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happy74827 · 8 months ago

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A New Moon

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite his gut telling him he shouldn’t, Dexter can’t help but fall deeper into the trap of his own emotions. And the more time he spends with you, the more he starts to realize what exactly those emotions are. {GIF Creds: beautifulguycollector}

WC: 2889

Category: Slight Lime/Spice, Friends to Lovers + Forbidden Love (if you squint) Tropes

Gotta keep this fandom alive somehow 🥲 (also… why are titles so hard to write? That and the synopsis are harder to write than the actual fic)

『••✎••』

You were too good for him. Plain and simple. You were a smart, beautiful, hard-working woman who had goals and dreams. He was a cold-blooded killer. Not to say that he hadn't been there for you, though. The two of you had been friends since… well, a while. A long while.

He couldn't quite pinpoint the moment he started to notice the changes in your relationship. It was a slow, subtle buildup, and the first time you called him your friend, Dexter thought nothing of it. The second time, it made him pause, but not enough for him to consider what the implications of you saying that to him could mean.

But when you said it again and again and again, he realized the meaning behind your words, the affection they held. Dexter couldn't say that he was particularly close to many people. There were a select few he'd consider his friends, but he wasn’t emotionally invested in any of them. And he didn't think he was invested in you, either.

But maybe he was.

Debs was different, and it made him question how much he was supposed to care about someone. But that was his sister, the one person in the world who loved him unconditionally. That reason alone made his relationship with Deb unique. He was sure of that.

The same went with Brian—his brother, as it turned out. And Harrison, his son. Dexter felt things for those people, but they were different. Those were family, the people he was genetically tied to. Of course, he would care about them.

But you weren't family, and yet he still cared about you. It was a different kind of caring. And it was confusing. Dexter had convinced himself for years that he was a high-functioning sociopath, but lately…

Lately, he was beginning to question if that was true. Simple glances from you could bring an unwelcome smile to his lips. And when he heard the sound of your voice, he could feel his chest getting warm. It was a nice feeling, something he'd only experienced briefly with Rita, but then, that relationship was different too.

It was hard to put his finger on it, but being with you was just… easy. And it didn't feel like work. There was no pretending. Dexter didn't have to act when he was around you. He didn't need to try to be someone he wasn't. It was the real him.

It was terrifying.

Because now, as he sat on your couch, watching as you moved gracefully around your small apartment, the feeling was back, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He should have been home with Harrison, but the little boy was staying over at Debra’s tonight, so he didn't have any responsibilities. The passenger within him didn’t see it as a problem either, considering he’d just recently “disposed" his latest target.

It was nice, Dexter decided, to relax every once in a while. Work and family didn't give him a lot of opportunities to do so, and now that the two were temporarily taken care of, he felt he deserved to be lazy for a bit.

You didn’t have a TV in your living room, so the two of you settled for movies. Dexter didn’t really have a preference for them. He could watch a comedy, action, drama, or horror and not feel strongly for or against any of them.

Apparently, you didn't mind what he watched either because he could see the spark of excitement in your eyes when you pulled out the case for one of the worst comedy films Dexter had ever seen.

He'd seen it before. Not with you, one of the movies Vince shoved down his throat when he planned a night out with him, Angel, and Quinn.

It wasn't his favorite, not by a long shot, but the grin on your face and the way you eagerly skipped to the DVD player, set the disk inside, and closed the hatch made him bite his tongue.

Dexter had learned a long time ago that you were a very expressive person. And even though most of the time your feelings weren't displayed on your face, your eyes told another story. Such opposites to his own, Dexter often found himself fascinated by the light they held.

You had a passion for life that was rare, and it drew him in. It was a quality he lacked, and he could see it in everything you did. Whether it was talking about the newest book you read or making coffee, you put all of yourself into your actions.

It was something that Dexter had never understood. How could you have such a strong sense of self? Didn't it get tiring, having to live up to a standard of being so… so good?

But then again, you'd always been better than him. He might’ve been smarter in some regards, but what was intelligence if it didn't come from a place of morality? You were better, purer than him. He knew it, and everyone else did, too, even if they weren’t aware of how pure he wasn’t

That's why this was so wrong. This thing that had been going on for the past couple of months between the two of you. The subtle touches, the longing stares, the late-night calls. It was all wrong.

You were similar to Rita in some ways. You were kind and compassionate, always looking for the good in others. You had a knack for taking care of people, whether they needed it or not.

Dexter could tell that was your nature, and it was one of the things that initially attracted him to you. All the things he lacked, you had. But that didn't mean that you could replace Rita. He didn’t want you to.

And that was the difference. While he may have found qualities in you that resembled the ones he'd found in Rita, you were not her. Rita was gone, and it was his fault. She didn’t deserve to die, and yet she did. She deserved to grow old, to see Harrison grow up.

She deserved better.

The same went for you. You didn’t deserve a monster like him. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he should stay away. It was for the best of both of you.

And yet he was here. On your couch, watching a shitty movie and drinking the beer you'd offered him. Because, despite his efforts, he couldn't keep his distance from you.

He should've known. When it came to you, Dexter didn't have a choice.

His gaze drifted over to your form as you sat down beside him. You were smiling, your eyes bright and focused on the television. A lock of hair fell across your face, and you pushed it back, the sleeve of your hoodie falling down slightly.

Dexter had never been so tempted to reach out and touch someone in his life.

It was a feeling that had been creeping up on him the last few weeks, and now, sitting with you, watching a bad movie, it was at an all-time high. He'd never craved intimacy. But there was something about you, a pull that he couldn't deny.

It gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. Reminded him of that need with Lila. God, Lila. What a mess that had turned out to be. Another thing to add to his growing list of mistakes.

And yet, the longer he stared, the more he found himself leaning forward. He didn’t register what he was doing until his lips were a hair width away from yours.

You froze but didn't move away. The only indication that you were startled was the widening of your eyes. They bored into his, unflinching. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He was scared. Scared? Yes. That was what he was feeling. Why? He didn't know. Fear was new. It was a feeling reserved for Deb and sometimes his son, but even then, it was different.

But as Dexter gazed at you, so close and so beautiful, the fear melted away. It was replaced by a warmth that he was quickly becoming familiar with. It made his body thrum and his blood rush. It made him feel alive.

You were the first one to make a move. Well, not really a move, just the smallest shift forward, and then you were breathing the same air as him. You weren't kissing. You were just… waiting. Waiting for him to make the final move.

It was like an unspoken rule between the two of you, the power dynamic. He was the dominant one, and you were the submissive. You had never fought against it. You were a people pleaser, and he knew that.

It was one of the reasons he knew this was wrong. Because he couldn't stop, and you would never ask him to. Even now, as he hesitated, you waited patiently. You trusted him.

Why did you have to trust him? Why couldn't you be more selfish, more like him?

But deep down, Dexter knew that it wasn't your nature. You couldn't change, not any more than he could.

So, after another agonizing second, he closed the distance between you.

It was gentle, the way his lips pressed against yours. A stark contrast to the usual forcefulness he applied when taking his victims. No, with you, he was careful. Almost timid.

Your lips were soft and smooth, and the kiss was sweet. Nothing more than a simple caress. Dexter didn’t expect the tingling sensation it would cause, but the slight brush of your mouth sent shivers down his spine.

The kiss was short and chaste, but it was enough to leave him feeling dizzy. The heat spread through him, from the tips of his toes all the way to his cheeks.

Dexter pulled back, and you stared at him. His breath hitched in his throat at the look in your eyes. There was something there, something that mirrored his own emotions.

Was it possible? Was he really capable of such intense emotion?

Maybe he was.

You didn’t move. It was like time had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard was his own uneven breathing. That, and the movie playing in the background, which was forgotten as soon as your lips touched.

The urge to reach out and grab you was there. He could feel the need deep in his bones, in his soul. But instead, Dexter sat, staring. Staring into the eyes of the woman who had somehow managed to break down all the walls he'd spent his life building.

You didn't speak. There was nothing to say. No words could describe the feelings that had surfaced between the two of you. So, instead, you smiled. A simple, beautiful smile that had him feeling weak.

He could have stayed there forever, just looking at you, taking in the beauty that was you. It was a new experience for him, and it was nice.

“Debra is going to be pissed," you finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll be bullied into telling her every detail."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his lips curled up in amusement. It was true. Eventually, she’ll figure it out. Maybe she already knew but was waiting for confirmation. Debra was good at figuring out things, even if it wasn’t the most obvious answer.

His sister was good at a lot of things, like being a detective. And, apparently, being an interfering matchmaking nuisance.

At least she wouldn’t call you the things she called Lila.

The thought made him chuckle, and you looked at him in confusion, but it would have to stay a mystery to you. For what was life without a few private jokes between siblings, right?

You didn’t press for answers, though. You did what you’ve always done and waited for him—waited for him as if it was his turn in Chess.

And he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed you again. And again. And again. And again. Until he had you pinned beneath him, your arms around his neck, and your breath coming out in heavy gasps.

The kisses were still innocent, just as you were. But he could feel the passion behind them, the hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that. It had been a long, long time.

But the longer he kissed you, the more the heat grew, and soon, he was lost in the sensation. Your hands found their way into his hair, and you tugged at the strands. His heart was racing, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.

It was exhilarating.

Your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and the innocence was gone. Replaced by a desire that left him trembling. The feeling of your tongue against his, the taste of you on his lips, the smell of your shampoo mixed with your unique scent—it was all intoxicating.

The movie continued to play in the background, forgotten as you pulled him closer. The warmth in his chest intensified, and Dexter didn't fight it. Instead, he embraced it. He gave in to his emotions and let himself feel.

He didn’t go too far; he knew you weren't ready for that yet. The craving was there, and it was strong, but the moment wasn’t right. Instead, he satisfied himself by touching your skin, mapping out every inch of it, memorizing the way it felt under his fingertips.

And, when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, he held onto you, refusing to let go. His eyes searched yours, searching for something. Anything. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

He mostly saw fear, anger, and some regret when he had them pinned down beneath him. Of course, that was usually the case with his victims. Fear, anger, and regret were normal emotions—a reaction to being trapped by their own demise.

Having someone look up at him with emotions on the other side of the spectrum was different. Not a bad different, just... different.

Rita had been the first to look at him like that. Lumen did, too, once upon a time. And Lila, well, her emotions were never consistent.

But you? You looked up at him with an expression that was all too familiar and yet not quite the same. Your eyes were full of affection and desire, yes. But they were also filled with something else. Something he couldn't place.

Something he couldn’t understand.

"Dex,” your voice was so soft, a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it, and yet, he felt it. He felt the way his name rolled off your tongue, and it was like music to his ears.

"Yeah?" he whispered back. He didn’t know why he did that; it wasn't like the two of you were speaking in a library or something. Maybe it was the way the light danced in your eyes, the way the colors reflected off the white walls, casting an ethereal glow.

