumbles back, slipping on the wet wood and scrambling away from you and towards the main deck.

“You forget that I am the sea and all things in it.”

The rain pelts down on you and the wind whips your hair around your face wildly, your eyes glowing green with the force of your power.

At that moment, you look every bit the sea goddess that the stories described. And today, you’re planning on being just as cruel.

“You stripped me of my purpose, my power. Bound me to my form and took away my reason for existence! You sacrificed the man I love for your own greedy gain. What do you have to say for yourself?” Your powers protect you from the fighting around you, the man before you protected as well.

No one will take your vengeance from you.

“I’m sorry!” He cries, slipping back further.

You shake your head and grab him by the front of his tunic, tossing his sword aside and glaring into his eyes.

“No, you’re not. Not yet. But you will be, that I promise you.”

You cock your head to the side, your free hand coming up, fingers flexed.

The water on the deck swirls around your ankles, clawing up the man before you.

“You’ve never had your purpose taken from you because a man like you has no purpose.” You twist your wrist, controlling the water around you and watch in satisfaction as his eyes widen, the water rising up over his face.

“So what else can I take, but your life?” You ask rhetorically, watching as the water trickles into his mouth and nose, slowly at first, then picking up speed.

He tries to claw at you, but his hands can’t reach you. His struggles are futile, though that doesn’t stop him.

You steal the life away from him, exactly the way he did to you.

He collapses on the ground, his body convulsing for a moment before falling still, death embracing him.

You take a deep breath, embracing your freedom, then slowly turn around.

You’re instantly meet with piercing blue eyes staring at you from across the ship. His chest is heaving and he’s squinting through the downpour, but his eyes are on you.

You walk over to him, the rain lessening with each step you take until you’re right in front of him.

The wind dies down and the ocean becomes calm. The fighting around you draws to a sombre end, victory on the tip of your tongue.

His sword clatters to the ground, his hands finding yours ever so gently, his eyes filled with so many emotions.

“Gentlemen, the ship is ours!” Steve shouts, a smile on his face. You turn around, pulling Bucky’s arms around your waist as you watch the crew celebrate their success.

Your eyes find Wanda’s and Tony’s through the crowd, both of them smiling brightly up at you.

The two crews celebrate, Pirates and Kingsmen, and you can’t help but smile at them.

“Back to the ship! We’ve gotten what we came for. The King can enjoy plundering Rumlow’s ship. I trust that will keep him off of our back for a while, yes?” Steve looks at Tony pointedly and the brunet nods.

You step out of your lover’s arms and walk down to the two men, one hand gently finding Tony’s forearm.

“I owe you a debt, Tony. One I fear I may never be able to repay.” He shakes his head, taking your hands gently in his and smiling at you.

“You’ve no debt to be paid. But if you feel so inclined, could you maybe hold back any storms for the next day or so? I’d like a chance to dry my clothes.” You giggle and nod, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you, for all that you’ve done for myself and Wanda.” He gives you a tender smile and nods.

“It’s what I wish had been done for my mother.” He sniffles then straightens up.

“Now come on, men. It’s time we return to the King!” His crew-mates start busying themselves quickly.

“Alright lads, back to the ship!” Steve calls, leading his own crew members to their ship.

You watch as everyone eagerly crosses, smiling encouragingly at Wanda. She crosses swiftly, her eyes drawing to the helmsman for a moment.

“Are you ready?” A soft voice asks from behind you. You take a breath then nod, looking over at him.

“Yes.”

The two of you cross back to his ship, the ship almost cooing at you as soon as your feet hit the deck. You can’t fight the smile the spreads on your face at being back, and you don’t try to.

“It’s good to have you back,” Steve says, giving you a nod. You do the same, sighing happily.

“It’s good to be back, Steve.” Bucky takes your hand then and tugs you gently towards his quarters.

The door closes softly behind you and you take a moment to reacquaint yourself with the room.

You can feel his eyes on you, the tension palpable but not unpleasant.

Without looking at him, you speak.

“Could you help me out of my gown? It’s far too heavy.” He walks towards you, untying the back and watching as the fabric slides down your body, leaving you only in your white slip.

His hands hesitantly trail over your skin, one cold and one hot and the contrast is so delicious.

You close your eyes and lean into his touch, head falling to the side as he presses soft kisses to your neck.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, my love,” he whispers against your skin, spinning you around to face him.

You gaze up at him lovingly, one hand coming up to cup his jaw.

“Show me,” you whisper, leaning up to gently brush your lips over his.

“Show me how much you missed me. Give me a reason to clear the skies and calm the seas. Make me give us good wind and easy sail. Prove to me that you’re still worthy of my mercy.”

He brings your hand to his mouth, kissing each one of your fingers then smiling.

“I’ll never truly be worthy of your mercy. But I am more than willing to both swear and prove my loyalty to you. I will give myself over to you; body, heart, mind, and soul.”

You look up at him tenderly, cupping his cheek gently.

“I will sail to the ends of the Earth for you, fight the gods if I need to. Anything to keep you in my arms.”

“My heart belongs to you, James. And never will it belong to anyone else.”

#pirate #pirate AU #pirate!bucky #pirate!bucky x reader #Pirate!bucky x sea goddess!reader #bucky x sea!goddess!reader #pirate!bucky x goddess!reader #bucky x goddess!reader #pirate!bucky x seagoddess!reader

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years ago

Text

The King, the Soldier, and the Spy: Chapter 4

Read on AO3

In which Ahsoka gets an old wound healed (and a few more opened).

Chapter-specific warnings: references to canon traumas (Zygerria), slavery, and then references to other canon traumas (Order 66 and all it entails)

I really didn't want to end this chapter where I did, buuuuut the full thing was hitting two-chapter length, so I had to split it.

--------

Jango manages to avoid Fulcrum for about three days, and then she corners him. She backs him up against a wall, puts a hand to the pourstone by his head, and puts her nose mere inches from his. The shape to her mouth is predatory. He’s starting to think this is an expression she’s reserved for him.

“Fight me,” she says.

He cannot press closer to the wall. As Mand’alor, he shouldn’t want to.

As a man with a vested interest in the woman who managed to get him on his back with a weapon to his throat, he maybe likes it a bit too much.

“Why?” he challenges.

Tries to challenge. His tone isn’t quite right. She can definitely tell.

“Afraid of getting close?” she coos. “I promise I won’t bite this time, ‘alor. Not unless you ask.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses, standing up a little straighter, and he inches ever closer to her. “You like trying to dig under my skin.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to get in close?” she asks. “Get your hands on me and hold me down?

He snaps, and moves forward, up on his toes, and his lips meet—air.

She’s gone.

Jango opens eyes he hadn’t even realized he’d closed, and finds that she’s standing a full foot away.

He sours. His face surely reflects it. “The hell?”

“You’re fun,” she comments, cheery in a way he’s unready to interpret. “Come on, fight me.”

“I have a better idea,” he says. “Kiss me.”

She grins and laughs and his heart sinks because he—he likes it. He likes that she’s treating him like something other than Mand’alor, something other than the proven most competent warrior in the entire faction. He likes that she acts as if he needs to earn her approval, rather than the other way around.

“No,” she says. “I want to spar.”

What can he do but agree?

It goes and goes and goes like that.

Fulcrum is interested, he thinks, and she knows that he likes her plenty. She taunts and teases and—and lets him get so close, but not quite touching, before she backs away and tells him to meet her on the training field instead. Rumors abound regarding why the Mand’alor doesn’t just strike her down to size.

He starts to respond in kind. He isn’t angry, not really, just frustrated, and months pass with him getting rude in tandem with her.

She bites. Metaphorically, more than literally, but she does.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. He sends her on missions with some of his more trusted soldiers. He has her train people. He fights her, over and over and over again.

He doesn’t know how to thank her, when she brings back his people from missions gone so wrong that he can’t imagine anyone would have survived without her.

It happens thrice, and then he drags her to his rooms and shoves a drink in her hand, and asks her how he could possibly repay her.

“I know you won’t take a monetary bonus, so what?”

She tilts her head, eyes half-mast, and stares at him.

He waits.

Finally, Fulcrum says, “I know you don’t have the manpower to take the Hutts.”

Obviously. Jango waits, still. She eventually relents.

“The Republic could, theoretically, but they’re not willing to impact their citizen’s lives; they’d rather just throw Jedi at the problem,” she muses, playing with the glass of her drink, rocking it back and forth and around with a single finger on the rim. “The Hutts are immensely powerful and cover an insane amount of galactic territory. Mandalore is still busy with internal problems.”

He’s aware.

She meets his eyes. She smiles. It’s a little empty. “Zygerria, on the other hand…”

He sucks in a breath, harsh and cold.

Zygerria is smaller. They used to be a massive operation, but the Republic—the Jedi, really—ripped up the entire mess by the roots a long time ago. What they’ve cobbled together since is less than a ghost of the empire they once had.

It’s a greater ghost than Mandalore, though.

(Continue on AO3)

#star wars #the clone wars #sw legends #time travel #ahsoka tano #jango fett #myles the mandalorian #true mandalorians #mandalorian politics #mandalore #phoenix files #Zygerria

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igotathingforvampires · 3 years ago

Text

Aro Volturi N.S.F.W Alphabet

CANON DIVERGENT.

Info on Reader: Reader is an Elemental Gift user like Benjamin

CW/TW: a SLIGHT MENTION of assault but NO DETAIL AT ALL (as a SA survivor I do not use this lightly but I do like representation and not having the survivor be that cliche broken doll we end abusers here thank you)

How you two met:

You…..oh you. You’re standing with the Cullens wondering how the FUCK you got here.

Why am I here? What’s with this tiny little kid who can touch me and tell me things. Awe but she’s cute.

You’re just a bored Vampire who knows Carlisle and is Esme’s BFF.

You’re a nomad, and a badass one, see your gift is the Elements like Benjamin, it’s why Amun has his eye on you and is freaked out.

You and Benji are buddies now. Benjamin specializes in Earth and Water. You specialize in Fire and Air.

So now, here you are watching a bunch of cloaked baddies stomping towards you. But Carlisle and you have spoken frequently, the Volturi aren’t bad.

However, they are cautious.

And caution bred by fear is something you know to be wary of.

So you keep yourself a bit behind Carly. Waiting and watching.

The leader— that must be Aro you think, flings his hood back and suddenly you feel your entire chest clench up and a yank within yourself towards him. “Oh what the fuck.” You growl. Glancing UP at the Old Gods you couldn’t help but snap at them “ARE YOU ALL KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?! HIM?!”

The platinum haired man barked angrily, “who dares?!”

Aro is too busy glancing at his brother Marcus who’s smiling. He nods at Aro and huffs a bit of a sigh.

The raven haired man turns ever so slowly, casting his red gaze over the crowd and it falls to Carlisle. “Carly.”

“Aro?”

“Who is that behind you.” Aro can feel his chest hurt like a chain is being pulled.

Carlisle looks confused and glances behind him where you are shaking your head face palming—looking embarrassed.

Edward and Bella are utterly confused, before Edward listens to Aro’s and your thoughts and gets a look of disgust, “REALLY.” He barks.

You feel the rage of a thousand suns consume you. “I CAN’T PICK IT YA KNOW AND HEY WHADDAYA MEAN REALLY —ASSHOLE DON’T TALK ABOUT MY MATE LIKE THAT!”

The entire field is utterly still as you’re heaving, standing on your tip toes in front of the bronze haired vampire pointing at Edwards cringing face, “but it’s—“ he starts, you let out a growl and sparks fly off you.

Edward shuts up.

“I will light your ass on fire.” You whisper hiss.

The Volturi are just tilting their heads like WTF.

Marcus is trying not to laugh, Caius has just become stunned glancing between his brother and the woman across the battlefield.

Aro is getting GIDDY.

“And who is the girl.” He asks.

You turn, your hips swinging with attitude and your arms crossing as you scoff. “Psh, get a load of this Mother fucker,” you whisper to yourself glaring across the expanse of space. “HEY. I have a name.”

------

-----

His First Impression:

Of course my mate swears like a sailor.

Is Aro’s first thought.

His next thought is that you’re awful adorable. Awe so lithe and cute and— Much too … hm, much too adorable to be mine I would think how In the —a violent wind kicks up and flames burst out from your body enveloping your form as you take a few steps forward.

Ah there it is.

“You wanna ask me my name— darling.” You smile wide at him.

“Of course,” his purr is laced with annoyance, but he’s far too intrigued. “Who might you be?”

“I’m y/n. No last name, my parents were assholes.” You shrug. “So, we doing this trial or we figuring the whole—“ you wave your hand between the gaping maw of land between you two, “bond thing.”

Aro pauses, a twitch on his lips, “after the proceedings cara mia.”

“Ooo… love me a man that speaks Italian—” You smirk, raising a brow and cock your head to the side.