"I didn’t expect you to be… like this," you murmured. You ran a finger over his cheek, down to his jawline. He swallowed thickly. He could feel his pulse quicken.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Not bad," you replied. Your lips curved up, and his eyes were drawn to them. They were red and swollen from kissing, and it was such a contrast to the pale skin of your face.

"You think I'm not bad?" he said, raising his brows. "I'm flattered."

You shook your head. "You know what I mean," you said. "I just meant that you're different than how you come off. I didn’t think you'd be so... bold.”

He snorted.

Bold.

If you only knew.

"I guess I'm full of surprises," he said, smirking. You rolled your eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder, only for him to catch it and press a kiss to the back of your hand. It was something he picked up from a movie once, and it seemed to be a pretty romantic gesture. And by the look on your face, it seemed to be appreciated.

You didn't say anything else. You didn't have to. There was nothing else to say. The two of you simply enjoyed each other's company, content to just be together. The movie might've been a failure, but the night wasn’t.

And when Dexter finally left, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Not the type of relief he felt after a successful kill, but the type of relief one feels after a burden is lifted off their shoulders. The type of relief one gets when they are finally honest with themselves.

Rita was gone. Lumen was gone. And although his guilt and shame were still there, his self-loathing and fear were slowly starting to fade away. It wasn't gone, it was never going to be, but it was a start.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

A new moon.

Yes, tonight was the night that changed everything. Tonight, Dexter Morgan learned that maybe he was more than the monster he thought he was.

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dapg-otmebytheballs · 5 months ago

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Like I'm sorry, I get that we're mostly supposed to spread positivity and all that, but we know that no space is perfect and fan spaces do tend to center western and white fans more, and everyone of us, literally myself and anyone who lays eyes on this post, needs to do self-reflection about our actions, because western fans are a bit too quick to talk in condescending ways down to the rest of us and we don't exactly have a lot of people believe us about fan spaces being exclusionary.

Concerns are taken out of context and belittled and that more than anything makes spaces feel unwelcome, because that's social power and privilege being leveraged against us.

If anyone needs to hear it no I'm not even personally all that torn up about the tour not including many continents right now, but what many fans have pointed out is that the lack of any address of that in conjunction with past racist and orientalist micro aggressions can create an overall experience of feeling generally excluded. And of course emotions are running high right now over a bunch of that stuff but the part that actually directly bothers me a lot is just how quick western fans are to use very condescending tones and words with us to make it seem like we don't understand something simple by divorcing these grievances completely from the context of larger exclusion that they are in.

Like, listen, you can ignore us and all that, but after all the talks about fandom racism and all the feel good "solidarity with poc fans!!" kinda posts and tags and all, this is a humble request (because what else can I make) to at least self reflect when you talk about any of this or talk on posts by fans who are angry about not getting explanations, and to at least ask yourself "am I being condescending right now? Am I talking down to someone? Am I voicing what I want to in a way that implies I'm on a higher horse by not being concerned/emotional about this thing?"

It's the smallest bit of respect that your fellow fans deserve. Because honestly, even before all this tour stuff I had enough of being talked down to in many many ways by western fans and not having anyone to turn to who could understand how unsafe that can make someone feel. This is a larger problem, please let's not pretend it isn't, because that isn't what will make it go away

Peace and love to all

#dnp #dan and phil #phandom

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monstrousvoice · 8 months ago

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Bar Snack

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Relationship: Husk X Female Reader

AN: It is 4am and I wake up. I see this post and am struck with the desire to write smut.

I do so.

Tags: PWP, Female Reader, Reader has a vulva, Cunnilingous, Sex in a Public Space, Daddy Kink, Mentions of Husk being on the chubbier side, If I missed any tags please let me know

Read on AO3!

“J-just hold still, alright?”

“You mister, have had too much!” You laugh, even as you let Husk manhandle you onto the bar top. The tips of his claws prick at the soft flesh of your hips and the sting has you biting your lip and hissing in pleasure. Husk's ears twitch and rotate to face you, taking in every noise you make. His golden eyes lock on to you, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly. He lets out a low growl.

“So what? Just…just need to hear you, need to-...to taste you a little, baby-” He leans forward, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, breathing your scent. You wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him closer to you. You feel his teeth ever so gently graze across your neck, following the coarse feeling of his tongue as he licks you without shame. A sudden nip has your hips bucking towards the counter edge and against his own, your legs wrapping tight around his hips.

You can feel him, his hardening cock slipping out of his sheath and pressing against you. His wings flutter before you, tense with the muscles in his back as Husk makes it his mission to suck a hickey onto every available spot of your neck and shoulders. His claws, still on your hips, dip underneath the edge of the dress you have on, pushing the fabric up to stay bunched up around your waist.

“W-what if-what if someone comes in-?” Your voice is no better than a whisper, your breath stolen by the attention being lavished upon you. Even as you worry, your hand moves from its clawed grip on his shoulder to travel down, and you smirk in victory when you find your prize. You cup Husk's growing bulge, outlining the shape of his hard cock and balls through his pants. You give his balls a gentle squeeze and are rewarded with his hips bucking into your hand, wings flaring, and a bite on your shoulder that does nothing to muffle his possessed growl.

You keen, proud of yourself.

“F-fuckin slut-” He hisses against your tender new mark. “Acting so worried but you go and do that.” His tone is harsh, but the gentle lapping of his tongue shows he's anything but angry.

“Just because my Daddy doesn't-” You moan, interrupted as his paw moves to your cunt and presses. “-m-make the best decisions, doesn't mean I'm not gonna take care of him~” Husk chuckles, a deep, low sound that vibrates through your body. Your hips are moving on their own, rocking your hot core against the fingers still pushing that maddening pressure against you. Your slick is leaking through your panties and you know he can feel it.

“You do take care of me, don't ya baby doll?” The tenderness in his voice is unexpected but not unwelcome. Husk hooks a finger from his free hand under chin, turning you to look him in the eye. “You’re always there for me, bad day or no…my good girl.” His pupils are wide and fuzzy, and the tenderness you see directed at you is almost too much to bear. You practically freeze, locked under those eyes as he leans forward and kisses you with such softness it feels dream-like. You press back, welcoming his affection with a moan of bliss and fluttering eyelashes.

His tongue meets with yours as the fingers pressed against your cunt move again. You feel the pressure ease away and almost whine into the kiss, before feeling his claws hook under the fabric of your panties. The sound of seams ripping hits you, and you're distantly aware that you are, yet again, down another pair of panties. You don't really mind though, not when losing them leads to situations like this.

Husk's claws are back to your drooling slit, tracing up and down with a sort of reverence. Your pussy feels hot and slick, and Husk groans low in his chest when he uses two fingers to spread your lips, your arousal drenching his fingers. He pulls away from kissing you and you pathetically chase after him for more. He presses another quick one to your bruising lips, then another when you keep following after him.

“Alright baby-” He grunts, and you press more kisses to his muzzle, trying to bring him back for more. “C-c’mon sweet girl-no more…” You stop, leaning hard into his chest, the weight of his tummy pressing into yours. You whimper and bite your bottom lip, wanting to protest but knowing better than to do so. You try to plead instead.

“Pl-please daddy? Just, fuck, just a couple more while you f-fuck me? Please?” You grind your cunt against his fingers as you beg, unashamed at the possibility that someone else in the hotel could walk in to find you moaning like a whore for the bartender's touch.

“No baby, no, cause I'm not gonna fuck you-” Your heart drops at his words, desperation and fear immediately setting in. Your mind races with things you could have done to deserve a punishment tonight, and you watch with wide eyes as Husk lowers himself to his knees before you.

“Yet.” He hisses. Relief floods you instantly, and by the mischievous glint in his eye, Husk knows how worked up his words made you. He chuckles and moves his hands to your thighs, cupping them and pushing them apart to give himself a first-class view of your cunt. You bite your bottom lip and look away, closing your eyes as your cheeks heat up with embarrassment. You can feel his paws move closer to your pussy, until his thumbs are suddenly touching. He plays with your lips for a moment, his thumbs spreading your slick everywhere before hooking them and spreading you open.

Your cunt is forced to gape before his eyes, fluttering with arousal despite the mortification burning you alive.

“Fuck, what a pretty cunt. Already this wet from some kisses and rubbing? Heh, you're dripping on the floor at this point.” You whimper and keen, peaking an eye open to look down at him. His eyes are like molten gold as he stares back at you.

“Don't be embarrassed baby girl, it's alright. Daddy’s gonna clean up your mess.” You barely have time to process his words before he leans forward and trails one long lick up your pussy. Your hips buck immediately at the feeling of his rough tongue against you, pushing your hips up into his muzzle.

“S-s-sorry Daddy-!” You whimper, but Husk doesn't stop. He simply wraps one of his thick, heavy arms over your hips and pins you to the bar top, licking away at your cunt like he doesn't have a care in hell. You shudder and gasp, your hips twitching to grind against his mouth for more than rough kitten licks but unable to with his arm pinning you down. The knowledge makes your blood burn hotter, seeing how easy it is for him to control and manipulate your body to his will. His claws dig into the fat of your thigh and hip as he eats you out like a five-star meal.

You feel his tongue wiggle inside, your gummy walls clenching down in response to squeeze a cock that isn't there. Husk lets out a purr in response, the only sound in the hotel bar besides the slick ‘slurp’ noises he makes as he sucks your clit like it's his favorite piece of candy. You can only throw your head back against the bar and endure his assault, wishing that the sweet torture would never end.

“D-Daddy, fuck-! Please, please d-don't stop, please-” Your words start to slur together as you beg for more. You bring a shaking hand from your face to your hips, gripping the paw holding you down like a lifeline. A sharp nip to the hood of your clit has you gasping, sitting up straight to look down at your boyfriend with shock. He doesn't stop, still lapping away at your fluttering cunt. His eyes are hooded, taking in the sight of you sitting above him, losing your mind on his talented tongue. He pulls away from his feast only briefly to rumble a command at you.

“Hold my head baby, don't let go.”

You do as you’re told, taking your hand not holding his and carding it through the fur on top of his head. Husk lets out a pleased rumble before diving back in, suckling your swollen clit without mercy. You cry out, throwing your head back and gasping at the sensation.

You're so close, you can feel the coil in your cunt, the pleasure shooting through your veins that lets you know your orgasm is on its way-you just need-need a little more-

A new sound reaches your ears, wet and slick like the sounds coming from your cunt, but just off ever so slightly-

You look down at Husk, his eyes closed as he loses himself to your taste. You can see his breath steam up as he snorts from his nose, drowning in your smell. Looking down further you see it, past the wonderful thick belly you nuzzle into every night. Husk has undone his pants one handed while eating you out, and his free hand, you hadn't even noticed it leaving your thigh, was fisted around his cock. Pink and red peaked at you from between his fingers as he tried to jerk himself in unison with his mouth as he ate you out. A thick glob of precum was drooling from his cock head, getting swiped up by his thumb to make his hand move slicker, only to be immediately replaced by more.

A full body shudder tore through you at the sight, your own mouth drooling with the desire to have that fat cock shoved down your throat as Husk moaned for you. It was enough, and your cunt squeezed tight around nothing as Husk licked and sucked your clit.

“C-cumming-” You gave a breathless cry, hips bucking in vain against Husk's strong grip, your orgasm tearing through you with an intensity that had your toes curling and thighs squeezing tight around Husk's head. He simply moaned low in response, lost in the feeling of your thighs squeezing and your hand pulling his fur as you lost yourself to him. He continued lapping at your swollen and puffy cunt, making sure not one drop of your cum was forgotten by his tongue. Even as your body fell boneless under him, he kept licking and sucking, moving to the meat of your thighs to leave hickeys and bite marks as you recovered and learned how to be alive again.

“How ya feeling baby doll? Talk to me.” He spoke, his voice sounding gravely and deep even to himself, thick with lust he hasn't had a chance to relieve yet. He tucked his still hard cock back inside his pants, zipping it up just enough to keep himself from popping back out. He stood back up, leaning over your limp body on the tabletop. You gave him a dazed smile from where you lay.

“G-good…thank you Daddy, for letting me cum…” Husk smiled, pulling you in for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue. You whimpered into his mouth as his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you off the bar top and into his arms. Your legs wrapped around his hips immediately, your still sensitive pussy being pressed against his hard cock, covered in fabric. He pulled away from your kiss, adjusting you in his grip as he began walking towards the hotel elevator.

“Glad you enjoyed yourself, baby.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek as he walked. “Now, you're gonna be a good doll and let Daddy have his turn, yeah? I need a tight little hole to fuck~” He growled in your ear. You felt the vibrations from his chest travel through your whole body. Despite cumming already, your pussy throbbed at his words, and you moaned.