Aro makes a stifled choked off growl as his eyes go black— thank God he lost the ability to blush as arousal slammed into him like a freight train.

You’re obviously annoyed, and have as Caius mutters ‘more balls than a Christmas tree’ and you are ready for this trial to be over.

Frankly so is Aro he wants to drag you back to Volterra and bring you to heel.

Not that he thinks that’s going to happen.

But he loves playing with fire. And you’re full of it.

He watches you glance at the Cullens and the half-breed. “Alright Nessie come on let’s show him what you can do kiddo.” You scoop the girl up and you and the Cullens walk over with Jake behind you.

-----

When does he know of his feelings?

When within reaching distance you set Renessme down and pat her head, “okay tiny Loch Ness, say hello.”

Bella is panicking, but she trusts you it seems, she better, you have no qualms frying— sans mate— every vampire here. They do their little song and dance. Aro tries to talk about the danger and you feel your temper boil over.

“Darling.” You croon taking a step forward with a sharp but soft smile.

You remind him of a lioness, purring softly but ready to tear into him with one movement.

He raises a brow; you are in 6 inch heels putting you nose to nose with him. “Yes carissima?” He breathes deep and nearly groans out loud, you smell so good, like spring and a heady feminine scent like perfume edged in lilacs and lavender.

“Could you pretty pretty pretty please just keep an eye on little Nessie— I hate to tell you but she’s quite important to me and I can assure you she fits in with humans better than the Cullens do.”

“And if I don’t.”

You let flames dance in your gaze. “I’ll roast everyone here except your brothers and their mates and make you start the fuck over without me.”

Aro’s done.

Cupid has struck him in his dead heart.

He’s never been more terrified or aroused or enraged at once at your dulcet threat purred from such sweet lips.

He wants to grip you by your hair to him, pick you up and haul you to somewhere private and teach you a lesson.

He wants to fight you. And it’s quite clear you’re ready to rumble, though he’s not sure you’d let him win. Or that it wouldn’t end up tangling in a bed somewhere on fire. That’s fine too.

A manic grin spreads across his face, eyes going pitch black as he snatches you up by the waist and hauls you closer loving the startled look in your eyes settling into something dark and wanting. “And if I agree?”

The brothers roll their eyes.

Go figure you’d be as bat shit as he is.

“I’ll leave with you right now.” You give him THAT look matching his almost mad grin.

A low purr echos from him making Bella clap her hands over Nessie’s ears. “Una ragazza così meravigliosa, credo che mi piaccia come funziona la tua mente.” Such a wonderful girl, I think I like how your mind works.

But your plans to drag your mate off end as Alice shows up with her witness right when he’s about to whisk you off for some obvious adult time.

Both of you sigh put out and exasperated.

Yes you just about ended an entire potential threat with batting pretty eyes and coaxing the leader of the Volturi into some fun.

But now that’s ruined because of the psychic. Alice is looking rather embarrassed as the proceedings go. Given that she probably saw how everything was about to go down.

Aro can sense you’re as annoyed as he is, that and you’re not leaving his side. And you don’t mind touching him but you’re not because oh yeah he needs to focus. But oh he can see your hand twitching towards his own.

He can easily turn his gift off and so he does and grips your hand, quickly jerking you to his side.

Electricity lights along your skin at the contact and both of you jolt a moment and glance sideways looking amused.

This was going to be fun.

——

How’d you end up with the Volturi?

Alice and her witnesses ease their concerns about Nessie. Aro placates the Volturi as you linger back behind him a bit. Everyone just poof! Vanishes.

“So ah, can we get my stuff first before you whisk me off around the world?” You ask sweetly.

Aro’s a bit startled, “you wish to leave already?”

You realize he would be willing to stay for a bit and let you acclimate.

“Nah where you go I fucking go, come on baby. Let’s get the fuck outta dodge.” You give him a teasing shove as you walk by making Carlisle’s coven silently shake in mirth at his surprised expression.

Carlisle murmurs, “Good luck Aro.”

“Fuck off Carly.” The King growls back before following you.

That’s all they wrote.

You were in. And you made yourself at home quite easily.

Jane and Alec adore you— you saw them and just SQUEEd. “OMG they’re so DEADLY but so CUTE!”

Jane wasn’t quite sure what to do with you picking her UP and hugging her nuzzling your nose to her cheek, “she’s just a tiny tot of doom I adore it! We’re going to burn the SHIT outta people.”

Alec just sat starry eyed as you ruffled his hair, “I know boys don’t like being picked up.”

Jane had become a koala on you. And you didn’t mind.

Well. You’re Mama now. Aro couldn’t be more pleased as you continue to help develop their skills trying things outside of the box.

See, that’s also a sort of talent you have— you can help people learn how to use their gifts because of how you think. Not a gift per say, but certainly useful.

Jane it turns out can utilize the fire element.

Alec can utilize air.

With you knowing both you’re easily able to teach Alec how to hone his targets and even allow his gift to POP UP near someone rather than from his hands.

Jane is capable of setting shit on fire now.

Aro isn’t sure if he’s proud or worried.

Bit of both. But you are STERN with their use of powers. And when Jane set Felix’s foot on fire she was forced to shine everyone’s shoes in the Volturi in the afternoon and write 200,000 times at HUMAN PACE. “We do not light family on fire.”

She never did it again.

The inner coven loves you. Caius and you are besties Marcus is like a big brother always doting on you. Athenadora and Sulpricia are of course still together as companions, and don’t worry about his ex wife— they were on the rocks she’s ecstatic someone else can keep him in line.

The coven instantly takes to you, in fact you’re now basically Mother to everyone. Scolding, teaching, comforting, you do it all. But you’re also a leader and a ruthless one at that.

A perfect fit Aro thinks.

——

How’d he deal with his emotions?

You are driving Aro FUCKING CRAZY.

Literally mad.

You know how to push his buttons and you are not one to do as told. So for him, he who has anyone bending to his will to see you just cock a brow at him and laugh “awe.”

He wants to choke you half to death.

You are a Queen. He tells himself. It’s to be expected that you’d challenge him.

Sulpricia finds it HILARIOUS and you two are besties. Fuck that’s all he needs. She is ever so encouraging of your independence.

He often finds himself in Sulpricia’s study pacing rampantly, “what am I going to do with her?”

“You know you like it.” Sully says lounging back on her couch. “If you didn’t you wouldn’t be so utterly ass over tea kettle.”

Aro is not good with his emotions when it comes to jealousy. And he is JEALOUS.

You’re perfect to him, utterly beautiful, you are the sun and he Icarus stupidly flying as high as he can towards you in hopes to reach the light.

You’re also inclined to let him touch you whenever you want to express things without using words— and you’ve learned to let him speak to you telepathically as well.

So often you just sit with your pinkies touching on a couch and have back and forth silently except for the occasional twitch on your lips at a humorous comment.

You’ve managed to make him huff a laugh occasionally.

But he is utterly posessive. He does not like it when men stare too long, admiring is one thing, but nothing escapes Aro.

So when a lower guard had been in trouble for an infraction and when you had disciplined him the utter disrespect for a concubine replacement was across Aro’s mind and…welll—

Guard died.

You had just looked startled and gave a ‘oh well’ kinda shrug before touching ARo’s hand. Feel better baby?

Yes you called him baby in private, so modern, and he would NEVER admit he loved it. Baby, darling, love, honey, the list went on and each one twisted his insides into ribbons of absolute adoration.

You had actually taken to the bond so well Marcus had informed him that it was practically cemented.

His only hang up was himself.

——

Who does he ask for help?

Didyme is no longer there— his dear sister, a deep sorrow as he was accidentally responsible for her death.

Marcus however is always there to be the voice of reason, and he sits Aro down and listens to his brother spill his guts. Aro is terrified, he is well aware he is THE monster that makes OTHER monsters keep in line.

But for you to look at him like that? He could never bear it. His heart would break.

Marcus sighs, “Aro come here.” He drags his brother to the training grounds.

Where Aro get’s to see his mate literally tear apart the entire guard with blades…. Did his eyes deceive him— were those made from vampire ash and fangs?!

You pause your onslaught, “oh hi darling!” You prance over and smile, “like them? My witch-smith friend made them for me! Fucking bastards kept coming for me after awhile and ya know I just hate the idea of wasting shit.”

Marcus glanced at Aro and gave him a I told you so.

“Everything okay?” You ask looking concerned. You are dragging him along as he partially willingly let’s you take him to his sister’s gardens. “What’s wrong?”

And so, he exhales and does the one thing he’s never done with his gift.

He touches your hand and shows you his own thoughts.

He expects your recoil. Expects you to shun him. Expects your hatred and braces himself for it.

You gasp and when he’s about to drag his hand away and you grip him tighter. “No don’t…let me…” and so you watch— thousands of years of memories over the course of a week or two. Asking silent questions as the images play, getting silent answers in return.

And so, in return, you show him your human life— a life that had been riddled with abusers, torment and lack of love, the iron in your spine that had solidified your creation when you had dragged yourself from an open alley way at dawn into the sewer system after being left to die being drained by a nomad after a brutal assault. You shared with him that it had taken a lot for you to even move after what had happened.

Esme had found you.

And so your friends made sure you were okay even if you didn’t follow their diet.

You both spend time going over your pasts, Aro gently asking questions and you doing the same to answer as best you could.

It was why Rosalie and you got along so well, there were some experiences one could only understand by going through it. And you both had learned how to cope with the trauma you had.

Aro is patient, both of you taking time to feel through each others wounds, taking time to rework into each others personal space.

Marcus is stunned to tell Aro that the bond is nigh unbreakable after this exchange.

The Kings magically -coughs- big brother Marcus loses his shit finding out and Caius leads the search party with Demetri— cough cough— find the nomad and he’s now in a box limb free 15 feet below the dungeon with a tube connecting him to the surface, his tongue removed and he only gets blood once a year. *Jane lit them on fire multiple times to practice her accuracy and aim*

You find out of course, and smile through the dry sobs as all three embrace you like a big protective group hug. For the first time in a very long time, it’s safe.

Truly safe.

——

What happens when he tells you?

Aro is a man of few words, and honestly not much is needed between you two with the ability to go back and forth with his gift.

So in the middle of a walk in Didyme’s gardens he merely grabs your hand gently and kisses the top of your fingers.

And you’re flooded with his emotions.

The warmth and tenderness and absolute adoration is almost enough to restart your dead heart as venom pools in your eyes. “Aro…”

He loves you, loves you more than his own life, would give anything for you to make you smile.

This isn’t the love that is complacent, to just sit idle and rust away, he wants to chase you for eternity, whatever it takes to keep you at his side.

And you flood him right back— lowering the barriers you had and after a moment he merely leans down and presses his forehead to your own, giving the two of you time to just bask in the warmth of affection that’s swirling back and forth akin to the waves of the tide under the moon and sun at twilight.

——

First Kiss?

The leaders of Volterra were in the throne room, the Queens having their own thrones behind their husbands but visible carved in different woods to represent their personalities with different intricate features much like the brother’s thrones holding different crowning points but all the same color.

Your own is the same color as Aro’s throne, but mingled with mahogany accents. Ruby red stones slotted at the top with a crescent moon and sun carving emboldened with gold spiked halo.

Caius' mate's throne is a pale color, affixed with branches and beautiful earth like tones, complimenting her grounded nature.

Marcus’ Witch Mate is merely embellished in a ash throne, deep red almost black gems and the symbol for the overall witch and vampire alliance above her throne.

With all three positions of Queen in Volterra taken up by a true mate, it is the most stable the Volturi have been in several millennia.

But that day in particular was rough, there were a few traitors that had been brought forward— and one of them had managed to get loose from Felix as Aro had been gaining information lunging for the King’s throat.

You moved so fast no one even saw you as you streaked forward like a ghost and lobbed the vampire’s head off holding a blade made of vampire teeth expertly with an animalistic snarl.

You had positioned yourself in front of Aro, crouched, blade poised and your eyes wide and wild, teeth flashing with a dangerous snarl.

Marcus’ witch had already shielded Aro but paused when she saw how enraged you were. Athena and Sulpricia had faltered, Caius looked utterly proud.

You spun round, dropping your blade— knowing Felix and the others had everything in hand as Aro had reached for you, the two of you locked in an embrace, his hands holding your face still as your own hands grasped his wrists. Foreheads pressed together—

The coven was used to this, a private conversation but you could feel the utter terror that had gone through him when he saw you out of the corner of his eye. If anything had happened to you—he was almost angry at you.

But he could easily sense the rage that had consumed you at the thought of someone hurting him. Despite knowing the guard and Jane would Never allow it, your instincts had taken over.

No one would ever take from you again.

And you had been frightened.