“Y-yes Daddy, whatever you want-” You managed to whimper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he carried you to your shared bedroom.

~~~~~~~

The following morning, Husk walked behind the bar to find a note folded with his name on it. He raised a feathered eyebrow, feeling curious as he opened it. It was Charlie's neat cursive.

Husk,

Nifty found a rather…interesting piece of clothing early this morning when cleaning. I frankly don't want to know what you two were doing last night, I don't need details, but I do ask that you clean up after yourselves at least.

Thank you!

Husk snorted, pocketing the note to show you and laugh about later. He supposed now he and the princess were even, considering the sight he had walked in on in the kitchen just a week ago.

#Hazbin Hotel #Hazbin Hotel Husk #Hazbin Hotel Husk X Reader #Husk X Reader #Smut #My Writing #I havent written smut in forever and I feel so goddamn rusty at it #please judge with a grain of salt

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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 months ago

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It's Enough, It's Enough - chapter five

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Jane x Guildford Rating: E Chapter: 5 / 6

Summary: Five times Jane and Guildford pretend to have sex, and one time it’s for real.

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four

She's been reading all along. Guildford doesn't know that. She didn't want him to think she wasn't prioritizing the texts on curing Ethianism, and she never wanted him to know that, despite their conversation about marital obligations on the first night of their honeymoon, she's been contemplating the idea of fucking him this whole time. And not just contemplating it, reading about it—which, for Jane Grey, is about as serious as you can get.

Every time she starts to surrender to what her body wants and Guildford stops her, it's embarrassing. Her own fault, of course; even if the eager way she leans in whenever his face comes near totally contradicts them, her words have communicated things like “As if” and “I want a divorce.” Despite her actions, it seems that he heard her from the start and decided to listen. He's not confused. Clearly, Guildford lives in a world where people say a thing and follow through, set their own rules and then abide by them. And Jane lives in a world where her spine dissolves like wet sugar when Guildford stands just a little too close to her. Or smirks at her. Or does anything with his hands, really. Or refers to her as his wife. That gets her too.

The books on sex are as unromantic as Jane imagines is possible. This is maddening, and also probably the reason she doesn't feel like they're helping. She wants to understand, but not like that, or that, or that—flipping through pages on anatomy (she's seen a diagram of a member before) and diseases of the genitalia and their proposed treatments (her eyes widen in horror at repeated suggestions to place plants she knows to be poisonous in extremely delicate areas). It's all just too clinical, and she usually loves clinical! She loves when books present things unemotionally, letting the facts speak for themselves! But that doesn't work for her here. As much as Jane reads about blood and stiffening and insertion, she feels as though she's seeing less than half of the picture. Nothing like the way she feels around Guildford is captured in these pages. Because of that, they're almost no good to her at all.

Getting attempted-murdered in broad moonlight is an unwelcome yet extremely effective distraction. Oh yes, she's considered scenarios that would lead to her waking up on her back in the warm grass, but it was always Guildford who had something to do with that, not Mary. It takes Jane some time before she's able to figure out why she can hardly breathe: the result of Mary's thumbs mashing her windpipe, or fear that someone with stronger thumbs (or maybe a sword) was sent after Guildford to dispatch him too?

But Guildford is alive. For now. Lately, Jane feels as though everything has only been “for now.” She is continually wrong-footed in a world of impermanence. They gain access to the rest of Mary and Seymour's letters, Mary steals them back. Jane awakens from failed assassination-induced unconsciousness, ready to tell Guildford what happened (or maybe that she's starting to understand that thing he sensed she didn't yet the last time they kissed), and he's already a horse. Nothing is certain!

Guildford's father counsels her towards certainty, but it's a certainty of his own desiring, not hers. Neither giving birth to a son nor naming Guildford King (though that's not the order Lord Dudley has in mind) could be easily undone—yet the possibility exists, with so many would-be killers darting about the palace. Regardless, neither action is one she wants to take. Except for maybe the bit about making the son. In this political climate though? Jane doesn't like the idea of using a baby as a tool, even if that is the gig, part and parcel of being a monarch. Again, it's too clinical, making her think of those books with their dispassionate descriptions of the marital act. Does everything in her life need a motive? Must she always pretend to be anticipating something five steps ahead? Will she forever be expected to enjoy scheming as much as the people around her? Why is certainty synonymous with power and never happiness? Can she not fucking live?

Even the project that gives meaning to her marriage, if not her life, is revealed to be pointless; Susannah visits and assures Jane there is no cure to Ethianism. Not being able to disclose to Susannah exactly why that's such bad news makes Jane ache. She needs a friend. She needs Susannah to ask how she is, like she did after Jane's father died. Jane has no clue how to impart this information to Guildford. Is there a way, if she wants to be kind? Can he care for her if she stops being his means to a cure? If she's just a person, full of flaws, letting him down? Is there anything real left between them without their deal? They've done so much pretending. They've built a version of themselves on the lies they've told, and Jane doesn't know whether there is another version.

Leave it to her mother to force the issue. With her usual disregard for what the consequences will be for anyone other than herself, she makes two statements: Guildford is a horse, and Jane is in love with him. Though Jane manages to storm out of the room, her thoughts lack the same decisiveness. It feels to her as if her mother has thrown a knife that skewered the fundamental truth about each of them, Guildford and Jane. He is a horse, and his identity obsesses him, steers him, rides him; everything he values is valued because of its potential to either cure his Ethianism or dull his suffering while he endures the condition that is consumingly hateful to him. She loves him, and the feeling makes her ignore trial, ignore failure; his need for what she is supposed to be able to offer sustains them both. Will he want her if he doesn't need her? Will she stop being afraid long enough to let him?

There are no answers to these questions that she could find in books. There are only her rushing feet—along stone corridors, and then shushing across the lawn. Jane doesn't know how to stop Mary trying to kill her, and she doesn't know how to get justice for Edward, and she doesn't know if Susannah is right about Ethianism or simply angry at what appeared to be Jane's dismissal of their right to exist as themselves. Night has come on and the grass is damp as her dress drags across it. With all Jane's unknowns, at last, she has her certainty: she does not want a divorce. She wants Guildford to stay with her, to be with her, and to be with him, and to let him see that she is afraid, but that she will stay, if he will have her.

It's all circling around her head, so that, when she finds her husband standing at the back of the stables, she isn't sure she even says hello to him before putting a nix on divorce and demanding he kiss her.

She doesn't say she loves him. She doesn't want to talk, she isn't ready. But she's here. Jane's presence is her grand declaration. After all her hesitation, all her needless care, she can't undress him fast enough—can't make him undress her fast enough. She always thought the decision to give in would be difficult, but it's easy, easy, easy. Guildford's mouth on hers is heavy like ripe fruit. His fingers trip over the fastenings that do her up, keep her together, but once he steadies himself, this seems easy too; she wonders if he's pictured it all before: studied her clothing in moments when she was distracted and imagined what it would be like to dismantle his queen's lace and brocade armour. Has he been reading her while she read books?

This, by the way, is what the books couldn't get right: the swoop in her stomach when Guildford pulls her onto his lap, the overwhelming affection in her when she feels him smiling against her lips. Suddenly, Jane registers sympathy for those poor authors. How could they have put this on paper? How could anyone? For all the things that are meant to be read and studied and learned, what's happening between Jane and Guildford, here, now, is only meant to be felt. To transcribe would be to dilute.

She isn't ashamed to be naked before him, and there's nothing clinical about the heat of his member pressed to her thigh when he lies down on top of her in this bed he's maintained in the stables. It smells like him, even here, where the scents of hay and wood and animal are strong. The scent of the bed is exhaustion and resignation, but also refuge. This is where Guildford is both selves, the one he wants and the one he doesn't. He comes here every night when he leaves her. This bed has held her husband when he deemed it unsafe for Jane to do the same. She has a sudden urge to find out what sleep smells like on him, when his body relaxes into the bed that cradles her now. How does he look entirely disarmed? Does being here now mean he'll let her spend the night? She doesn't say she loves him, but she strokes his back while he kisses her hotly and imagines stroking it again while he sleeps.

When the time has nearly come, Jane can tell. She panics. She admits it. And Guildford, who she has seen snide, self-assured, sarcastic, and short-tempered in daily life (or... nightly life), could not be more tender, more sweet. Jane wishes their wedding could have been like this, but in a way, this is a union, and one of their own choosing. He'll show her, no condescension. She'll let him, no injured pride.

He's barely hovering over her as his fingers trace up her thigh. Guildford's touch is so light it almost tickles like his leg hair does—a sensation she's surprised to find comforting, but it reminds her of their first bedding ceremony, his clever deception that spared them both some humiliation. She has always been a consideration for him. His pledge of thoughtfulness is there in his fingertips, in the parting of her, in the caress of the place the arousing fact of his body on hers has made damp. Jane grips his shoulders. Her hands flutter like confused butterflies up to the back of his neck as she trusts him and trusts him and trusts him. She writhes beneath him so much as he runs his careful fingers over and through and into her that he makes as if to climb off her, to give her room. Alight with a pleasure that feels like ringing the rim of a glass, Jane doesn't want room. She wants her husband right here, pressing her down, working her up. She winds her legs around the back of Guildford's calves and holds fast.

His tongue is in her mouth when she finds release in his bed for the first time. Though he drags his sopping fingers out of her, he continues touching her gently while they kiss. On her end, the kisses are nearly formless in the aftermath of the nervous burst that cascaded through her body, and yet Guildford's mouth is patient and forgiving. He grins when her lips meet his teeth, and licks at her, teasingly, when she attempts to slip her tongue into his mouth. Between her thighs, she feels his wedding ring. The smooth metal band bumps over her clitoris, scattering sparks which threaten to start fires; Jane bites her husband's lip to get his attention, then makes him watch her eyes as she rubs herself against the ring that says they are bound before God and England. There will be no divorce, her eyes insist. You were given to me as much as they gave me to you. When he's apparently unable to endure any more, Guildford grasps the base of Jane's skull and devours her mouth. She comes again when he sucks the tip of her tongue. At this rate, he's going to swallow everything her body can't contain.

If she's annoyed to realize she's unwittingly following her mother's advice—mouth closed, legs open—it's a distant annoyance, and it passes. Jane reaches a hand down between them, brushing warm skin on both sides. Their mouths slide apart until Guildford's lips rest against her cheek, not quite kissing. She stops to explore the hirsute path below his navel with her fingertips, lightly scratching her nails forward and back against the texture of his hair. On top of her, Guildford's breathing changes, rough and hitching, wanting her fingers right where they are, but also elsewhere. It's not dissimilar to intoxication, Jane thinks: this warm, loose feeling within her, the way her worries and reticence have left without conscious shedding. She reaches a bit farther (Hold anything firm firmly, and anything soft softly.) and wraps her fingers around his girth.

Her husband is patient, still—if tense—while Jane keeps his member lightly encircled in her grasp as she shuffles her legs apart. The cool sheet under her warm thighs is a relief that won't last. Smoothing her other hand over Guildford's hip, she guides him into the space she's made for him. She gasps when the blunt, wet end of him prods her. When he kisses her, she doesn't know if it's supposed to distract her, but his hand closes over hers and she feels everything.

Instinctually, Jane tilts her hips as he begins to insert himself. Her eyes go wide with surprise at the sensation it was impossible to prepare herself for (not that any of the male authors of those books even thought of soliciting a female perspective on the acts they describe). She can't help laughing at the strangeness. Guildford's (knife-slinging tavern lust-object) member (thick, rigid, twitching against her abdomen while they kissed) is inside her body! They're joined together! And it doesn't even hurt! Logically, Jane understands that this has more than a little to do with Guildford's unhurried fingers preparing her, but it's tempting to surrender herself to the illogical, to romance: it doesn't hurt because he never would, never could, hurt her. Gradually, Guildford sinks deeper. Breathing shakily, Jane bends her knees to hold his hips between her thighs, and then he's fully inside her.

But the end of that part is just the beginning of so much more. Jane loops her arms around Guildford's waist, spreads her hands on his back, feels his muscles go taut as he starts the slow, rhythmic process of consummation. This is their bodies in conversation. It's another way to know one another, and a transformation of them both; Jane can tell by his face, which hovers over hers, his eyes looking down at her with something he doesn't seem able to voice either. But it's there. It's there with them in this bed, in this stable, on this night when nobody told them what to do, or how, or why. Jane hears the soft grunts huffing past her own lips. Latin, Greek, Italian—now she speaks this. It's their own language, and apparently, she's fluent.

In a moment that passes before she can catch it, the sensation of Guildford thrusting within her evolves from feeling strange but good to very, very good. She can feel how wet she is, how steadily he's gliding through, and yet there's suddenly this friction. Her grunts crack open and become breathy cries. It's because she's squeezing him, from within. She's been kneading the muscles of his back, but her own muscles, there inside her, are at least as powerful. They have the power to make Guildford pant like an animal, his hips jerking shallowly against hers until she stops clenching. She offers a slack smile in return for his stunned expression, and then they surge together, grabbing each other's face as they kiss, fingers catching on chins and ears and hair already unkempt from one another's caresses.

Guildford begins rolling his hips into hers harder—not fast, but less restrained. Jane can tell there's so much more he'll show her, something raw she won't see this first time, suppressed so he can give her no more than what she's ready to receive. But it's thrilling to feel him letting go. Her back arches as she tries to meet him in his thrusts, and his curves, his forehead pressed somewhere around her collarbone. He exhales against her skin, hot gusts of air. When he widens his legs, braced up on his knees, it pushes hers farther apart too. There's nothing coy or secret now; her body is held wide for him, and she welcomes it. She digs her fingers into his hair and closes them in a fist. Guildford's lips rub against her skin as he cries out. With quick, mindless snaps of his hips, he finishes inside her.

Feeling as if she's just been awoken from the dead (but no, that was this morning), Jane's heart beats at a rapid pace. Her thighs are shaking uncontrollably. She's overwhelmed. She wants to both crush Guildford against her and shove him away so she can order her thoughts. This is what it feels like, then, to experience someone else's pleasure so close at hand and not achieve her own end. It'll be fine in a minute—he brought her off twice before—but right now, she feels insane.

But Guildford sees it—of course he does. He lifts his head and the hazy bliss in his dark eyes sharpens as he notes the state she's in. He grips himself on withdrawal, and Jane nearly has a fit at the thought of his fingers remaining down there, massaging between her legs again (oh, she wants it, but it might be more than her overstimulated sex can bear). He doesn't do that though. Her husband holds himself heavily on top of her and starts kissing her everywhere but her mouth. He presses his thigh between hers, just presses, and makes his meandering way down her neck, lips below her jaw, lips on her throat, lips where her hair's stuck to her skin with sweat, lips where her body has surely taken on the scent of his. He explores her chest. His mouth skims the breadth of it before going lower. When he gets to her breasts, there's tongue. Guildford licks her—the underside curve, the nipples stiff with sensation—and his thin necklaces hang against her ribs, catching the candlelight when she looks. Between his curious tongue and the pressure of his thigh, Jane shuts her eyes and shudders to quiet release.

She comes back to herself with Guildford stroking her hair.

They lie side by side for a while, not speaking. She wonders if he reads much at night, or if these hours are always kept for silent contemplation. She wonders if he feels as alone here as she does up in the palace.

The bed cools, but their legs are intertwined, and Guildford runs hot. Jane has just learned that, having never lain beside him before, except for the bedding ceremony, which shouldn't count. Anyway, they weren't naked then, and they are now. She feels a bit shy, but mostly, it's nice. He touches her just because, hand sliding down her arm. He touches her like it's the only important thing. Does he love her? She wants him to love her. She wants him to love her whether or not there's a cure.

They kiss when they think they're falling asleep, but the kissing wakes them back up. Their breathing grows rough and their mouths meet with increasing need. They grab at each other, pulling themselves into greater contact. Jane's aroused like she always is when they kiss, but the familiar throb is gone, replaced by the larger, more distinct ache that says her body knows exactly what it's missing—knows Guildford's size and shape.

Very softly, he asks, “Are you too sore?”

Jane shakes her head firmly.

She is kind of sore, but a strained-muscle soreness, a blunt, tired twinge. She knows pain of all varieties. She knows the difference between pains that will hurt more and less the next morning. Tomorrow, what she's feeling now might feel worse, but this is a special circumstance. Guildford is a special circumstance.

So, Jane hooks her thigh over her husband's hip. He groans to re-enter her. He's tired and pliant and starving for her after the time they've spent wanting and not having; he pours all this feeling into her, thrusts breaking against her like deep currents churned up into waves. She rocks with him. Her limbs fold him close to her, but his thrusts get wilder, and she pulls him over her again. There is no separation, she decides. No line between what is the human world and what the natural. She wants to know everything her husband is, especially when he takes her like this—taking her with him, it feels like, wherever he plans for them to go. Good, Jane thinks. You decide.

She likes being here. She puts herself in his hands.

—

Author's Note:

I'm doing the 5 + 1 out of order (this chapter is the + 1). Though Jane and Guildford have now had sex for real, there is one more instance of pretending in their future. It ain't over yet!

#surprise bitch #the long-awaited update #my writing #My Lady Jane #MLJ #Jane Grey #Guildford Dudley #Jane x Guildford

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gffa · 1 year ago

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I am ready to make my BATFAMILY problem everyone else’s problem again, I have just woken up and I am choosing violence. And by violence, I mean that a whole bunch of these fics made me laugh or wriggle around in pure love for these chaos gremlins or just straight up cried my way through like 30k+ of fic in one night and I want everyone else to experience that same gamut of emotion. Especially because I have a Dick Grayson Problem and I’m going to make you all deal with that, but in return, you all get to make me deal with your Jason Problem, your Tim Problem, your Damian Problem, etc., because now those problems are my problems, too. So you may have to scroll a bit to find what you’re looking for, but I hope there will be some fun stuff for almost every Bat character here, and I’m tearing my way through as much fic as I can as fast as I can, but if you want to make more fic my problem in return, please feel free. What else is fandom for, if not for trying to make each other cry four times in a 10k fic? BATFAM FIC RECS - BABY DICK IS THE CUTEST FERAL ROBIN I’M NOT HEARING ANY ARGUMENTS: ✦ terrible sting, terrible storm by daringyounggrayson, dick & bruce & harvey, 3.2k Bruce takes in a five-year-old Dick Grayson, and Harvey offers his two cents. ✦ Telescopes and Ladders by RenaRoo, dick & bruce, 5.3k Alfred leaves for England on business and leaves the Manor to Bruce and a young Dick for a week. Bruce realizes he doesn’t know how to Adult for a child on his own. ✦ When the Bough Breaks by SKH, dick & bruce & alfred, 6.2k Dick’s first year at Wayne Manor ✦ Training Wheels by kuonji, dick & bruce & alfred, 2.6k Alfred finds himself in turns bemused, horrified, and exasperated, as their temporary houseguest to Wayne Manor becomes so much more. ✦ Cling-On by Bjurnberg, dick & bruce & justice league, 1.8k Robin is clinging onto Batman’s leg, refusing to let go - and Batman is hiding him under the cape during a Justice League meeting. ✦ Beam Me Up (I don’t want to be alone anymore) by laydowntoearth, dick & bruce & justice league, 3.9k Dick didn’t like this silence. Not at all. But Bruce was at a meeting at the Watchtower. And he couldn’t just break into the Watchtower. Right? ✦ sunshowers by emavee, dick & bruce, 3.7k Bruce learns how to show physical affection to the kid in his care. There’s a bit of a learning curve, but he and Dick are in it together. ✦ Without a Mask by CamsthiSky, dick & bruce, 2.3k In which Dick is kidnapped for the very first time and Bruce swears he’s going to have a heart attack. ✦ Hello Fadduh by lurkinglurkerwholurks, dick & bruce, 2.2k Camp had seemed like a good idea at the time. So maybe sleepaway hadn’t been a part of Bruce’s childhood, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be part of Dick’s. ✦ A Close One by blizzard, dick & bruce & alfred, 3.2k Twenty-three year old Bruce is new at being a dad and is learning how to balance parenting and being a billionaire philanthropist playboy. He ends up taking his six year old to a cocktail party despite Alfred’s protests, and runs into some trouble. Naturally. ✦ night terrors by glassofwater, dick & bruce & alfred, 3.5k Bruce doesn’t know what to do. How do you help someone when you haven’t helped yourself? More to the point, how can he even begin to think of helping someone so small? BATFAM FIC RECS - ADULT BATSON AND BATDAD ARE MY KRYPTONITE, I FOLD LIKE WET CARDBOARD FOR THEM: ✦ Chirp by SpaceWall, dick & bruce & batfam, 3.2k When Dick’s siblings learn he was never actually adopted by Bruce they attempt the most logical option. A parent sibling trap. ✦ The Game by myrina-lux, dick & bruce & cast, 17.3k wip After a long night patrolling, Dick returns home to find an unwelcome message. The young hero decides to view it as a challenge, however, and begins a sly game with his mentor. ✦ Trade Your Heroes for Ghosts by CaramelMachete, dick & bruce, 1k The day after Nightwing’s shooting, Batman sits by his bedside and waits. ✦ Plan B by Fleur_de_Violette, dick & bruce & cast, 2.9k Dick was sure no part of the perfect plan Batman and Red Robin had set involved Nightwing clinging to a raft in the middle of an angry Gotham sea. But, well. Things didn’t always go according to the plan did they? ✦ like brothers on a hotel bed by daringyounggrayson, dick & bruce, 7.9k Dick and Bruce have been on shaky terms for a while, but they realize that none of that matters when they’re both captured on an impromptu team-up. To make matters worse, one of their captors has a grudge against Dick, who already isn’t at the top of his game due to injuries. Separated, Bruce can only watch and hope that someone finds them before it’s too late. ✦ Smile by glassofwater, dick & bruce, ~1k Sometimes, Bruce can’t help but miss his son’s old smiles. ✦ cut down by Squishychickies, dick & bruce & jason & alfred & damian, 4.1k Maybe I am sad, he thinks, if only because it’s smart to go down that avenue before discounting it entirely. Scientists are open to all possible conclusions. Perhaps Dick is, in fact, sad. Dick is depressed. He has Bruce’s support. ✦ After the Wake by nighhtwing (divineauthor), dick & bruce & alfred & jason & cast, 1.6k Fathers should not bury their children. Or: When Jason dies, Dick comes home, and Bruce muses on being a parent. BATFAM FIC RECS - EVERYBODY LOVES DICK: ✦ When Destiny Doesn’t Care by withthekeyisking, dick & bruce & damian & jason & cast, read the tags, 9.9k Breeches are opening all across the world, admitting people randomly from other Earths. One such person is Dick Grayson. Or, as he’s better known on Earth-2950, Deathstroke. ✦ When it Rains by sElkieNight60, dick & bruce & jason & tim & damian & cassandra, 7.7k “What about yourself, Richard?” asks the reporter, widening her own insincere smile to match as she turns her torso half an inch towards him. “As the eldest I am sure you are simply overjoyed to have your brother back but, might I ask: why is it, do you think, that you are the only one of Mister Wayne’s children that he hasn’t formally adopted?” ✦ I broke free on a Saturday morning by daringyounggrayson, dick & roy & bruce & cast, 10k Spring break is coming up, but between a canceled family vacation and an ongoing fight with Bruce, Dick’s not exactly looking forward to it. He decides that the only way to get through the two-week break with his sanity intact is by taking an unauthorized road trip to California. He convinces Roy to come with him, conveniently leaving out the fact that Dick doesn’t have permission from Bruce to go. Everything goes well up until it doesn’t. ✦ One More Day by EagleInFlight, dick & damian & john/mary & jason & tim & alfred, 12.6k Damian saves a dog—who was a goddess of the dead in disguise. She offers him a gift: the chance to spend a week with a deceased loved one. Damian decides to give his gift to someone else. /OR/ Dick Grayson reunites with his parents. ✦ Skating is something you don’t do in Gotham by glassofwater, dick & bruce & damian & cast, 4.6k Winter in Gotham isn’t always pleasant, and trying to wait out a drug deal in below freezing temperatures makes it all the more unbearable. It would have been tolerable, at least somewhat, if he had seen the ice. ✦ starlight raining over me by charcoal_moon, dick & hal & wally & barry & jinx & cast, 23.6k The Flying Graysons fall in Coast City instead of Gotham, and Dick Grayson’s path to heroism involves a hell of a lot more faith, trust, and alien tech than anyone ever expected. ✦ i want to wake up (i hate this dream) by CamsthiSky, dick & alfred, 2.3k Sometimes, Dick feels like a zombie. Like he’s the walking dead. Like nothing will ever be good again. Sometimes, he takes too much weight onto his shoulders, and he never puts it down. There’s a point where he crumbles to dust underneath all that weight, and there’s nothing for him to do but ride the breakdown and wait until he can bear the weight and start the whole process over again. ✦ if you just call me by BeatriceEagle, dick & donna & cast, 9.1k Dick and Donna, after the action, through