Behind that rage when he got past it was utter fear that he’d be gone and you’d be all alone again all the tender memories would be the last you’d have of him as you gave a dry sob before the venom dropped from your eyes— a true show of vampiric emotion that was a rarity.

“Carissima, no. I’ll not leave you that easily.” He murmured and not giving a flying fuck about anyone in the room kissed you full on the mouth gathering you up in a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered half broken against his mouth. “I’m sorry-“

“I know I know, shhh cara mia shhh,” gathering you up he merely flitted out of the room leaving the others to deal with the issue.

Tons of snuggles. He had bundled you up to him in his private rooms and merely kept your hands together enjoying the shared emotions knowing the other was close and safe.

Aro knew exactly how to calm you, he merely showed you all his favorite memories, of the coven, of his travels, the antics his brother’s got up to. He replayed the moment he first saw you.

That always made you laugh of course she swears like a sailor.

——

First Time?

It’s in an elevator.

Okay so here’s the thing. The Volturi have these massive events, and your official coronation happens at one of these.

Aro is so proud.

And so fucking jealous as you are danced across the floor with other vampires— who are oh so respectful and as they should be as Aro watches from the upper floor like an angel of death.

You look stunning, your smile lighting up the entire ballroom, friends from near and far are there— even then Cullens— God bless Carly he even had animal blood brought for him.

You’re dancing around with Nessie laughing and watching the girl child giggle like a fiend before handing her off to the Shifter Aro hated the smell but it was what it was.

Over the course of the evening he was getting awful tired of sharing you. And as the evening wound down to an end you both were just going to take the elevator back up to the private rooms as the Ballroom was on the top floor of Volterra.

The energy crackled in the small space and you both glanced at one another. It was like a short fuse had been lit on a stick of dynamite.

We’re so not doing this in an elevator are we?

You didn’t realize you had said it out loud even as you both gravitated towards one another and his hands tangled into your hair sending gold pins flying to the ground as his mouth found yours and you let out a deep moan as his tongue swiped your lips before you happily opened them.

“We’re going to be patient. Cara mia. ” He said sternly more to himself than you— then groaned when your teeth tugged gently on his bottom lip knowing it drove him crazy. “Sarai la mia morte. Sulla mia tomba scriveranno 'ha giocato con il fuoco ed è perito felicemente’” his voice became heated as his hands moved over your form, “non mi importa più, vieni da me mia fiamma, brucia con me.” You will be my death. On my grave they will write 'he played with fire and perished happily'. I don't care anymore, come to me my flame, burn with me.

His hands were gripping your backside and hauling you up, pressing himself firmly between your thighs before grinding against you. But when his teeth scraped your neck your brain shorted out—

“Oh for gods sake Aro just fuck me already—” your hands were scrabbling at his waist coat and shirt pleased how easily the buttons pinged off the walls of the elevator.

Your mate let out a pleased noise, one that was utterly inhuman when your hands tangled into his raven locks and knocked the golden V pin to the floor allowing the ocean and pomegranate scent of his to curtain you from the world as he bent his head down and kissed you as if it were the last thing he would get to do just then. Right before he smacked his hand against the emergency stop button jolting the ride to the private floor still.

If you thought his kisses were something to be swooning over— because he always knew what you needed.

Well his gift extends to much and he is in tune with it.

Your mind is his favorite place to be, and he brutally uses what he knows to his advantage as his fingers skim up your legs flinging your skirt over your thighs to teasingly grind himself against you till you’re almost clawing at him half feral.

“My pretty little mate—“ he croons at you, “you looked so beautiful cara mia,” kissing down your throat before biting marks into your flesh licking them before continuing on as his teeth jerk the fabric of your bodice and sleeves off not even bothering with his hands. “E tu sei tutto mio, cazzo.” And you’re all fucking mine.

You were busy molding your hands against his form, loving how it was just ratcheting up his half mad with desire motions, twitchy, greedy, desperate to touch, “What was it you joked about that one time?” He was referring to a memory with your best friends over drinks.

You gulped and shivered a bit. “I believe I said sometimes a girl just wants to ahem— get slammed to a wall and fucked stupid?”

He smirked as his hands tore fabric off you letting his fingers to glide along your skin, allowing your own to do the same and showing you know exactly what he liked through the bond of touch.

If you’d been human the air would have left your lungs as he pressed his body tight to your own, pinning you in place letting you feel what you did to him, the hard length of his cock pressed into your belly. “What do you say we take care of that, hm?”

You’re speaking in tongues before he even takes you fully, and roughly, there’s no slow tender love making and frankly you’re just glad for it.

His wild smile sliding into a predatory proud smirk when you’re just a mess; whining at him, begging, pleading, twitching against him and oh you’re just so pretty when at his mercy.

He literally has the tongue of the devil.

“Did I finally break you little one?” He croons despite his rough movements sending you into another shockwave of bliss as your nails make claw marks in the wall.

Fuck he had— you’ll do anything if he’ll just continue.

Your submission is like a drug, he’s mad on it, hands digging against you, making small fissures of cracks along your hips that make you groan gleeful as you push closer for more of his touches.

“That’s right bambi, give me everything.”

That’s all you hear before he’s fucking you into the wall of the elevator, sinking his teeth into your shoulder and neck just to relish in the pain and pleasure filled noises that escape from you as you beg for more, more, just please give more it’s all you want.

“My good bambi.” He growls as he begins it all over again, rumbling in your ear as your try to escape the onslaught of sensations— but happy you can’t as his grip has you immovable. “You’re not escaping me just yet.”

You’re both a mess, not that either of you care. Adjusting yourselves as best you can—

You’re lucky his private rooms are close and he simply carries you and flits you both into his rooms; you both end up continuing what was started.

——

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He is a touch telepath, he knows exactly what you need.

But he also surprises you with what you didn’t even know you needed.

Snuggles, so many snuggles— Aro is not a tactile person— but with you?

Forget it.

He’s practically melting into your form and trying to fuse himself to you.

Massages, nuzzling your hair, biting.

Lots of biting— but not hard bites, love bites. Pressing his teeth to your skin to leave little imprints that he just can’t get over. You always poke fun at him for it.

Plus let’s face it.

Bite = Love.

He and Caius are on one mind with that.

He also took a note from Marcus and you both enjoy the heat of the baths together after a particularly long rough romp.

Which turns into a bath romp.

Because ahem *REASONS*

“I’m King I don’t need a reason to have you— now come here.” He’ll huff imperiously when you giggle at him as he drags you close into his embrace kissing you.

Okay he lies.

You looked too pretty in the bath.

Aro can’t help himself. That’s the reason.

——

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He is SHOOK when you tell him your favorite thing about him is his hands. You never feel misunderstood.

Even in the rare fights you simply huff and reach out to him, wiggling your fingers with a pleading glance; or if he won’t take your hand you’ll walk over sit in his lap and headbutt your forehead to his like an angry cat.

But usually Aro will take your hand and you both have a deep understanding of where you’re both coming from.

After a few moments it’s settled.

You kiss his hands, he knows you love how he plays you like a finely tuned instrument when alone.

Love when he delves his fingers into your hair and cradles you close even if you’re in the throne room— he’s the fucking king he can do what he likes damn it.

But Aro is startled by this— everyone hates touching him even though he can control his gift, they seem to think that— aside from his brothers and sister in laws— that he just loves to dive into people’s minds for funsies.

No it’s awful. Plain awful. He can barely stand his own mind why would he want to traverse someone else’s?

But that brings us to what he likes about you— he LOVES your head space. When he’s stressed it’s his favorite place to be because you have a vivid imagination, as a writer as well you show him stories you’ve thought of and worlds you’ve created with vivid detail. He finds it quite amusing to use watch your thoughts too on a daily, you like it simply because he’s close.

But aside from that it’s you.

Just You.

Just ALL of you.

He can’t pick don’t make the man pick, he would just keep you near him for eternity which you seem to have no issues with.

———

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically…I am a disgusting person…)

He is quite a posessive person.

Two Words:

Breeding Kink

You’re his and his alone, so the idea of ah— claiming you that way just sends him off into the ether.

The fact that you both have a breeding kink and literally can’t have kids is a GREAT thing because you’ve literally sat there a absolute mess after round five and thought out loud as he tenderly cleans you up, “shit thank god we can’t reproduce because I am 100% sure that’d have knocked my ass up—” which has had him shaking in mirth having to pause to control himself after a few moments.

Beg him for it.

Make that whining needy noise in the back of your throat at him for him to finally give you what you need.

He’ll just lose it, pin you by the throat and well— you’ve broken a few beds this way.

He has no shame.

Just glances at the bed, hits speed dial to the furniture store and orders a new one.

His only other favorite thing with C as he soon found out from O (you’ll see) was he adores when you swallow down everything he gives you. That’s got him rumbling in Italian about what a good girl you are and how much you please him.

———

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He’s a MASSIVE Pleasure Dom. And when I say Dom.

HE GOT DOM ENERGY.

With very mild Sadistic tendencies. (Thanks a lot Caius ya pervy fucker)

However he is also a very sincere soft streak when you’re a very good pet.

He picked up pet play from his sadistic brother hearing him call his amore Bunny. One day down the rabbit hole that is Google and he was hooked.

But he calls you Bambi. It’s an Italian term for baby-girl.

It also works because you become like a damn deer in the headlights when he pulls the Dominant voice on you.

It thrums with a low purr and has the capability to just make your brain go wait what?

HE’S A FUCKING SWITCH.

You had been pissed as shit at him. “I don’t know whether I want to strangle you or fuck you to death!” You paused because you had literally throat pinned him to the wall, the stone crumbling beneath him, feeling the muscles of his neck working as he swallowed nervously.

You were about to let go but saw his eyes had gone totally black and expectant and startled but excited.

He was just as fucking confused as you both calculated in a matter of seconds what had happened.

You were first to catch on. “Oh?….OH...….oooooohhhhhhh ….. you….you son of a….” You sputtered as he got a sly grin, “you can’t just look at me like— you are so ill behaved!!”

He wasn’t far behind and raised a black brow at you looking mischievous, “…..and what are you going to do about it mia regina?”

Next thing he knew he was face planted on his office floor with your boot pressed on his cheek making him groan low. “Gonna make you regret mouthing off to me is what I’m going to do my Aro.”

Edge him. Don’t let him touch you all day till he begs. He loves when you exert your authority especially on him? Oh forget it.

Queen Slay.

Literally you are his Queen and you are the only one who get’s to fucking tell him what to do.

And you ruthlessly do so when he’s in the mood. All you hear is “mia regina?” He’ll croon at you, as your hand comes up and drags him to you by his tie.

“would you like to be of service to me Aro?”

Magic words. He’s done, let him have you and he will literally just focus on your pleasure.

Worship Kink.

You had dropped to your knees at his desk and laid your head in his lap and he almost lost his god damn mind. You purred at him, “il mio maestro”.

Aro .exe has stopped fucking working.

———

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Thanks to the tactile telepathy as well as the fact that he and his brothers have slept their way through history, Aro is a very mixed lover.

When I say greedy as a lover, he wants your pleasure for himself. And will literally drive you to it till you’re sobbing for mercy.

He has none.

But he does take pity on you when he knows you’re truly at your limit with touch.

You weren’t inexperienced but his own experience blew yours out of the damn water. Can literally have you on the edge in mere minuets. And is SMUG about it.

Fucking smug bastard just watching you with that smirk on his face and a ‘well?’ Kinda expression.

You have to beg if you want it.

You have to plead, you have to let him hear you or he’ll just keep going and I quote ‘hmmm I can’t hear you cara mia, you’re being so quiet you know that makes me want to fuck you harder, come now, let me hear you— don’t make me have to drag it from you baby girl. You know I love to hear your sweet sounds.”

Could probably kill you if you weren’t already dead with what he can do with his hands.

His tongue is even better.

When asked which you preferred you had just panted desperately after a hard orgasm, “any. All. Both. God just…holy fuck.”

He cracked up over that. “My poor baby I broke her.”

————

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Loves having you in his lap.

Prefers to see your face and eyes, seems to need it.

But occasionally he just loves gripping your neck from behind and feeling you gasp against his grip as he slams into you roughly.

Adores anything that has you clinging onto him for dear life.

Likes being in a position to mark you. Favorite thing ever.

You had once tested his patience (willfully hoping for this outcome) a bit too much and he had pinned you completely immobile to the desk of his office and fucked you within an inch of your immortal life gagging you with his black tie.

“you just have to test me don’t you mia regina?” He had growled in your ear leaning over you, his hand crunching the ornate wood to splinters as you keened and whined for him to keep going. “Such a ill behaved thing you are, should just keep you here like this for when I please hm?”

He was not joking, you were kept there quite happily under his desk sitting at his feet your head on his lap waiting and absolutely willing.

He could feel your hands grip his thighs, “quit that I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work—“ his voice teetered off in a guttural growl as he looked down.

You were biting his shirt looking up at him already nudging yourself between his thighs your teeth digging into his trouser zipper and tugging down.

his hands were gripping your hair jerking you up to kiss him deep, a growl against your lips, “Fucking damn it— come here.”

When you can get him to swear which is rare— yeah…

He didn’t exactly sound angry.

But he sure fucked you like he was though.

“This is what you were after hm? You brat!” A harsh laugh as he pinned you down a bit harder, “fine then I should ensure you’re good….and….sated…shouldn’t I bambi?”

———

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Very sincere.

Teasing but only in a very sexual way.

Borders on humiliation but he respects you too much.

Very serious though when he focuses on you.

He’s focusing on all the sensations you’re sending him, letting you know what he’s feeling as well which just sets you into the damn ether.

———

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It’s ARO.

The man is vain.

The man is neat.

Clean and pristine.

He’d give a regal huff of annoyance, “I am not a heathen darling.”

———

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Ohhh you wouldn’t know it but he’s such a god damn romantic.

He is. And he MAKES time for you. The schedules are changed so you have time together more often— something that was never done before.

Operas, romantic walks out in Volterra at night.

Sightseeing.

Your favorite was your trip to Germany in the winter with a big cozy cottage and a big fire and lots of bedding to ahem— destroy.

Aro has penguin brain.

He brings you small gifts that made him think of you— you have a bracelet that has special charms he had custom made for you, a lochness monster for when you met, a castle obviously for Volterra, a doe, different tiny items that speckled through your life, each one means something— you hardly ever take it off.

You have a collection of very sparkly stones in many jars that he found on his missions.

They are actually gemstones— insert eye roll— they set off pretty prisms through your shared rooms.

“Aren’t you going to make jewelry of them?” Aro asks.

“No darling they are perfect just as they are.” You smile.

Aro actually has the literal voice of a damn angel.

He sings to you in Italian, soft dulcet sweet tones and dances you around your rooms teasing you relentlessly.

Aro writes beautiful poetry. He will at least write one every few months when inspiration comes to him.

You have your own private box at the opera house. As well as being allowed to fund artists across the world, you’ve found incredible talent on broadway and other venues.

Flowers. Aro ensures care for a private greenhouse for you on the roof, each flower has a meaning, and they all bloom year round given the proper temperatures on the greenhouse. “Why would I send you flowers when they die so easily.” He asks kissing your cheek as you smile over the new blooms. “This is everlasting, much more fitting.” He muses.

All his poetry is in a beautiful book Caius got you for your birthday.

———

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Why would he do that when he has you?

He is a patient man.

He can wait.

And he has pristine control over himself.

He is too old for pre-pubescent raging hormone crap.

But he will legit melt for you if you do it for him. Prefers it slow, enjoying your touch and loves to watch as you take instruction.

You’re such a good girl for him.

————

———

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Aro is a kinky bastard.

MASSIVE Pleasure Dom.

Worship Kink.

Edging.

Controlling Orgasms *you don’t get to come till he gives permission*

Collaring *your Volturi necklace is LITERALLY on a collar*

Overstimulation. *his gift allows him to know when you’re pushed to hard and when you can take a bit more. When you’re craving that over stimulus, he’ll give it happily. Knowing he can turn you into a babbling speaking in tongues, drooling, eyes rolling back mess just— just— GAH.*

Breeding Kink *Aro has a true breeding kink, ask him to fill you up beg him for it and he’s going to lose his mind.*

Gagging. *he loves to gag you, but also loves being choked by you or you grabbing onto his tie.

Wax Play *you’re a fire elemental user, bringing candles into play is just oh it’s nice. * Prefers to have it done TO him. Your air element gift also allows you to cool the wax quickly and give new sensations.

————

———

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Aro is private, he prefers somewhere comfortable to take his sweet time with you.

Rooms Private, hotel, somewhere he can just lavish you and enjoy everything you can give him.

He’d rather take the time to find a nice comfy setting.

But every blue moon— he’ll just look at you in that specific dress molding to your thighs.

He will drag you into an alley way and just rail the shit out of you keeping you quiet with a firm grip over your mouth as he hisses the dirtiest things in your ear.

You two once had a quick rendezvous in a changing room at a theatre. -shrug- it was empty oh well.

———

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

“Master?” You bat your eyes at him

His nostrils flare as he breathes in and just knows exactly what you want and you smell so fucking good.

The tone you use.

He knows. You want him. That’s it.

Unless it’s a trial— and DO NOT DO THIS BEFORE TRIAL.

And if you happen to when he takes your hand send him your fantasies after seeing him standing there all regal and watching his mouth form syllables so well and how much better it’ll be with his mouth— ahem— busy somewhere else.

He will be so mad at you.

He’s glaring at you behind a mask of calm and you can feel the fucking tremor in his limbs.

You just bat your eyes innocently at him and smile.

His face: you’re in SO MUCH trouble.

Brat energy??? During Trial?!??! Now is that the time to give brat energy!!???

Oh. Oh. oh you are so in trouble. When he gets done with ripping some poor idiots head off— okay not really they broke the rules— stalks over to you; grabs you by your oh so pretty collar, “come with me bambi.”

And just pulls you along to your rooms with you giggling the whole way and practically prancing behind him like a— well like a doe prancing into a lions den.

He’s tossed you over his shoulder once and just flitted out of the rooms into your private chambers, hurling you onto the bed before ripping into your clothing. “You best be ready for your punishment.”

“Oooohhhhhh absolutly master.”

“that’s my girl.”

The coven just rolls their eyes. Aro is less manic with you there and you surprisingly bring ease to the coven— so ya know what if that’s what does it whatever.

————

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Humiliation. No.

Impact play is one thing, but to intentionally hurt you no.

If he does impact play one hand is always touching you to ensure you’re okay.

————

———

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving? The man has a wicked tongue.

His oral game is LEGIT.

Will have you in a puddle of twitching ecstasy in mere moments of teasing because he knows where to touch and that’s not just his tongue but his hands.

Will kiss you all over before even getting to the ahem— final destination.

You’re either ready to combust or ready to strangle him when he finally just begins to devour you.

Eats pussy like a man starved but has all the time to enjoy.

Smug as Fuck.

Expect him to just watch you as you’re coming back down from the absolute height he threw you up to and glaring down at his smug grin as he waits before beginning all over again.

Will go all night if you’ve been ill behaved.

Your record is 20 before you BEGGED for a break.

He finally took pity and gave you a warm bubble bath and snuggles and praises.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like receiving, however it was more just a “hm, that’s nice—“

But with you.

Especially when you had decided to walk into his office, lay your head in his lap as you had sat yourself under his desk so he could work while he played with your hair (you have a comfy cushion there who was he to argue if that was the best way to be close and he could get work done??!!)

But his work was abruptly halted when you had nuzzled his cock through his trousers dragging your mouth wide as he became painfully hard in record time.

“what is it you think you’re doing bambi?” He purred looking oh so curious.

“Nothing.” You muffled around him as your teeth found his zipper and trouser buttons with a rather feral sound.

Upon finding out you had no gag reflex and having your nose buried in his pelvis as you moaned around him he was done for and he didn’t even care.

Work was forgotten.

Loves when you pleasure him, but of course has to be in control for the most part.

Buries his hands into your hair and loves throat fucking you, praising you the entire time. “What a good thing you don’t need to breathe dolcezza.”

You had hummed around him ecstatically.

The reward for this is always drool worthy.

Play with yourself as you do and let him see you do so keeping your clothing out of the way and you’ll have him break finally, that cool haughty composure cracking as his gaze goes just utterly uncontrollably wild, his hips moving a bit harder.

————

———

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

You both fuck rough.

But you both also love the slow and sensual moments too.

Especially if you have the time to just drown in one another.

It just depends on the situation.

Rough And Fast:

Slow and Sensual is how it usually starts off, he’s so attentive, so soft and cherishes you, that is till you growl at him for more and he has of course no other option but to give you what he wants.

You’re his queen after all what kind of mate would he be if he didn’t give in?

But has today been exceedingly trying for either of you?

Or is your mate quite amped up from a particularly rough trial?

You’ve been pestering him haven’t you? Hmmm.. yeah buckle up.

You’re in trouble and therefore need to relearn where your place is— it’s in your bed, beneath him losing your mind out of pleasure.

And he is all too happy to provide that lesson if you seem to forget.

You try to forget often. You damn brat.

Slow and Sensual

However sometimes he just wants to be gentle. And frankly so do you, you want to just bask in the bond you have and slowly explore all over again despite knowing you have memorized one another to heart by now.

Doesn’t matter, you still find things that surprise you, things that make you smile.

Places that when touched cause a jolt— well that’s new.

“I could spend my entire life mapping out your body carissima.”

“that’s an awful long time in bed.”

Aro would just smirk kissing down your sternum, “oh what a pity— I suppose my brothers shall have to cover for me hm?” Bite marks being pressed into your flesh, “I plan on leaving so many of these that I forget where they are so I can find them later.”

“Such an evil overlord.” But you’re giddy, he’s going to make your entire world tilt again with those slow careful hands of his and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.

———

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You’d be surprised that such a patient man could be so damn impatient for you.

He’s not as impatient as Caius but not AS patient as Marcus.

So it’s a toss up when he’s twitchy during trials and catches a glimpse of you floating down the hallway in all your grandure and he mentally tosses a coin.

Nope he can’t take it that flash of leg just set him off.

“Excuse me I do belive I remembered something that needs my attention.”

The others just inwardly roll their eyes.

Next thing you know you’re gagged by his tie in his office pinned over the desk with his teeth buried in your neck and frankly you expected this you wore that damn skirt with the slit in it to tease him.

Seeing this just makes him let out a feral noise and a laugh at the end, “oh you planned that hm?” He nibbles the outer shell of your ear, “missed me did you?”

You can only nod as he continues, eyes rolling back as he knows exactly what you’re needing and it’s certainly not gentle right now.

“I have exactly fifteen minutes before my brothers come looking for me— think you can be a good girl and make me come?”

You smirk against the gag in your mouth before purring at him; and it’s off to the races.

He’s in trouble quite often for this— but who’s to argue with him.

He’s king he can do what he wants…. At times….

Okay most of the time.

Plus he’s always in a MUCH better mood.

I wonder Why.

————

———

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

While Aro does love to experiment your safety is his utmost importance.

But he’s a curious bastard and you are right behind him on that scale so sometimes your games become a bit risky.

Never life threatening but oh boy do you two get a grin and just glance at one another, “you know we haven’t done that yet.”

“No…. No we haven’t….”

And that’s how it usually starts.

The worst thing you two can realize is you both utter “I don’t know”.

Well now you have to know if either of you are able to ahem— arrive— under rather dire circumstances such as utilizing your gift (don’t worry your gift doesn’t hurt him he knows how to use fire too surprise surprise.).

You almost had a heart attack though and nearly killed him after.

He just cackled that manic laugh that had you joining in after hitting him several times.

———

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Need I say more than one word?

Vampire.

Aro takes his time most occasions, his slow, slow sweet time.

Now— you’d THINK that the rougher encounters would last a shorter period.

You’re wrong.

So wrong.

He lives for it you’re going to be so happy you’re a vampire and can’t really get sore except for when you both leave cracking handprints on one another.

————

———

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Sensory.

Crops, leather gloves, feathers, ben wa balls are huge and he likes that they are silent but give you that teasing sensation. Wax candle play is huge for both of you and you enjoy long luxurious heated baths and sauna sessions with one another.

Ooooo he loves it.

Leather gloves area huge thing for him but not for what you’d think— he likes to challenge himself.

Sure he can know what you’re feeling but he wants to be in tune with your physical responses as well and so occasionally he dons them just to test his knowledge.

Damn smug overlord is just as good and you hate it and now he’s smirking at you while popping his jaw with his hand on his elbow waiting for you to come back into your body.

“Shut up.” You rasp as your head spins.

“I didn’t say anything.” His raven hair slides across his face as he grins wider.

“Your SMUGNESS IS LOUD ARO.”

“Me?! Smug! Why I never…” -cue the dark chuckle before he starts it up all over again, “maybe once more to ensure you remember it’s not just the gifts edge hm?”

“Ohhhh I’m going to die.” But you reach for him biting his leather clad hands.

“No you won’t.” He hums happily, “I won’t let you. You’re not allowed to leave me bambi.”

————

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

HE IS SO DAMN UNFAIR.

But so are you.

He’s not as bad as Caius but he is close, and he only does it with LOOKS.

His eyes are utterly expressive, as is that mouth of his, so when he glances at you in just the right way you can feel it drop down in your gut and sizzle.

And he does it during trial. Oh but when you do it you’re in trouble. Psh.