the years. BATFAM FIC RECS - JASON TODD IS AN ASSHOLE CAT, I’M GONNA THROW HIM AT DICK BECAUSE IT’S FUNNY (AND MAYBE SOME OF HIS OTHER SIBLINGS TOO): ✦ Where Dick and Jason Argue Because They Love Each Other by CamsthiSky, dick & jason, 2k Dick gets hurt and both him and Jason make “Your Face” jokes, because sometimes you gotta distract yourself from dying with dumb sibling bickering. ✦ hot wheels by envysparkler, dick & jason & bruce, 4.1k Jason tries his luck stealing tires in Bludhaven. It doesn’t go any better. BATFAM FIC RECS - DICK AND DAMIAN WERE THE BEST BATMAN & ROBIN, I’M NOT HEARING ARGUMENTS ABOUT THAT EITHER: ✦ Tidied by BrickSheep, dick & damian & bruce, 1.1k Damian doesn’t complain when Dick fusses over his clothing. Bruce doesn’t know what to think of it. It’s nothing like the uncompliant son he knew. ✦ When You’re The One Who’s Loved by fishfingersandjellybabies, dick & damian & tim, 1.9k Damian doesn’t understand why Dick is so upset. Tim does, though. ✦ bedtime passed by renecdote, dick & damian, 1.2k Dick returns from patrol and finds his Robin waiting up for him. He carries Dami to bed and things get fluffy. ✦ Wheel and Blade by Kieron_ODuibhir, dick & damian, 2.4k Damian was waiting in the penthouse when Dick got there, all expectant expression and confrontational stance. Dick closed the door behind him and let himself be confronted. “You didn’t get expelled,” he announced. This was, unsurprisingly, not greeted with relief. (In our house there are many legacies.) ✦ what life without you’s like by dizarys, dick & damian & alfred & bruce, 1.3k Dick threw the door open, leaping over the hood of the Batmobile and wrenching open the passenger door. His cowl was already down, letting Alfred see the undiluted fear on his face as he reached into the car. “He only stopped screaming a few minutes ago. I think he made himself pass out.” Alfred’s gut twisted when Dick straightened, Robin cradled in his arms. ✦ Just a Little TLC by fishfingersandjellybabies, dick & damian, 1.7k Dick was not sick. Really. He was fine. Fine! ✦ When Dick Met Dick by pupeez4eva, dick & damian, time travel, 1k Rebellious, teenage, Nightwing!Dick travels to the future and meets doting, overprotective, Batman!Dick. Time-travel fic. BATFAM FIC RECS - BATKIDS ALL HAVE MANY SIBLINGS AND THEY’RE ALL PETTY ASSHOLES AND/OR WONDERFUL BABIES AND I LOVE THEM WITH MY WHOLE BEING: ✦ The Return by silverwhittlingknife, dick & tim & cast, 10.8k “Tim? Can you open your eyes for me?“ It takes a bit, but Tim must be at least sort of coherent, because he blinks obediently. Dark, dark eyes, dilated. Concussion, almost for sure. Both pupils are equally large, so they’ve avoided a worse injury. But his eyes aren’t tracking or focusing, lost in space. “Tim, do you know where you are?” Tim’s forehead is all tense, like he’s thinking hard. “I,” he hazards after a long moment, “I fell?” Red Robin 11 and 12, from Dick’s POV. Tim comes home. ✦ you are somebody’s baby; some mother held you near by nosecoffee, bruce & dick & jason & tim & cast, 11.9k “Oh my god,” Nightwing whispers, echoing through their comms like a twig snapping underfoot when you’re trying to be silent. He and Batgirl go stiff and silent, barely daring to breathe. “B, oh my god. How many…?” The tone in his voice — he sounds like he’s about to cry. There were six kids on our radar, Jason thinks, erratically. Six. “I don’t know, Nightwing.” ✦ and the shapes that you drew may change beneath a different light by popsunner, tim & damian (& dick), 5.4k Damian is around a lot more since Dick died, hovering like he’s looking for something that isn’t here anymore. It’s alright. Tim is used to playing the part of ghosts. Or: Dick is dead. Things change ✦ utter my love by dizarys, tim & bruce & dick & jason & damian & tim/bernard, 5.6k “Dick!” Bernard greeted him with a smile. A heartbeat later, it melted away. Bernard’s knuckles went white around the edge of the door. “What happened?” Dick didn’t know what he’d done to give it away but there was no point in beating around the bush. “Tim’s been shot.” The aftermath of Tim’s injury in Batman #125 ✦ long distance by unchosenone, dick & tim, 1.6k Six months—months—radio silence, and Tim is calling him. Dick doesn’t even know where Tim is. He scrambles for the phone. ✦ A Smile Safecrackers Understand by chapstickaddict, clark/bruce/diana & dick & jason & tim & duke & cast, 44.6k wip Seven times a Justice League member helped out a BatFam kid, making a reluctant friend for life in Bruce Wayne. And one time he thanked them for it. ✦ We’ve Taken Different Paths, Traveled Different Roads by Sohotthateveryonedied, dick & tim, 2.2k Dick is suddenly very awake. He bolts upright, staring at the dimly lit figure. “Tim?” “Hi, Dick,” Tim whispers. He isn’t in uniform for once, instead wearing a pair of sweats and a shirt that Dick recognizes as one of Bruce’s. Dick was wondering where that went. “Jesus, kid,” Dick exhales, an uncertain mixture of disbelief and bafflement. “What are you doing here?” Tim and Dick are still in a fight of sorts, or are they? Have they made up yet, or is the terrain still cracked? Dick wants so badly to ask, but just having Tim in the same room as him is already more than Dick could have hoped he’d get. ✦ Subject Hostile, Proceed with Caution by emiv, bruce/selina & dick & jason & tim, 1.1k Bruce preps the boys for an upcoming mission. (Post-TLYS) ✦ Shock the Monkey by TheResurrectionist, hal & jason & damian & batkids & background clark/bruce, 5.9k Hal Jordan babysits the Batfamily for a day. It goes about as well as expected. BATFAM FIC RECS - I WILL DIE ON THE HILL THAT TIM DRAKE’S TRUE LOVE INTEREST IS CONNER KENT AND NOBODY CAN STOP ME, NOT EVEN GOD: ✦ Your Horoscope For Today by anthologia, tim/kon, NSFW, ~1k Kon develops the ability to heal people with his dick. No, really. ✦ Non-Public Displays of Affection by irrelevant, tim/kon, NSFW, 4.7k It’s all about the shirt. No, really. ✦ To Touch and Be Touched by Merelymine, tim/kon, NSFW, 2.5k He has to—he needs to get away, and it would be funny if he wasn’t so turned on. ✦ Under Pressure by orphan_account, tim/kon, NSFW, fuck or die, 5.4k Tim is poisoned by aliens who want to see see how humans mate. Kon is the only one in the cell with him and they both struggle with their emotions as they try to work out what to do. ✦ A Night In by Musafir, tim/kon & bruce & dick & jason & damian, 5.9k In which Tim attends a remote meeting with the BatClan and inadvertently learns that they have all given his husband the Bat version of The Talk. ✦ time flies by by Laroyena, tim/kon & clark & lex & jon, 6.5k Jon Kent is Superboy. Tim’s gut instinct tells him that’s wrong. (Timkon fix-it where reboot!Tim misses Kon like a phantom limb. And then he gets him back.) ✦ good for you by Anonymous, tim/kon, NSFW, 3k Tim can sometimes be a little shit, but Kon has gotten pretty good at reading his moods. Besides, they both kind of like it. ✦ Boss Me Around by egg_thief, tim/kon, NSFW, transmasc!tim, dom/sub elements, 2k Tim suddenly pulls away. “I didn’t tell you to move,” he muses, his voice dangerously low. “I need you to be a good boy, ok?” Kon swallows, his mouth having gone dry at Tim’s words. When and where did he learn all of-? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the way that his words make Kon’s dick jump, his heart quickening in pace. ✦ Top Shelf Goods by JpegDotJpeg, tim/kon & cassie & bart, 4k Or, Tim pretends to be Conner’s boyfriend, just to help him avoid unwanted attention. Because that’s what friends do. Pretend to be romantically involved even though they are definitely not interested in each other in that way and it would totally never happen. Definitely. ✦ Take My Word for It by rotasha, tim/kon, NSFW, 8.6k Tim has been hiding his mental health problems from Kon. Kon can tell something is wrong when it starts affecting their relationship. He may be out of his depth, but he’ll do whatever he can to make his boyfriend happy. BATFAM FIC RECS - TAKE THE ANGST DIAL, TURN IT UP TO ELEVEN, AND BREAK THE KNOB OFF, THAT’S WHAT I’M HERE FOR: ✦ Spill of the War by 2012bookworm, dick & jason & tim & cast, read the tags at the end of the fic, 64.2k It takes a second, but the realization Jason comes to is horrifying. “You dosed yourself. With Joker venom.” Tim nods, still smiling, still shivering. At least the laughter has tapered off, not that that really makes this better, not that anything could make this better. ✦ the primacy of personal conscience by birdsofthesoul, dick & jason & tim & damian & bruce & cast, 26.5k Or: Dick, his family, and the moral morass of a wishing well. ✦ The Return by lurkinglurkerwholurks, bruce & dick & jason & tim & damian & cass & alfred & cast, 52.5k What the comics neglected to cover after Bruce returns from being lost in time. ✦ Whumptober 2021 by dizarys, bruce & dick & jason & tim & damian & barbara & cass & steph & alfred, 42k Jason tried to tighten his hold but blood made Dick’s gauntlet too slick. His hand slipped free. A wordless, desperate sound clawed its way out of Jason’s throat as Dick tumbled towards the murky water. Without hesitation Jason let go, plummeting after him. ✦ When it Rains by vellaphoria, dick & tim & cass, read the tags, 5.7k After Cass and Tim return from Paris, something seems… wrong. Dick tries to find out what it is.

#lumi.txt #dc #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #cassandra cain #conner kent #donna troy #alfred pennyworth #timkon #fic recs #batman fic recs #long post

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ffc1cb · 10 months ago

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new art blog

the short version:

1. i made a new art blog: @cbge;

2. @ffc1cb will stay up as an archive.

the long version:

hi everyone. this announcement is somewhat late, since the blog in question has been up for a few months now, and i’ve already started posting art on it. the reason it took me so long to “reveal” it is because i’ve been trying to figure out whether a new blog is something i actually want, or if it's just me throwing darts at a board, trying to make myself feel better somehow.

i don’t know when precisely it all started, but ever since sometime last year i’ve been going through a hard time, both emotionally and creatively. i’m not sure whether being depressed is what made art harder, or art becoming harder is what made me depressed (a bit of both, i think), but lately, drawing has been a struggle.

i’ve found myself having less and less energy for art, and this lack of energy resulted in poorer quality of drawings, which resulted in me feeling like i’m getting worse at it, despite my efforts. i knew i could make good art, art that i’m proud of - i’ve done so countless times before, - but somehow it felt like i just couldn’t anymore, like my hands forgot how to. nothing looked right.

i’ve been trying to experiment. i’ve learned some new things, tried this and that - it was enlightening, to say the least, and even though i kind of liked how it looked, it made me feel a sense of displacement. i was at odds with myself, my art, and how i felt about it, when previously i was always in sync. i was making art, yes, and it looked nice, but it felt like it wasn’t mine.

i suppose part of it was also the growing lack of engagement, and i don’t mean likes and reblogs - i never particularly cared about those. they are all just numbers to me; dry and impersonal. what i’m talking about is actual, human interactions: personal thoughts in tags, asks, replies, etc. a conversation.

i don’t mean to sound “old” or anything, but i remember when talking to artists online was more commonplace. my wife tells me it’s because the internet culture has changed over the years, that people have become more reclusive, less willing to be open with their thoughts, and she's probably right, but in my slump i find it hard to believe. somehow it feels like it’s my fault for being less “engaging”, for seeming unapproachable or perhaps intimidating. maybe it’s “just a skill issue”, maybe it’s because i have stopped churning out fanart for popular fandoms, maybe it’s because i refuse to torture myself emotionally by having an art account on twitter (i can’t fucking stand the place anymore; i still post nsfw art there, but only because it’s literally one of the only places on the internet that allows you to do so. i miss when you could post female presenting tits on tumblr).

i have always, ever since i started posting art on the internet back in 2012, done it for human connection. i wanted to talk to people, and have people talk to me. i wanted to inspire people with my art, and i wanted to bring them comfort. i wanted to elicit an emotional response, and have people tell me about it. it was one of the main reasons i drew in the first place; having lost that, i’ve been struggling to stay passionate about making art.

i miss being a small artist on the internet during the 2010s. i remember when i could make a post going, “hey everyone, how are you all doing today?” and it would not seem weird to people in the slightest. it is just me? does anyone else feel that way? am i too deep in my own head? the internet feels so unwelcoming nowadays, especially to artists. we are all just content machines; people scroll by our stuff, or maybe look at it for half a second and leave a like before scrolling away. i know it’s unfair to demand people’s attention, especially now when our lives are already so overwhelmed by everything - no one has the energy to pay closer attention; i myself am not immune to mindless scrolling. but it feels bad. i wish we were all sincere and enthusiastic again.

anyway (sorry for rambling. i hope i haven’t bored you to death), you might want to say, okay, but how is making a new art blog on a “dying” social platform going to help with any of that? the truth is, i don’t know. i just felt like i needed a change.

i’ve been running this blog since 2016 (that’s almost 8 full years!). i feel incredibly attached to it, but at the same time, i feel it weighing me down.

there are people who followed me years ago for one specific thing, still expecting me to post about said thing (i still find it mindboggling that some people follow artists for a specific fandom only, but that is a whole other matter for a whole other post that i will never write). a third, if not half, of my following are probably dead blogs. and with my current struggle with trying to regain the joy i once felt for making art, looking back at all the art i’ve done over the years makes me feel tired. i still love it all; it’s all very dear to me. i’m proud of it; looking at it makes me mourn my younger and more passionate self.

so i’ve decided to make a new blog, where i will let myself post whatever i want, in whatever stage of donness i feel like. maybe it will help me, somehow. maybe it won’t. but if you care about my art, if you want to keep following me on my artistic journey, i welcome you to join me there. similarly, feel free not to - no hard feelings.