He’ll tease you and brush your hand as he walks by just to know that you’re basically twitching from frustration at the end of the day and about to boil over as he leans down and licks your neck. “Bambi, awe, was I too mean to you? Hmm I should make it up to you shouldn’t I?”

He always makes it up to you.

The man has the best ways to use his mouth aside from running the coven and giving orders.

————

———

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Aro was quite clear studies, and private rooms were to be soundproofed.

He’s loud, swearing (which he normally does not do), praising mess of a man, it’s needed.

And you love it.

You can practically feel the vibration in his chest when he purrs at you, less growling, he’s not as violent unless you get him too worked up.

No no no, he loves making you melt, and knows exactly what to croon at you to make your mind go blank.

———

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He’s more posessive than Marcus. And that bleeds into a protective nature.

A bit controlling, but he knows very well he can’t do that to you as he had to Sulprica. BUT it doesn’t stop him from trying as gods forbid anything happen to you.

Less Jealous than Caius.

But his ah— mood swings can cause for quite an interesting feat.

Since Marcus and Caius were always the brunt of the bashing and warfare, and he the brains behind the operation, many seem to think he has no bite marks on his body due to not being in the fray.

No.

The problem is Aro becomes too violent. Especially because of his talent when touching his victims it tends to become a frenzy. Once he had decimated an entire coven single handedly because the rage they had was swamping him.

His brothers had to pin him down and try to relay calm emotions— his sister Didyme thankfully had been the one to bring him back.

You yourself are now that calm place.

At one point, a guard had been careless enough to have thought about you in ah— that way— Aro was aware you were quite beautiful, your personality no nonsense and many of the guard and lower guard considered you a maternal figure almost otherwise a very good friend.

But this guard.

Ohhh he coveted. What was not his.

But what was worse, was that on the way to the throne room he had spoken to you rather crassly, you merely ignored him; he wasn’t even worth your time. But he had glanced you over as if you were a rather tasty morsel, the imaginings of you spread out beneath him had Aro’s hands cracking his wrists.

You saw the change slightly as you were behind him. His spine went poker straight. “You dare.” It was worse, the guard had actually tried to think of how to lure you away to him— you were a queen so surely infidelity was expected—

The rumble in his chest was a whole new sound you’d never even heard.

Both Marcus and Caius were sitting straight up and narrowing their gaze at Aro before Marcus flitted over and guided you to Aro’s throne placing you on it and standing protectively in front of you.

“Marcus?” you peered behind the eldest king and he hushed you gently.

The guard was torn apart in mere seconds.

It was utterly ruthless and with no mercy.

“People tend to forget Aro is only about a thousand years younger than I.” Marcus muttered.

You blinked. Aro was at least five thousand meaning that Marcus was Six, Caius being the youngest at three.

Aro speared the entire guard with a terrifyingly cold glare before flitting over to you, gripping your head back by your hair and sinking his teeth into your shoulder and neck with a low growl.

The sentiment was well understood as the entire guard backed the fuck away from the dais— he closed the wound before his head shot up and he snarled at the coven tucking you into his embrace your face buried into his robes. “She is mine.” It was a quiet, soft voice that spoke.

“Aro.” you muffled tugging his sleeve and looking up at him.

He showed you “what he had seen and tilted his head. Would you mind cara?”

You lit the bastard on fire with a scowl aimed at the body winding your arms about Aro’s waist and nuzzling into his solid form.

A soft kiss in your hair, his body relaxing. “That’s my bambi.”

———

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Aro although he is lithe and tall….he’s not exactly easy to handle.

9” decent width, knows how to use it.

Be forewarned, he knows what he’s doing.

Tactile Telepathy, good luck remember to keep your head on straight.

————

———

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

It’s less of a wistful like of yearning.

And more a burning bonfire of desire always in the wing of his mind ready to take over the forefront.

One glance at you and he wants you— granted he thinks it might cool down over the centuries but when you look at him like that and bite your lip and grin.

Nah.

Nope. This isn’t going away. Not at all.

He of course has excellent control so he is able to push other desires to the back of his mind, but once finished you are certainly at the front of the line.

Super high.

You both are insane.

You can be sitting reading and next moment with one small brush you’re gone from the library and you’ve tackled him through the doors of your rooms and pinned him to the floor.

Insatiable.

Good luck!

————

———

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Aro LOVES resting with you.

He likes to just lay with his hands on your body and watching your thoughts, you’re his favorite mind to go through and he just adores it.

You both can spend hours like this if you were allowed—

He likes when you drag your fingers through his hair.

Makes him melt.

Kiss across his eyes and kiss his hands as he brushes your mouth with his fingers trying to learn you all over again.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.” He murmurs to you lazily. He has you nestled in his arms your head tucked under his jaw.

“That’s fucking fine by me.” You giggle.

He rolls his eyes and huffs a soft laugh kissing the top of your head. “Of course she swears like a sailor…”

#aro volturi

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no-droids · 5 years ago

Text

Brown Eyes

Part Nine of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10.1K dont. just dont

Warnings: Smut, AS ALWAYS. Canon typical violence, verbal references masochism/pain kink (NOT ACTUALLY EXPLORED IN THIS CHAPTER MY DUDES, JUST HINTED AT/DISCUSSED), slight degradation, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, a bit of ass play (!!!), FLUUUUFFFFFF

***

“What?”

“Hm?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s the hold up?”

“I’m just…” The helmet looks you up and down, considering. You scrunch your nose at him and rock back and forth on your feet impatiently as he sighs. “It’s going to be like teaching a foundling to read. I’m just trying to figure out where to even begin.”

“Because it’s so fucking pretty here, I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that,” you say pointedly, looking around at the vast field of flowing grass surrounding the two of you and breathing in the warm, fresh air into your lungs. “Your vibe is clashing, Din.”

“Because I don’t really know what that means, I’m also going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he returns, and the child’s giggles float up alongside the breeze as he chases after another, slightly smaller green reptile that you also currently have no name for. He tilts the beskar thoughtfully at you, and you squint against the way the sun catches the visor directly in your eyes from this angle. “What do you want to learn first?”

“I want to shoot a gun,” you blurt without thinking.

“Okay, hand-to-hand it is,” he nods firmly, and then pats his unarmored chest with one bare hand. “Hit me.”

You blink down at the dark fabric stretched across his left pectoral, and then back up at the metallic visor staring back at you.

“Hit me,” he says again in response to your silence. “Hard as you can. Right here.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, lifting your gaze up to him once more with a twist of your mouth, already out of your comfort zone. “What if I hurt you?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” He actually sounds… pissed off. “Hit me.”

You immediately shove your hand up against his chest in response to the sharp order, and your palm makes a quiet slapping sound as it collides with what feels like solid rock concealed underneath black fabric.

Din says absolutely nothing. Almost a… forced silence. Like what he wants to say will very likely be vaguely mean and dismissive of your feelings, so he’s keeping his mouth firmly shut under the helmet. He just pats his chest again, each one purposeful and distinct, easily making twice the amount of noise hitting himself as you did hitting him.

You ball your fist up this time and whack him with it, considerably harder this time and even making a solid thud against his pectoral, though he doesn’t even move a fraction under the blow.

“I am…” he tries to choose his words carefully after another moment of purposeful silence. “…insulted.”

You grit your teeth and raise your arm up and back, swinging it out at him as hard as you physically can, but then the curve of his broad shoulder suddenly jerks back just before you can touch him and your fist is caught from the side with a gentle grip.

“Better. You wound up that time, that gives you momentum. But never come at someone like this,” he tells you, lifting your arm back up to the way it was before and then slowly hinging it down again against his chest. “This is how you were going to hit. See how your pinkie is taking the brunt of the punch when you come down at it from an angle like this?” He pushes your fist against his chest a few times to demonstrate your pinkie squishing against the solid plane of muscle. “No matter how hard you hit me, your hand is going to take that much force, too. That attempt had about half the power you want, but you might’ve broken your finger if I let you make contact like that.”

“Half the power?” You narrow your eyebrows at him. “You’ll break my whole hand.”

Din angles your wrist straight and pushes your closed fist against his chest again, this time head-on instead of at a downward angle. “Always try to use these first two knuckles to reinforce against the impact, they’re the strongest and best aligned with the bones in your wrist. You should also physically brace yourself for it. Flex your arm—create as much rigidity around your joints as you can, keep your fist clenched tight to maintain integrity of the soft tissues in your hand, and your body should protect itself against the blowback as long as you land right. Try again.”

You diligently wind your fist up again and then go to snap your arm straight forward this time, but he steps up and catches your elbow before you can even move. “Wait. Look at this—see this chicken wing?” He flaps your elbow back and forth while his other hand holds your fist in place next to your head. “This is no good, this is where you’re losing half your power. And having your arm up like this is making you open to rib and kidney shots.”

You squirm to the side when he taps the bend of his knuckle against your kidney, and the vulnerable spot is tender even though he barely uses any force. “I’m winding up,” you inform him with a huff.

“You are,” Din acknowledges. “But your movement is limited like this. See where your elbow is compared to your center of gravity?” He flaps it again, and your shoulder pulls uncomfortably when he pushes it back just a bit too far. “You’re restricting yourself, look. Your shoulder is in the way, this is as far as your body will let you go. You’re also using up too much energy trying to swing your whole arm around just to make contact; it’s sloppy technique, it slows you down, and it’ll tire you out. But, if you wind up like this—” Din lowers your elbow until it rests flat against your side, and then hinges it backwards instead of up near your head, “—see how much further away your elbow is from your body now? Instead of swinging outwards, think of a slingshot forwards. Use explosive, forward momentum that you generate from your shoulder—you’re aiming for a sharp, streamlined jab. This way you conserve energy, produce twice as much power, and your arm now covers up all this important stuff under here,” he explains, trying to tap his knuckle against your side once more but being blocked by your forearm. “Good? Now go again.”

He lets you go and steps back, and this time you instinctually plant your foot behind you to give you a solid base foundation that’ll allow you more room to twist, your physics brain lighting up as soon as he said slingshot. His helmet quickly drops to your stance and then immediately lifts back up to your face again.

You do exactly as he said—you wind back, keeping your arm tucked tight to your side, and then explode forward with a sharp spin of your shoulder and snap of your elbow, colliding your clenched fist into his chest as hard as you possibly can.

He grunts and takes two steps back.

You howl.

“FUUUUUCK!” It gets lost in the giant field of grass as you clutch your fist, torn between cradling it to your chest like a baby and shaking it out violently at your side like… something distinctly not a baby. You settle for just bending over and holding it tightly to your stomach, eyes clamped shut and screeching with such fervor that the back of your throat stings sharp with it. “WHAT THE FUCKING—FUCKFUCKFUCK—!?”

“Good!” Din encourages over your wailing. “That was good! How’d that feel? Holy shit—that felt good.”

“What’s the point of hitting you when it hurts me and makes you feel good!?” You cry out over your shoulder, somewhere between genuine hatred and agony.

“That was perfect,” he tells you immediately, almost sounding vaguely… out of breath behind you? “Don’t change a thing—that’s how you punch every single time from now on, okay? That’s how hard you hit. Fuck, that felt fucking good.”

The… something in his voice is enough to take your mind off your throbbing hand for just a second, quickly snapping upright and whirling around to face him with your eyebrows very, very narrowed. He stands there in front of you and you continue to eye him with as much silent skepticism as you can express, until the both of you speak at the same time.

“What was that?”

“Let’s go again.”

Neither of you move, and you feel like your face is scrunched up as tiny as possible at him right now with dubiousness.

“Let’s go again,” Din suddenly grunts out, hooking an arm around your elbow and tugging you to face forward once more.

“Did that turn you on?” You ask him bluntly, your battle wound completely forgotten by your side.

“I swear if you don’t—”

“You get hard when you get hurt?” You ask dumbly, all sorts of lightbulbs suddenly illuminating in dusty, cobwebbed corners of your mind. Maker, that would explain so much. “Is that why you wanted a handjob immediately after I burned a knife wound shut on your back?”

“You wanna learn how to punch today or you wanna learn how to block?” Comes through the helmet, thoroughly unamused at your antics, but you just break into a mischievous little grin in response and push just one more button of his, knowing he’s only mostly joking.

“I’ll punch you,” you purr. “Hold your arms up, show me your ribs.”

There’s a split second of silence before he quickly snaps his fist to his chest once again, oh, but it’s enough. Your shoulders do a little victory shimmy and have to bite your lip to keep from beaming at him, so unbelievably proud of yourself for being able to read him this well without seeing his face.

But—for the very same reason, you also plant your foot behind you and wind your arm back once more, knowing you were already treading on thin ice.

“Am I gonna have to start calling you chicken wing?” Din suddenly barks out, a split second into your forward launch. You almost stumble into him with all the generated momentum and catch yourself just in time, eventually stepping back and resetting with a frustrated huff. Purposefully tucking your arm tight into your side, you pull back once more.

He mmphs when you make equally hard contact in the very same spot but he doesn’t move this time, and you somehow forgot how horribly painful it is to slam your clenched fist directly against a solid object with all your strength—much less, the second time around. You attempt to deaden your response as well, but he has the luxury of the helmet to shield his face. Silencing your scream just makes yours contort unattractively in front of him while your eyes clamp shut and you clutch your wrist, trying to bite back the crippling pain.

“Other hand—use the other hand instead,” he tells you quickly. “You have two of them.”

“I used to!” You snarl through the way you can’t even flex it anymore, how your muscles aren’t working through the angry sparks of acute sensation jumping down your fingers. “Your stupid fucking pecs just broke my good one!”

“Want me to kiss it?” Din asks—quickly, almost like he can’t help himself, and the snarky tone of it through the modulator coupled with the throbbing pain makes you grit your teeth.

“I used to love your body,” you lift your head and growl up at him while you cradle your swollen claw. “Why did you take that from me?”

“Give me your hand,” he says calmly, holding his palm out for you.

“No,” you spit, the pain making you stubborn and resistant to anything you don’t immediately offer yourself, but he’s not impressed. Din easily catches your elbow and brings it up, his other hand gently lacing through your fingers even as you try in vain to pull it away. “Stop it—”

He completely ignores you and looks back over his shoulder at the kid, dwarfed by the tall grass and continuing to hop around behind what will likely be his lunch, before the helmet turns back to you. “Eyes closed.”

“This isn’t fucking funn—”

“Close your eyes,” he tells you once more. “Don’t open them.”

You take a deep breath and grind your teeth, not wanting to be treated like a baby. It irks you that he’s dedicating so much time and effort into just infantilizing you and your very real pain. Though, the pain is so real that it makes it almost impossible to express the sentiment—it comes out sounding childishly short and bratty. “It hurts.”

“I know,” is all he says, soft and lilting and quite possibly as gentle as you’ve ever heard him. “Close your eyes, sweet girl.”

His tone of voice is the only thing that compels you to listen. You finally do as he says and flutter your eyes shut, overly aware of the hard grimace on your face now that you can’t see anything. One of his hands releases you while keeping your numb fingers laced between his, and then a few seconds pass, before you suddenly feel soft lips pressing against your knuckle.

You hiss and tighten up on instinct, more in fear of the pain than the pain itself, but he holds your hand steady as he carefully trails gentle presses of his lips against your knuckles. After a moment, you breathe out shakily, your eyebrows lifting just slightly at the sensation—before his mouth opens and his warm tongue glides delicately across your sensitive skin.

You gasp and your fingers twitch in between his, suddenly able to move again. They knock against cool metal as his tongue slowly drags down the valleys between your knuckles—but then Din abruptly drops your hand at the sudden sound of sunshine giggles coming from afar. Your eyes pop open just as his helmet is yanked down over his jaw once more.

“Let’s…” He clears his throat through the modulator, taking a small step back. “Let’s go again.”

***

You collapse down into a pitiful little pile on the grass, trying to catch your breath. This is ridiculous. You somehow have tender bruises all over your body and yet you’re the only one who’s done any sort of hitting whatsoever.

“That’s fine, we can take a break,” Din says gruffly from above you, but you’re too tired to even comment on the sarcasm. You just groan, flopping down flat on your back while he sits in the grass next to you and silently waits for you to start breathing normally again.

“I hate this,” you pant, resting your numb hands against your forehead and squinting against the late afternoon sun. “I don’t like this. My body hurts and I barely did anything.”

“You’re good at it,” Din is quick to respond, and the blunt sincerity in his voice takes you aback, making you glance over at him in shock. “I know,” he nods once the beskar turns and he sees the look on your face, “I didn’t expect it either.”

His tendency to compliment you while simultaneously insulting you doesn’t go unnoticed, but if anything, you decide to take it as a testament to his honesty and comfort in your presence. Clearly he’d have no issue telling you if you were terrible at this.

Instead of responding, you lace your fingers behind your head and continue to just lay there, closing your eyes against the warm sunshine. It’s gorgeous here, you get why this planet is renown throughout the galaxy. Perfect weather, stunningly green rolling hills for miles, the gentle breeze dancing through the tall grass, brilliant white clouds suspended against a beautiful blue backdrop. The only thing that’s missing is—

“When can we go see the ocean?” You blurt up at the sky, unable to stop the words before they’re out of your mouth.

“What ocean?” Comes tiredly through the modulator, monotone and filtered as he shuffles into a more comfortable position.

“Any of them,” you immediately respond, shrugging your shoulders against the grass. “The closest one. I’m not picky.”

“…Naboo doesn’t have any oceans,” Din tells you blankly.

You startle slightly, jerking your head over at him. “What? But—but I saw it through the transparisteel when we dropped. This whole planet is practically covered in water.”

“It is,” he agrees with a tilt of his helmet, following you with the visor as you finally scramble to sit yourself upright. “But it’s all one big… body of water. Locals call it the Abyss, it stretches across the entire planet through a system of underground caves and tunnels. It only surfaces as rivers and lakes and swamplands, though. No ocean. Not really.”

“Oh.” It’s blank, but it’s… lacking. The sun glinting against metal gives you an excuse to subtly turn your head away from him, and you hold back your sigh of disappointment.

“What’s the matter?” He grunts after a moment, somehow succeeding in sounding mildly disinterested while still bothering to ask. He props his knee upright to rest his elbow on it, apparently able to read you better than ever as well.

“Nothing,” you say on instinct and shake your head, already knowing it’s dumb. You’re being dumb, there’ll be other planets with oceans—you just haven’t had the opportunity to go to one yet.

Din doesn’t say anything after that, but he also keeps the helmet subtly turned towards you, like he’s just… waiting. The quiet almost doesn’t sound quiet anymore, not when there’s such a loud unspoken question still lingering in it.

“It’s just,” you say after a moment, trying to smile, but it doesn’t feel real. It’s nothing more than a movement your mouth makes and it feels at odds with the mild disappointment you’re trying to hide. “I used to be a moisture farmer. Back on Arvala-7, where we first met.”

His continued silence tells you nothing. You don’t know whether he’s confused and you should elaborate, whether he understands and doesn’t need an explanation, whether he’s interested or disinterested. Nothing. So after another few more seconds of nothing, you decide to keep going.

“There's something about water that just… hits different when you spend your entire life on a planet without any,” you say quietly, picking at a few blades of grass by your knees instead of looking at him. “When I was a little girl, I used to think it was as rare in the rest of the galaxy as it was where I was born. A limited resource you had to farm from the atmosphere to drink, because it didn’t occur naturally in liquid form. It was… valuable. Delicate. Crystal clear—never saw more than a few dozen gallons of it at a time. Something to be cherished. Something you’d never want to waste even just dipping your hand into, because the dirt on your skin would contaminate it.”

You smile once more, but this time it feels a little bit better. “You know… the first shower I took on the Crest the day I left that Maker-forsaken planet was the first time I ever felt my hair get wet. We only ever had sonic showers on Arvala-7.” And stars, the memory of it makes you want to shudder. Ultrasonic waves vibrating the dirt and sweat off your body sounds a lot more thorough than it actually is. You never felt truly clean until you were soaking wet on the Crest with shampoo in your hair, giggling like a child in the fresher while you made yourself a soapy little beard.

It springboards into another memory—the moment you first reached for a towel after showering, catching a glimpse of your hands and startling at the sight of your wrinkled, pruny fingertips. You’d never heard of such a phenomena before that point. You thought you’d asked Kuiil about everything, but to be entirely fair, he might not have even realized it happened, not from the leathery texture of his xenospecies’ skin. The questions he did answer for you were plenty though, and you suddenly remember something he said to you years ago that was so jarring and unexpected that it’s stuck with you to this day.

“Kuiil told me once that water was loud,” you suddenly hear yourself say, and though your soft laugh is nostalgic and sincere, you don’t know why, but you instantly tear up as soon as the words leave your mouth. “Loud. How could—could water be loud? What… what noise would it make?”

You sniff and continue to pick at the grass, a bit more vigorously this time, purposefully keeping your eyes down and blinking quickly. “He said… he said streams and brooks… b-bubble. They bubble. And rain… rain is like static—like white noise, but… natural. Not generated by a machine. He said the ocean is the loudest, though. It roars. It’s powerful.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat and glancing up, you try to distract yourself from the memory of your close friend by looking out at the wavy grass, trying to see if you can spot the kid being dwarfed by it. You can’t, not from this low angle, but you can still hear him playing happily in the distance.

“I’ve seen all the others now, thanks to you,” you confess quietly. “Rain, rivers, lakes—but I always wanted to see an ocean. A big, scary one, where the sound would just be… deafening. Water, tons of it, crashing up against rocks and filling the air with mist. Used to dream about them. Wanted to see something I used to think was rare fill my entire field of view. Wanted to see something I always thought was precious turn into something formidable.”

Din continues staring silently at you through your peripheral while you keep picking at the grass absently.

“I just—I don’t know.” You finally look over at him and sigh, smiling softly and shrugging your shoulders. “I just always dreamed of a place where I could go, a place where I could open my eyes and all I’d be able to see—all I could hear—was water.”

You stop talking after that, having run out of things to say and realizing you probably shared a little too much without ever being prompted. The sunlight is gentle and easy, however, and it encourages you to close your eyes and just breathe, letting silent, eternal gratitude to the man next to you fill you. You’d never know any sun that isn’t harsh, you’d never know the greenness of the tall grass in this sprawling field had he not found you, given you a chance to tag along the galaxy with him and his carnivorous little sidekick.

The sun begins making you sleepy the more you sit here in the middle of paradise, eyes closed and tasting the gorgeous air in your lungs. But eventually, Din stands up and steps in front of you, opening both of his bare palms towards the setting sky and bouncing them up and down a few times. “Up. Come on. I’ll teach you how to throw an uppercut before nightfall.”

You groan but lift your hands in his direction all the same, trying not to wince while you make grabby fingers at him, your knuckles slightly bruised and red. He sighs and wraps his hands purposefully around your elbows, urging you up as he takes a few steps backwards.

It’s awkward. You’re still feeling lazy and droopy-eyed, and the cool shadow he casts makes you even more sleepy. You think he’s going to help more than you have to pull yourself up, and he clearly thinks he’s there to be your platform instead of your forklift. What results is just you being dragged uselessly by your arms in front of him, until your torso and legs are stretched in an uncomfortable J-shape on the ground and your forehead bumps into his lower tummy.

He stops and holds you there, before grunting out, “Use your feet.”

“Just let me fall,” you tell him, your lips brushing against the dark fabric while your shoulders and spine pull tight at this angle. “Just leave me here like this.”

The sigh he makes above you feels like he puts his whole entire being into it. Din leaves you propped up against him for a second while he grumbles and readjusts his hold further up near your shoulders, before he maneuvers you until you’re gently settling down on your knees in the grass.

You think (hope) he’s going to release you and let you take a nap, but then you gasp when he shifts and the toe of his boot suddenly wedges itself between your closed thighs. He lifts up on your arms just slightly, enough to take the weight off your knees so he can swipe his foot out and kick one of them open, before plopping you back down again and letting you go.

Up until that point, you’d been good. You were content with being boneless for him and seeing how he’d deal, but then he gracefully crouches down in front of you and wraps one powerful arm around your back, hugging you tight to his chest. Din’s open thighs frame your kneeling figure and you can feel his cock pressed against your tummy from this angle, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

For some reason, he decides to take this next part slow. Maybe it’s because he can probably feel the way your heart is starting to kick up against his unarmored chest right now, but he drags it out. Broad shoulder dropping and his helmet finding a home in the crook of your neck, Din braces you to his chest with one arm while the other slithers down the curve of your ass and then under—his forearm pressing firmly between your cheeks and then his open palm flattening tight along the length of your pussy from behind.

You moan softly next to the helmet while he works the thick muscles in his thighs to gradually lift you both from the ground. Maker, the tips of his fingers are curved hard against your slit through your pants while he rises, pulling you up until gravity causes your thighs to slowly meet around his hand and your legs to dangle.

The feat of strength turns you on just as much as his choice of positioning does. Fuck, you know you’re not the lightest person in the galaxy, but Din carefully sets you down on your feet without even so much as a grunt of effort, his hand staying tucked tight between your legs for longer than necessary. Biting your lip and pressing your face into his shoulder does nothing to stop the quiet whimper you make when he decides to grind his strong fingers up into you just a bit.

“Din,” you whisper, wanting to melt into him, but then he’s instantly ripping his hand away and taking a step back.

You nearly fall over at the sudden lack of support after relying solely on him for it for so long, but you don’t even have enough time to open your mouth in upset. There’s just a split second before a green blur bursts through the tall grass with a squeal and trips over the baggy potato sack around his body.