thank you everyone for your support over the years; it matters a lot to me. i’m not planning to delete or private this blog; it will stay up, and i will still be reachable on here. i will still answer asks, if there will be any. i’m just not planning to post any art here anymore. this is it for my dear old friend ffc1cb.

i can be found in other places:

@cbge, as mentioned earlier,

@k0nstanta, an art blog dedicated solely to my wife and i’s ocs,

@inquisimail, a dragon age ask blog that has become my dragon age sideblog in general,

and multiple other blogs, none of which are art related, but feel free to ask, if you’re curious.

thank you very much for reading all of this. i hope you have a wonderful day.

#salt talks

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yandere-sins · 1 year ago

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What We Want (Yandere!Blade x Reader x Yandere!Kafka)

[Second Part of this]

This time from Blade's perspective, he finally has the chance to get closer to you.

Fandom: Honkai Star Rail Pairings: Yandere!Blade x GN!Reader x Yandere!Kafka Warnings: Yandere, Dub-/Non-Con touches/kisses, Hints at kidnapping/owning reader, Soft yandere, Possessiveness, Obsession, Infatuation, Failed Escape, Hypnose

After that, Kafka went to great lengths to keep you away from Blade.

It drove him mad.

He didn't know why she did it, but every time he tried to ignore the agonizing hole that your absence left in his chest, his mind was flooded with more memories of you. Even though he only held you for mere minutes, Blade couldn't forget the feeling of your body squeezed against his, pure softness grasped in his palm, nor the fear glistening in your eyes or the shudder of your tense muscles. He had never felt this way before about someone else—or perhaps, he had, and like so many things, forgotten it for the better. He couldn't forget you, though, no matter how much he tried.

Regardless, these memories brought forth a flurry of unwelcome symptoms he had to endure daily. They were things that tired him. Angered him. Long moments of complete stillness where Blade would remember the warmth emanating from you. Heat that would seep through his clothes and lay down on the wounds edged into his body, soothing the pain he barely felt unless he was with you. Then, every pain and hurt wanted to be caressed by you, healed and comforted. He'd snap out eventually, having completely missed instructions or conversations, his mind crowded with your features. Your hair, eyes, and lips were all that came to mind when someone spoke to him. As if the gasp you made when Kafka kissed you was the answer as to why he'd pick a fight with anyone daring to draw close to him. Because he needed some kind of relief from these feelings holding him in a tight grip.

Maybe Blade should have hated you for how much you consumed him. Parts of you were mixing with his until he thought you were next to him at the most inconvenient times. Moments that decided about life and death, but all he could think about was smelling your shampoo in the waft of air as he cut yet another enemy down. He could hear your voice whenever the world turned quiet. Frightful but defiant, ringing in his ears, whispering sweet nothings that Blade wouldn't let anyone else say to him. But if it was you, he'd bite his tongue and steel himself while every word of yours crawled into him like a parasite—one he was solely at fault for.

Because the longer he refused to face these gnawing feelings, the more desperate they became when he couldn't see you again. Of course, Blade's gaze lingered a bit too long on Kafka every time she passed by him, but he never reached out to her, never asked about you. She was the key to a lock he didn't even know where to look for, and even if he asked about something mundane like how you were doing, would she open the door to you? Blade doubted it. Seeing him distraught gave her great joy, and he saw it in the sparkling in her eyes. It was very unlike him, and Kafka's excitement about it was like a sore bruise to his ego, one he had no one there to calm and mend.

He couldn't imagine a life with but neither without you anymore.

Not when he thought he regularly caught a glimpse of your hair from the corner of his eyes. Or when his mind teased him with an idea of your laugh and how it would sound if you stood behind him. Of course, you were never there when he looked, yet he had been so sure of your presence. Blade was truly going mad over it, patrolling the same hallways and rooms where he met you before as if possessed by the need to find you again. All while he knew that, unless Kafka had a good reason for it, she'd never let him catch you. Blade would never have you, and it was tearing apart his sanity in the most miserable ways. Knowing he'd never get to be around you again was turning him into an unlikeable version of himself. He recognized that if he couldn't bring himself to stop his infatuation, he'd eventually be consumed by it. You were worse than any illness, worse than how Blade imagined his own ruin. And yet, you were a thought so breathtaking he accepted defeat.

Coming to a halt in the semi-darkness, he thought that maybe, this time, if he reached out his hand, it would connect to the illusion of you he saw in front of him. Your breath hitched as he let your well-kept hair spill over his gloves, his palm resting over your cheek. Blade's eyes widened as warmth spread through his hand, familiar, soothing, and he couldn't help but lick his lips when you flinched away, your reactions so honest and real.

"No– No, I don't have time for this!" you gasped, exasperated and out of breath. This time, the words didn't hurt, even if the distance you were creating as you turned around and ran in the opposite direction he came from, was positively gut-wrenching. He only just got you back, and now you were leaving again? You sounded panicky, your breath wearing thin. As if you were hunted—but not by Blade.

You were running away.

The realization settled into his core like a flower bud, suddenly opening its petals and releasing a multitude of ideas inside him. Ideas that should have never been fed to a mind like his. You were free game now. You belonged to no one. If he caught you, you'd be his. His alone. If he let you go, someone else would catch you, place their hands on the body that Blade ached for, and take you as theirs when it was he who should have laid that claim.

It was one rare moment of two worlds overlapping, threatening to collide if his fingers found their way around your wrist, in your hair, or against your throat. Dangerous and explosive, an addiction in the making. But before he could reason with himself, Blade was moving. You were confused and disorientated in a world that you didn't know. His world. Your world, if you wanted. Blade would put it at your feet if that meant you'd return his feelings. No amount of blood shed below your soles or heads rolling into shallow graves would amass to how much he desired to have you all for himself. But first, you needed him. Needed him to catch you from running into the dangers that lurked at every corner. If you wanted to get anywhere, you'd need someone to guide and hold your hand. And conveniently, never let it go.

He couldn't even be sure that a kiss from your lips wouldn't drain him of all his life, but the one thing Blade knew at that moment was that he'd rather kill everyone in your and his path than give you to anyone else. He'd rather pluck out anyone's eyes than let them see you, cut off their hands before they could touch you, and rip their hearts out before they could love you. Maybe violence was all he knew how to give you, but if it would make you his, he didn't care how unsightly and frightening it must be for you. Even so, he swore as he reached out to grab you—and keep you from running into a busy street—that these hands would only protect, not harm, no matter how much blood dripped from them.

You kept breathing like a frightened bunny, your chest rising and falling from fear and adrenaline even when he pulled you tightly against him, his arms wrapped around you like a shield of flesh. On the contrary, Blade was still as death, not daring to breathe and possibly destroy the illusion that was too good to be true. But where he wouldn't, you were more than happy to tear this beautiful reunion to shreds. He never thought to have you back in his arms, but he still recognized all your tell-tale signs of discomfort, from the tensing of your muscles to the defiant twisting of your body.

"I have to go!" you hissed urgently, trying to break out of his arms. Considering his feelings, it was a harsh request, even though you didn't bother looking into his eyes to give it any weight. It was as if a part of you had given up, thinking he was there to retrieve you for Kafka. Perhaps looking at him was painful for you, though for Blade, it might have been the paradise he had always been searching for. But he understood the desperation in your voice, even if it was minuscule compared to his. You, too, longed for something. But Blade's longing had come to a rather sudden end.

Burying his face in your hair, he inhaled deeply, your scent starting to heal all the problematic symptoms he had been dealing with lately. As if it pulled his soul back into the reality before him rather than what he'd been experiencing since the last time he saw you. Part of him hoped to find his peace with you now so he could continue his life like before. But that would never happen again. Blade would never be able to live a life without you, now that he had you just for this moment. In his arms. All to himself. He had you.

Slowly, he drew you two back into the shadows. Your struggling increased until you were thrashing in his hold, desperate and scared, trying to break loose. But you knew very little about the strength of a man who had everything he ever desired in his arms, refusing to let go even an inch. Your voice was a frightened squeal, mixed with demands like 'let go' and 'leave you alone', and Blade could do neither. Not when your warmth still comforted all the new and old, madly sore wounds your absence had ripped into him, your body still as pliable and soft as he remembered it.

Blade couldn't wait to learn more about you. About the ways your body would bend and bow beneath his fingertips. How your skin would get nicked by his nails and the ways he could wrap your hair and limbs around his. The colors your skin would take on underneath his touches and kisses, and how soft those lips of yours truly were. The taste of your body mingling with Blade's on his tongue and the different shades of your eyes sparkling in the darkness where only Blade would be able to see them. The melody of your voice as you laughed, cried, and told him all the things you never told anybody.

The sound of your heartbeat beneath his ear, your pulse pushing against his fingertips.

All that and more was suddenly reachable to him, and Blade wondered why he didn't come for you sooner. Why did he suffer a worse fate than the mara already put him through if he could have turned over every stone and every body in this crooked world to find you? To have you. Why would he wait, punishing himself?

"There you are."

The familiar voice not only made you shudder in Blade's arms, but your body instantly turned still. For the first time, Blade recognized the feeling of dread clumping in his stomach, the beautiful flower seed of love withering away from the sound of Kafka's voice.

"And look who found you! Bladie."

Kafka had never been a very warm person, yet the two pats on his shoulder were ice cold, like fine daggers piercing into his flesh. Two slaps of her palms, barely muffled by the fabric he wore. Silent orders to let go of her precious darling now and return them to her. Kafka took her darling's hand in hers, gentle but unmoveable. There would be no discussion between you two; Kafka would lead, and you'd follow. Blade felt a twinge of hate for you at that moment as he realized you had already given up your fight, hanging lifelessly in his arms, your eyes to the ground in ashamed frustration.

"Good work," Kafka mused, the sour undertone barely hiding underneath her mockery. Neither of you could be sure if she meant your escape attempt or Blade catching you before you could get away further, but what he felt was almost sympathetic to your feelings hearing the snark.

"You can let go now, Bladie. I'll take them from here."

Naturally, as if conditioned to, he loosened his hold on you. It felt as if all the dreams and promises he had just made—alas quietly, to himself—to protect and have you, were now shattering before even taking hold in this world. As if Blade had dared to defy Elio's predictions, and now was reaping the unforeseen consequences. If this was the end, what happened to "kill anyone else before they put their hands on you"? Wasn't he the one swearing up and down that if he couldn't have you, no one would?

His arms strained around you as he took a quick, unexpected step back. You tumbled with him, and even Kafka was pulled out of her stance, a short widening of her eyes all that showcased her surprise before she caught herself.

"Blade–"

"No."

You let out the softest of gasps. Your free hand that shot up to grab his sleeve for stability, now curled into the fabric, and Blade luckily didn't need to deny to anyone how it made his heart swell in affection to have you rely on him. He could guess that no one had taken your side since Kafka made you hers. Any defiance had been the one you could come up with, so Blade's was not one you expected.

Another step back. This time, Kafka was prepared. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at her 'friend', and Blade returned her stare with fake indifference. Blade had no idea about any of Kafka's actions. She was less predictable than anyone Blade knew. So when she suddenly pulled her grip from you, lifting her hands defeatedly, he didn't trust her version of giving up.

He didn't trust her, yet Blade felt overjoyed.

Clinging to you, Blade forced you a few more steps backward with him, out of the grab-zone, into the safety of his protection. With every step, his feelings became clearer and easier to handle. Breathing came to him naturally again, and he even convinced himself this was fine. Now, you were truly his. Kafka had let you go. No one else would get you.

You were squirming in his grasp when he reached up, petting your head, leaning down to nuzzle his face into your hair once more. Kafka kept you pretty and locked up, but Blade would keep you messy but safe. He saw nothing wrong with the idea of chains and blindfolds, keeping you away from the outside and the outside from you—all to himself. To see, to touch, to love.