It’s like it happens in slow motion. You both watch as he flies forward, skidding more than once on the ground and then landing face-down on your shoe, the little thump on your foot feeling so adorably anticlimactic after all the buildup.

Nobody moves for a second, except for the way your eyes flicker up at the visor currently tilted towards the ground. You can tell Din is just holding his breath, just waiting to see if—

A hiccup. You see broad shoulders tighten under the dark fabric, and then a sudden piercing wail is released against your shoe.

“Shit,” Din curses, already scooping the little thing up and bouncing him slightly to pacify him. You bite your lip against the way his ears flop from the movement and he screams even louder. “Hey hey hey, stop. Stop it. Stop crying.”

“Uh oh! Where’d your little friend go?” You ask while Din immediately turns the kid around to face you, your voice pitched soft and high in your register as you step closer. “Did you eat him already?”

He just shudders out a cry, probably an affirmative, his mouth dropping and his little teeth peeking through while he sobs and his giant eyes well with tears.

“Shit,” Din curses again, this time in defeat, but you won’t give up that easy.

“Hey—hey goose, wanna see me beat your daddy up?” You ask, lightly booping the little bump of his nose. “Huh? Wanna see me fight?” You pull your top lip up into a ridiculous little snarl and flex your arms threateningly, and the sobs suddenly stutter to a stop within a few breaths. “Op, yep. See—he knows I’ll kick your ass, Din, he just got scared.”

“Please,” the modulator pfftts quietly, but the kid just blinks at you while you keep growling.

“I’ll hurt him real bad,” you promise him, putting your fists up in front of you and bouncing your weight back and forth like a prized boxing champ. “I’ll, uh…” your list of trash talk repertoire is admittedly rather short, and both of them wait in silence for you to figure it out, the bigger one a lot less entertained than his miniature counterpart. “I’ll punch him just. So hard. So hard that… it’ll bruise. Yeah—I’ll make him bleed underneath his skin.”

“No, this is good, keep going,” Din encourages after a moment of awkward silence. “Maybe you’ll be able to find your way there at some point.”

You ignore him, bobbing and ducking and then popping him one good in the shoulder with an accompanying vocal sound effect—except you quickly jerk your hand away and shake your wrist out, staring up at the helmet like he deeply offended you and mouthing, “Ow.”

A smile. The smallest ghost of one, but you see it on the kid’s teeny green mouth when you flick your eyes down to him.

So, Din spends the rest of the lingering daylight teaching you the proper uppercut technique while he cradles an adorable little bug-eyed baby in one arm. You keep making faces at him while throwing your fist up against his dad’s extended, downturned palm, until he finally starts giggling again.

***

Whelp, turns out you’re a fucking idiot. Or maybe just a selfish bitch, either way. Not a good look.

You thought, from the way the lovely afternoon went, that you were getting better at reading Din. Knowing when to joke around, when to keep pushing, and when to stop talking, all from just his body posture and tone of voice alone. But you’re also an idiot, as you’ve already established.

As you three headed back to the Crest through the dusky twilight evening, you remember telling Din that if there weren’t any oceans on Naboo, then you’ll at least be able to sleep in a bed on this planet. A real one, one with a—oh stars, an actual mattress. The word alone sent shivers down your spine, and the baby cooed while blinking his eyes slowly, well on his way to being tuckered out from the long day outside.

You don’t remember Din directly responding, but then again, that isn’t really all that rare in the grand scheme. Granted, he was arguably more talkative today than ever before, and he did get a little bit quieter after that, but still, you couldn’t have known. Only an incredibly hyper-observant person would’ve noticed in the moment—you’re lucky you can even recall this much in hindsight.

Though, this next part should’ve been more of a direct giveaway. Once you were in the Crest, he put his armor back on.

You still didn’t think. It’s such a normal thing, the beskar fitting tight to magnetic plates around his shoulders, thighs, and chest. It’s normal, he wears it all the time. Having him walking around in broad daylight sans armor and gloves today was odd, that was the outlier.

He flew the vessel to the nearest town, a quaint little village on the edge of a gorgeously full forest. The ride was as gentle as possible—you were feeling soft and decided to hold the baby as he drifted off instead of placing him in the quiet darkness of his cradle. The ears tend to make things a bit awkward, but after months of practice with it, you’re now a pro at rocking the little guy to sleep in your arms.

Din’s continued silence didn’t bother you—or really even register, considering you were trying to be quiet as well. He slung your go-bag around his shoulder and pressed a few buttons on his vambrace to set the kid’s sphere protocols to follow behind him, before pressing a gloved palm to your lower back and leading you down the ramp, the sleepy baby tucked tight into your arms.

There were people in the village mingling while you three walked down the cobblestone path to the nearest inn, giving your ragtag group double-takes as you passed. The innkeeper, however, was blind. Not only did you not receive the same terrified courtesy the barkeep on Canto Bight had afforded you before, but he was clearly used to spotting and swindling newcomers, sightless or not.

“Only room left’s a suite,” he drawled, the cloudy whites of his pupils hovering just between your left shoulder and Mando’s right pauldron. “Five hundred credits a night.”

The color drained from your face, your heart doing a giant flip in your chest and completely fucking up the landing. You turned to Mando to reassure him that absolutely nothing about this was necessary, but he was already dropping the ridiculous amount of credits on the desk without a single word.

That should’ve been the nail in the coffin, to be honest. His immediate willingness to hand over that many credits without the slightest protest, grumble, or sigh was the kicker—that’s how you should’ve known something wasn’t right. He didn’t even allow you to split the cost when you offered to reimburse him on the way to the room.

But again. You’re an idiot, so.

At least the suite is gorgeous. Slightly old-fashioned and moonlit enough to skip even flicking the lights on, illuminated by large open windows with views of the village streets and sprawling mountains and forest beyond. Everything inside is either cream or white, so clean and soft, and being able to feel the breeze billowing through the gauzy curtains is just. After months of traveling in that enclosed ship, it’s restorative. Almost nothing in here is made of metal.

So it’s not until right now—almost immediately after you settled the kid down into the incredibly large guest bed and walked into the master bedroom to find Mando sitting perfectly still on the edge of the mattress—now something feels off. He looks so out of place as you quietly snap the door shut behind you. The enormous floor to ceiling window decorating the far side of the room bathes him in pale light, highlights the blaster marks and bits of dirt clinging to the beskar as he sits on the bed.

“You’re going to get the sheets all dirty,” you, an idiot, tell him, your voice barely above a murmur. “Take off your—”

“I can’t,” he rushes, though he jumps up from the mattress all the same. You snap your mouth shut and freeze. “It’s safe here but it’s… it’s still not a good idea, not if I want to sleep. Not with people around, and all these… windows.”

The words send you reeling. You had no idea, you thought… “Oh. I’m sorry, that—”

You immediately go silent, feeling absolutely fucking awful. You didn’t think. All you could think about was that bed underneath you, and you maybe… blindfolded in some way? And then of course, him, in it—completely naked, helmet off, and laying next to you.

“You’re okay,” Mando tells you with a shrug, not sounding like… anything. He looks like he’s about to say something else—his chestplate lifts with an inhale as he turns to you, but then seems to stop right as he’s about to speak.

“Shit—please sit on the bed, I don’t care if you’re dirty,” you quickly say, just as he blurts out, “You can still take your clothes off though.”

You blink at him for a second, not sure you heard him right. “…What did y—”

“You can, uh.” His voice is soft. “I can… lay down. On top of the sheets. In my armor, just like this, and then you can take your clothes off and just. Rub up on me a little bit. If you want.”

A shudder quite suddenly rockets down your spine at the tone of his voice, the quiet, slightly hesitant murmur through the modulator. The gulp you take is audible through the room, the only other sound being the closest trees rustling in the breeze outside. The spread curtains dance with it, but they’re too sheer and light to make a noise. “O-Okay.”

“Yeah?” He asks lowly, and you quickly nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your body beginning to tingle, “sit—sit back down.”

He goes to move but then abruptly stops, and you hold your breath while you watch the visor jerk just a fraction to pin you in place. Something instantly feels… different about him, a silent shift taking place within just a singular moment. Like he all of a sudden realized that he didn’t actually like that very much.

Instead of acquiescing, Mando slowly steps in front of you, straightening up to his full height and absolutely dwarfing you with it, and your palms start to sweat. Maker, when he speaks, it sends shivers down your body and the last thing you hear in his voice is hesitation.

“Take off your clothes,” he tells you, a dangerous edge to his soft tone. The quiet dominance in it feels like the floor beneath you rumbles from it.

On instinct, your eyes flick over his shoulder to the open window and the village outside. It’s barely been a few hours since sundown—townspeople are strolling down winding streets in the distance, ghostly moonlight mixes with the warm glow from large oil lamps lining the pubs and street corners.

You look back at him barely a split second later as he stands there in front of you, waiting.

You startle and immediately move to grab at the hem of your shirt, and your fingers unintentionally tremble as they start to pull it up.

“Stop.”

His voice breaks through the silence, the modulated order halting your movements immediately. You blink up at him, letting your shirt drop back down again, and Mando takes a second to look back at you, studying you from under the beskar.

“Go stand by the window,” he suddenly says, lazily tilting the helmet to gesture at it.

Your blood pounds in your ears during the still moments following, the thrill of it making you nearly go deaf for a second. After you recover from the visceral heatwave that rockets through you, you slowly walk over to the window and then turn your back on the ballooning curtains to look at him. The beskar is still pinned to you over his shoulder, though the rest of his body hasn’t moved.

“Turn around,” he tells you, and you shakily do as he says, rotating to face the open window. You’re close enough to make out people’s expressions from here—friends mingling as they stroll down the sidewalk, their mouths moving but their voices and laughter muted at this distance. An outdoor restaurant serving local cuisine to patrons and out-of-towners, a violinist and cellist performing a silent duet on the street corner.

There’s shuffling behind you. The creak of the bedframe as he lowers himself on it and moves around, before eventually coming to a rest in what you assume is a comfortable position.

“You can keep going,” eventually comes his filtered voice from the bed.

Your eyelashes dip and flutter as more hot sparks of arousal kindle deep in your floor muscles. Lifting your shirt up over your head has never felt like such high stakes before, but even as the fabric falls to the ground, your gaze continuously searches for anyone outside who may catch a glimpse. Though, you’re not sure if it’s in dread or some kind of sick excitement.

The breeze hardens your nipples while you work at your pants, and the hair on your arms stands up when you remember who’s behind you, silently watching you get turned on by this. Along with your underwear, your pants are pushed down your thighs, but instead of moving back from the pool around your ankles, you take a purposeful step forward towards the open window.

“Fuck—you dirty little thing,” you hear him breathe out, and a shiver rolls through you. “Tell me how many people you can see right now, count them.”

You try your best, but give up halfway through and provide a rough estimate. “F-Fifteen.”

“Scanner says seventeen from here,” Mando challenges lowly. “Seventeen pairs of eyes that can look up any second and see your naked body. Stripped bare, shaking, vulnerable. Your gorgeous fucking tits.”

As hard as your teeth dig into your bottom lip at the rasp through the modulator, your nails dig into your palms even harder. Still, you don’t move, and the open drapes flick and brush against your thighs as you hold there, the gentle wind doing absolutely nothing to cool your flushed skin down.

And oh, he waits. He’s good about that, especially when he can probably read your infrared signature through the helmet right now. You’re surprised you haven’t outright blinded him by how white-hot your body feels. But after what feels like a small eternity, he eventually murmurs, “Come over here.”

Once you turn around and see the way he’s just laying back on the bed, relaxing and enchanted with the show, it’s a miracle you don’t trip on anything with how quickly you hurry towards him. You’re already standing next to the edge of the mattress by the time you even register his body is subtly tilted so that his boots are hanging purposefully off the side of it.

Regardless of the hard dominance he’s exhibiting, the symbolic gesture somehow feels like it flips a switch inside you and lights up pure, aching adoration for him. But against every instinct screaming at you to just scramble on top of him and show him how much you appreciate his thoughtfulness, you wait. You wait for him to tell you what to do.

His glove lifts, comes up to gently touch the side of your face and cradle your jaw, and you have to clamp your hands together to stop yourself from reaching for him.

“Are you wet?” Mando murmurs, sounding like his lips barely even brush against each other when they move under the beskar. You don’t trust yourself to say anything without it turning into a desperate plea, so you just close your eyes and jerk your head in a nod, feeling your cheek graze against the leather on his palm with the movement. It’s hard to swallow when your mouth feels so dry, and he lets you just suffer there and tremble for him a little while longer, letting out a quiet hum through the modulator as his thumb carefully rides the line of your cheekbone.

Maker, where does all this fucking patience come from? Under normal circumstances, Mando is probably one of the most impatient people you’ve ever met, and yet. It’s like he stores it all up. Hoards it and refuses to dip into it most of the time—perfectly content to have a quick temper in most interactions, if only so that he can keep it handy for moments like this. If only so he can have a seemingly endless supply of patience to sustain him while your average-sized stockpile is gradually and inevitably being depleted.

“You want to get up here with me?” He asks quietly, and stars, that’s still not a directive, no matter how much it could casually imply one. The ridiculous thing is—he never even told you this was expected of you. Not once did he tell you to follow his words like they're gospel, not once did he say there was something wrong with speaking directly to him without prompting, or acting without explicit instruction. He never even implied anything like that at all, but you still hold your body completely rigid as you jerk a nod against his palm once more.

Stars, it just isn’t fair. He doesn’t look any different from how he looks every single day—there’s no patch of golden skin to tease you, beskar is covering him head to toe, but you’re hotter for him than you think you’ve ever been. He’s stretched out long on the bed, a portion of him darkened by your silhouette but the rest bathed in gorgeous moonlight, breathing slow as he takes you in. You stare silently at the visor, and for some reason, you—you’re quite suddenly struck with how gorgeous he could secretly be under there and you’ll just… you’ll never know. You know his hair is thick and dark, you know the softness of his mouth, the sunkissed color of his skin, the prominent nose and straight teeth on the rare but blissful occasions he’d let you kiss him. His eyes, though. They could be any color. Your credits have been on brown for a while, but the thought of you not knowing for sure… the thought of you actually having to ask him something like that is just—it makes you ache to touch him even more. To give him something tangible at least, when you know the only way to ever have a true visual connection with him is with a dark visor between you.

You try to let the sentiment transfer through your needy expression, hoping he can read it from there. His cock is hard—you can see it in your peripheral, pressing up against the dark fabric of his pants, but it’s like you’re the only one who notices. He’s still admiring your face, or fuck, maybe he’s looking at your body—you can never tell for sure, but regardless, you stare purposefully at wherever you think his eyes ought to be, silently pleading with him and starting to get desperate.

Finally—fucking finally, the helmet rocks to the side just slightly, just the smallest tilt of his head towards his body, but the nonverbal invitation is enough. Air you didn’t realize was even in your lungs suddenly whooshes out of you as you all but launch forwards onto the mattress to try and climb on top of him.

—Except, then his hand quickly drops from your face to press firm against your thighs, blocking the way your far leg tries to lift to swing over him in a straddle. Disappointment crashes through you with an audible whimper and you start to panic a little bit as you shakily plant both knees back on the bed, wondering what you possibly did wrong. Was it because he didn’t specifically say it was okay? Was he just testing your obedience?

The beskar vambrace feels cool against your burning skin, and you try not to let the trembling of your body manifest itself in your breathing as Mando lazily drags his glove along your thighs. Neither one of you says anything as he eventually trails his hand back and around, leather fingers coming to a rest between your legs while his thumb rides high, just under the curve of your ass.

And then he slowly starts pulling, before he gradually leads the leg closest to him up and over his body instead, until you’re settling into a straddle on top of his hips. Backwards.

Everything in you shudders violently as both gloves gently trail up the length of your naked back, letting you brace your hands on the beskar strapped to his thighs and settle on top of him.

“Look at that,” he hums, letting his hands fall back down to the meat of your ass, grabbing handfuls of it and squeezing hard enough to make you bite back a gasp. “Fucking pretty. Pretty girl. Stars, I fucking love looking at you, know that?”

The praise makes you mewl quietly and spread your knees even further, dropping your hips down until the underside of his cock presses up tight into your aching pussy. You arch your back and walk your hands forward just a bit, just until you’re holding onto his knees and you have the right angle to start slowly rocking your body back and forth.

“Maker,” you whisper, your head tipping back while you drag your pussy against his pulsing erection, and his hands keep massaging your ass while the words start falling out of you now that you released the floodgate. “Maker, I love your body. So big, and—and strong. Fucking hard, thick cock. Fuck, I love your cock. I love how fucking hard you get—”

“Bend over,” Mando breathes out behind you, his hands suddenly releasing fistfuls of your ass to grab around your hips and bring you to a stop. “Fuck, keep talking like that, but show me your—just let me… let me look at it.”

Your heart slams against your sternum, your clit pulsing against the hard ridge of his cock, knowing exactly what he’s talking about. Slowly, you bend your upper body over until your tummy lays flat along the cool beskar shielding his thighs and your tits are pressed against his kneecaps. Your arms are long enough to rest your hands on his ankles like this, and your thighs are spread wide to keep your cunt pushed up against his cock. But stars, you know he has a perfect view right now. The slick lips of your pussy smearing against his dark pants, both holes on full display for him in the moonlight.

“Keep—Keep talking,” Mando reminds you after a moment, sounding painfully turned on while his cock jumps against your clit. “Keep going. Use it, get yourself off. Let me watch.”

“Fuck, I love your cock,” you hear yourself repeat, breathless and needy as your hips start grinding down against him once more, the words coming from you without giving them any thought whatsoever. He grunts and pushes it up for you, letting you get at it easier. “I think about it all the time. Think about the first time I felt it, how you were already rock fucking hard for me when I touched you. You came so quick, right in my hand, in your pants—it was so fucking hot.”

“I’d had—” he grits out in his defense, “—shit, I’d had a… a rough day, and your hands were. Fuck, s-soft, and—”

“Maybe,” you concede, biting your lip and closing your eyes against the swirling pleasure spreading hot through your body, the heat that burns you alive hearing the familiar warble through the modulator when he’s starting to lose himself in pleasure. “Or maybe it was because you were half-conscious with a brand new scar on your back.”

His filtered groan rolls down your spine and his cock pulses hard against your cunt through the fabric of his pants, making you spasm in delight. Fuck, your head drops down completely, just dragging yourself back and forth on top of him as you chase your orgasm like this. Shameless—your ass flexing in front of him with every roll of your hips, your lower muscles fluttering with every drag against his cock.

“Fuck—fuck, let me touch your asshole,” Mando whispers suddenly, lifting himself up on one elbow and dragging the other hand up the curve of your cheek. “Just—just a little bit, I won’t pu—”

“Oh stars above, fucking please,” you gasp against one of his legs, nearly jerking back against his hand as your pussy fucking leaks through his pants with it. “I’ll let you do anything you want, you can—can put your thumb inside it—”

His other hand leaves you for a split second, and you think he’s taking his glove off, except then it swings down to crack hard against your ass, making you gasp and instantly go still for him on his lap.

The smooth leather covering the pad of his thumb carefully glides down your crevice, and you hold your breath until it finally brushes over the tight ring of muscle flexing for him.

“That all you’ll let me put in here?” Mando asks quietly, and you let out a complete mess of a whimper, trying your best not to move under the bold touches.

You get another firm smack on the ass for being rendered mute for too long. “Tell me,” he growls, rubbing his thumb against the vulnerable entrance while his cock throbs against your cunt.

“I’ll—I’ll let you do anything you want,” you moan once more, and stars, you can’t help it. Your hips start to grind down against him even harder than before, and Mando curses as he slowly rides your movements with his hand.

“Dirty,” he grits out. “Dirty girl. You ever take it back here before?” And stars, the way his cock drags against your pussy starts to make you lightheaded, how casually he’s talking about this while starting to circle his thumb around it and press firm against it. Not hard enough to push inside, but enough to feel the natural resistance give just a bit.

“No,” you breathe, starting to pant while you work against him. “Boys have tried. But I’d let you.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, suddenly rocking his hips up against yours. You nearly choke and your legs start to lock up, making your movements stunted. “Fuck. I bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you? Right here in front of this f-fucking window, where everyone can see? Let me flip you over and stretch you out, and then fuck your tight little—virgi—”

“Maker, get your cock out,” you gasp, heat burning at your center and beginning to spread outwards. It tingles hot through your lower abdomen and you start to get frantic, knowing you don’t have much time before your orgasm hits. “Please, just let me ride it, let me cum on it—”

“No,” Mando immediately grunts, and you make a small sound of distress that quickly turns into a high-pitched mewl against his leg when the very tip of his thumb just barely breaches the haloed entrance.

“But—but I’m so wet,” you whisper, “oh stars, can’t you see it? I’m dripping. You could just slide it right in right now, I’d take it so fucking easy—”

He rips his hand away just long enough to smack your ass once again, hard enough to ring through the room and make you gasp. “Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given and you’ll endure,” he snaps. “Not here, not tonight.”

You bite back desperate protests. He’d fuck you in a dark alleyway on Canto Bight but not here? As if you haven’t already done so multiple times this evening, you immediately lament your stupid mouth and the thoughtless mattress comment. You wish you could take it all back—you don’t care how nice this bed is, you want to sleep in anything he’ll fuck you in. Nonetheless, your orgasm gallops forward and leaves your body struggling to keep up behind it—but Maker, you want so badly to feel him inside you when it finally hits. You want to sink down on him and feel him break you open just as you start to cum.

“Oh fuck, please give me it,” you whine, sounding on the edge of delirium, the words pressed high and unintentional as your hands clutch at his legs. “Oh Maker, please, please fuck me—fuck me in a real bed, please, just—fuck me right now and I swear I’ll sleep on fucking rocks for you every single night for the rest of m—”

A snarl rips through the modulator and he shoves your hips forward just enough, just enough to rip his waistband down—

You gasp in blinding relief and flip your head over your shoulder to watch, but then subtle movement catches in your peripheral. You glance up just in time to see the doorknob slowly turning.

Thank your lucky stars you react on instinct alone, squealing and jumping off him before quickly shuffling under the covers.

“What the fu—” comes an enraged, filtered growl, metal clanking with how quickly he flips over to reach for you, but then he cuts off and the helmet whips to the door as it unlatches and slowly creaks open.

The blankets are pulled tight under your chin as you shuffle down as far as possible, and though you can’t see the intruder from this angle, Mando is instantly reaching back to rip the pillow out from under the helmet and press it tight over his crotch, huffing out a sigh.

Soon, you’re able to spot one pointy little ear pop up, followed by the rest of the little gremlin scaling the treacherously tall comforter, pulling himself over the edge of the mattress with a determined three-finger hold and then doing a completely unnecessary little barrel roll once he’s on the level springtop. The fact that it’s so fucking adorable just serves to irk you even more, and both of you silently watch the kid push himself up on two feet and then waddle slowly in between you two.

He finds a pillow he likes—one that happens to be placed directly in between you and his dad, before he settles himself down on it like a small bed on top of a much larger one. The little stinker then flutters his abnormally giant eyes closed and seems to instantly fall back asleep.

There’s a few minutes where you just blink across from Mando, flicking your gaze between the chrome visor and the baby’s peaceful face. Is this… is he serious right now?

“Were we being too loud?” You eventually whisper, barely above a breath. “Or is he just being purposefully annoying?”

He doesn’t answer you. And, well, you suppose he has a point. Regardless of why, it appears he's here now.

You let out a slow breath and just try and relax, try and think beyond the flare of annoyance at the interruption, how close you were to feeling him fuck you into this mattress. He’d still have the armor and helmet on, of course, but it would be just domestic enough to ruin you.

But then again—you suppose this, if anything, is even more domestic. Doing your best to calm your racing thoughts so you can eventually fall asleep directly across from him with his mildly aggravating, heartstealing little adopted kid snoring quietly between you.

Quite a while passes before you feel your eyelids growing heavy. You spend almost the entire time studying every single inch of Mando while he faces you on the mattress. The sharp angles and smooth curves of his helmet, concave in places but convex in others. How fitting, you think. To cover a man with a helmet just like him—sharp, smooth, contrasting, and deflective enough about what lies underneath to be reflective.

Then you find yourself thinking about what he’s hiding under it. Once more. You try to picture him, but it’s… it’s difficult. You’re not used to translating things you’ve only touched into visual representations, it’s just not a skill you’ve ever needed to have handy. And what about all the things you can’t, or haven’t been able to feel? Freckles, or birthmarks? Dimples? Are his lashes long or short? Do they stick out in a fringe when he clamps his eyes shut? Does his nose scrunch up when he laughs? Do his ears stick out? Does he have wrinkles on his forehead, or around his eyes?

Maker, what color are they?

You continue to stare at the metal faceplate, blinking droopily at it but forcing yourself to stay awake just a bit longer. Enjoy the feeling of the soft mattress underneath you while you still can, relaxing into the cool sheets and delaying your inevitable descent into dreams. Savoring his extended presence here with you for as long as possible.

“Do you have brown eyes?” You hear yourself murmur to him through the quiet darkness, lips barely touching and the words slurred from exhaustion. You want to know. You want to be able to color in the last paint-by-number of his face before you begin your work on the finer details.

Again, he doesn’t answer, and you figure he’s probably asleep.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #smut #reader insert #star wars #fanfic #no-droids

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