"Bladie, listen to me: Let them go."

Those were all the words needed, his body breaking into violent jerks. You let out a frightened squeal as he convulsed around you, Kafka's command and his will fighting inside him as he clung to you with all the strength he could muster. It would leave bruises where he wanted to plant kisses, and he regretted that, but just as quickly as it came, it was gone. Blade dropped to his knees, hands grasping onto you for as long as they could before they plummeted lifelessly to his sides.

The clicking of Kafka's shoes came closer while he could see your feet turn towards him. "What did you do to him?" you asked, and he would have liked to answer it to you, vile and unseemingly as it was. You sounded frightened, panicked once again, and Blade's heart made a tired jump at the thought of you worrying about him.

Kafka stepped up to you, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you close to her. "I told you to always remember whose embrace you go back to at the end of the day. You should be thankful I put an end to it. Who knows what Bladie was planning to do with you, hm? Come, let's go back. Listen: We'll all forget what happened here tonight."

You and Kafka exchanged more words, but his mind was drowning out the sounds, his breaths the last thing Blade could hear. He could feel your warmth diminishing, fading with your presence as you passed by him, his fingers twitching, wanting to keep you with him.

He had no idea how long he had kneeled on the dirty ground in the alleyway, heaving a sigh as he got to his feet again. Blade felt off as he flexed his arms, his fingers rigid from the cold. As if he was missing something. The lights from the main street flickered in many different hues, and they all seemed to remind him of something that wasn't here. Something that he needed in that moment. But he could no longer remember what he had forgotten.

"Bladie," someone called out, and with his head heavy, he turned around, staring at the mischievous features of his fellow hunter. "Do you have time to look after my prisoner for a moment? It won't take long."

Blade nodded, still feeling disoriented as Kafka told him where to go.

"Oh, and," she added, just about to leave on some small mission she had to go when she stopped, a knowing grin spreading over her lips.

"Be nice this time, okay? We can't all have what we want."

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matchingbatbites · 11 months ago

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and devour what's truly yours

Explicit | 2.4k | Read on Ao3

This is a belated birthday gift for dearest @strangersatellites! You were my first friend in this fandom and you mean a lot to me. Thank you for being crazy with me, for helping me talk through things, and being a constant source of enablement over the last year-ish. <3

CW: Mean Dom Eddie, Brat sub Steve, boot kink, spit kink, hand and finger kink, and Daddy as a title.

Steve has been having such a good day.

He'd had two tests earlier that he's sure he'll pass, work had actually been bearable because he'd had the slow shift with Robin, and the evening has been fairly peaceful so far, creating the perfect environment for Steve to get ahead on the required reading for his early education degree.

Steve’s heard Eddie moving about the apartment, worrying with his own projects for a while before making them an easy dinner that he deposits into Steve’s lap, along with a kiss to the top of his head. It’s so nice, and all told, Steve gets in a couple good hours of studying before he’s distracted by a hand sliding into his hair.

The action is surprising but not unwelcome, especially when it tightens and tugs, pulling Steve’s head back. He barely gets a glimpse at his boyfriend’s face before Eddie’s mouth is on his, lips meeting in a searing kiss.

Steve melts under it as he kisses back; he always loves when Eddie gets into a mood like this, loves how demanding and rough he is.

Teeth sink into his lower lip and Steve groans, opens his mouth so Eddie's tongue can push inside. It's possessive. It leaves him aching with how thoroughly Eddie claims his mouth, how he explores every nook and cranny like he doesn’t already know each one by heart.

Like he doesn't know that Steve is slowly shaking apart at the soft, wet sounds of their kiss, at the metal piercing that rubs against Steve's tongue before clicking against the back of his teeth.

Eddie breaks the kiss, pulling back with a firm “Open,” and Steve doesn’t hesitate, just drops his jaw and sticks his tongue out. He knows what’s coming next and his dick twitches in his pants in anticipation, waiting patiently as Eddie gathers the spit in his mouth before releasing it, letting it drop into Steve’s eager mouth.

Steve shudders and swallows, and is rewarded with Eddie's hand dropping to palm at his dick, groping it through the fabric of his sweatpants. The expert touch sends him flying past interested and right to hard and needy, and he keens at just how fucking good it feels. Eddie just grins and leans in to nip at Steve’s lip.

“Does that feel good, Stevie?”

Steve nods. “So good, daddy. Love your hands.”

“Yeah, baby? You like when daddy plays with you?”

Another nod, followed by a whiny “Yeah.”

Eddie mutters a soft “Yeah, that's my good boy,” against Steve’s mouth before he pulls away completely, releasing his grip on Steve's hair and his dick and just. Walking away. Steve blinks at the sudden shift, the abrupt loss of heat and touch, and it takes him a moment to register that Eddie is leaving.

“Where are you going?”

“I've got some stuff to work on, I'll just be in the office,” Eddie replies without even looking at him, and Steve can’t help the affronted sound that escapes him.

“Are you just gonna leave me like this?!”

At that, his boyfriend pauses and glances back at him with a sly grin. “Yep.”

Steve is appalled by the smug indifference; he thought Eddie was going to fuck him, not work him up and leave him stranded. “But-”

“I'll be in the office,” Eddie repeats, and raps his knuckles on the door frame as he passes through it. “Don't touch yourself!’

Steve isn’t ashamed to admit that he pouts. He settles back into the couch and looks down at his abandoned dick, still straining against the confines of his sweatpants, and he pouts. He looks at his text book still sitting nearby and thinks about pulling it closer, about just ignoring his situation and going back to reading.

If only he could stop thinking about the feeling of Eddie’s tongue in his mouth, Eddie’s hand on his dick, and- Well, that's a thought. It's not touching himself if something else touches him, right?

Steve rises from the couch and makes his way down the hall, following the sounds of typing to their office. He pauses in the doorway to watch as Eddie sits at his desk, fingers moving over the keys expertly as he types out something, before going over. He stops next to Eddie's chair and waits a moment to see if he's going to get any kind of acknowledgement from his boyfriend, and when Eddie doesn't even spare him a single glance, he rapidly comes to terms with the fact that he isn't.

Time for Plan B.

Steve huffs as he bullies himself between Eddie and the desk, not even caring that he’s interrupting Eddie’s typing. The man just watches as Steve settles himself right on his lap, legs straddling Eddie's thighs and arms wrapping around his neck. He rolls his hips forward to grind against the soft plane of his boyfriend’s stomach, and sighs at the instant relief it gives his aching dick.

“And just what do you think you're doing, baby?” Eddie asks, voice light like Steve is amusing him.

“Said I couldn't touch myself. Didn't say I couldn't come.”

He's acting like a cheeky little shit and they both know it. Steve knows better than to twist Eddie's words around like this. Last time he did Eddie didn't fuck him for a week, just edged him over and over until he was sobbing out apologies and begging be filled. You think that Steve would have learned his lesson after that, but his common sense always seems to take a back seat when he gets worked up like this.

Eddie hums and tangles his fingers into Steve's hair, the touch gentle until it's not, until he's wrenching Steve's head back and back. Until Steve is falling off Eddie's lap and landing on the floor, the carpet barely protecting his ass from the impact.

“Well, I have work to finish, and I can't do it with a whiny brat in my way. If you wanna come so bad, you'll have to find something else to rub your dick on.”

Steve’s breath hitches slightly and he thinks he might just cry at the easy dismissal. He knows it’s just part of the game, part of the roles they’ve agreed to play, but being ignored is still something Steve struggles to handle in any setting. Eddie reads him like a fucking book, as the hand in his hair loosens slightly and Eddie moves Steve so he can look him in the eye.

“What's your color, baby?” he asks, voice gentle and reassuring, and Steve knows that he has no reason to not trust that Eddie will take care of him. Steve mutters a soft but sure “Green, daddy,” and Eddie nods before releasing him.

Something moves and Steve glances down, under the desk and- fuck. Eddie's wearing his favorite boots, the shiny ones that Steve bought him, that he saves for special occasions and play time, and Steve realizes all at once that-

Eddie planned this.

He wanted Steve worked up into a frenzy until he was eager to rub his dick on the boots instead of being ordered to. He strung Steve along in this mean little game instead of just telling him what he wanted, and the thought of Eddie planning through this whole scenario like it's one of his D&D sessions makes Steve feel like he’s fucking kindling, every nerve alight under his skin.

Steve glances up to meet Eddie's eyes, and the older man just stares him down, waiting for him to make a decision. His shame evaporates under the heat of Eddie's gaze as he moves forward, crawling across the carpet until he's under the desk. He has to hunch over a bit so his head doesn't bump the underside of it, but it’s not unbearable, and he feels weak as he straddles one of the perfectly polished boots.

Steve’s hands settle around Eddie's calf, needing something to hold on to, to ground himself with, and he rocks his hips down just as the sound of typing continues above him. The first touch is electric, and even as eager as he feels, Steve does his best to keep his motions slow and measured; he might be humping Eddie's foot like an untrained puppy, but he refuses to lose control like one.

That doesn't stop him from whining when he grinds just right, the friction on the head of his dick so sweet, and he repeats it over and over, chasing the sensation. A sharp tap - not quite a slap - lands on his cheek, and Steve gasps at the tingle it sends through his face.

“Get your dick out of your pants, baby,” Eddie says, blindly taking hold of Steve's face. “You don't want to get them messy, do you?”

Steve shakes his head and reaches down to shove his pants and briefs out of the way, earning him a pleased hum and another firm tap on his cheek before the hand retracts. The rough laces against the sensitive skin of his dick makes him quake, the sudden change almost overwhelming but not enough to make him stop. It feels better once he shifts to the side a bit, adding the feeling of eyelets and leather into each stroke.

It's easy to lose himself in the sensation, in the constant, steady friction. It’s addicting, and his hips stutter as he gets closer and closer to the edge. He claws at the fabric of Eddie’s pant leg as he starts to lose control, and then-

He's pulled from the reverie as Eddie's chair moves back, pulling his foot away, and Steve scrambles to follow. He was so close. Eddie laughs a bit and Steve flushes at the condescending sound, at the “Poor baby,” that follows it.

Steve keens and barely gets out a choked “Daddy,” before two fingers are pushing into his mouth, effectively silencing him. Eddie grins as he tugs Steve’s jaw down, opening his mouth wide as he says “Come on, princess, keep going.”

Ever Eddie’s good boy, Steve rolls his hips again and his eyes slide shut as the fingers push deeper, rubbing over his tongue and along the backs of his teeth. It feels like possession, like Eddie wants nothing more than to claim the smallest, most hidden parts of Steve’s very being.

Steve wonders what it says about him that he would let Eddie do it, no questions, and certainly no complaints.

The fingers disappear just long enough for Eddie to spit on his tongue again, and then they’re back, mixing it with the saliva slowly collecting in the well of Steve’s jaw.

“That’s it, baby. So fucking greedy for anything you can get, huh?” Steve just moans into the open air and Eddie just shoves his fingers deeper, until Steve is nearly choking on them. “Yeah. So good, so desperate to come.”

He is. He’s so close to coming, he’s right on the verge. All he needs is-

“Look at me, Stevie.”

Steve opens his eyes, he can feel the drool now dripping off his chin as he meets Eddie’s gaze. The man just looks at him for a moment, eyes burning as he lifts his foot, pressing up into Steve's dick, and that's all it takes.

His hips stutter and jerk as he comes, spilling over laces and leather and marking the shiny black with creamy white. Eddie’s fingers slip from his mouth and Steve keens as he rides out his high. He’s shaking as he comes down, hands trembling where they clutch at Eddie’s jeans, and the sound of fuzz slowly starts to leave his head.

The sound of metal-on-metal pulls his attention, and he looks up to see Eddie undoing his belt and jeans before pushing them down just enough to free his dick. Eddie slides a hand into Steve’s hair and tugs him closer with a soft “C’mere princess, let me come on that pretty face.”

Steve lets Eddie move him as he wants, just drops his jaw and sticks out his tongue as the man starts to jerk himself off. He’s clearly worked up, because he skips his usual slow tease and goes right to something fast and rough.

The pre-cum already leaking from the tip has Steve’s mouth watering with the desire to taste - literally. He can feel it dripping off his chin once again as he keeps his mouth open, and Eddie coos when he sees it.

“So fuckin’ messy, Stevie, drooling over daddy’s dick. You’re just the greediest little baby, huh?”

Eddie releases his cock and reaches out to wipe his hand over Steve’s chin, collecting some of the fluid before he starts stroking again, the way a bit easier with the makeshift lube. Steve sways a bit, still so floaty as he’s forced to just sit and watch, and for a second he’s certain the only reason he’s still upright is the grip Eddie has on his hair.

Eddie’s orgasm seems to hit him out of nowhere. A groan punches out of him and then he’s gone, dick twitching as he comes over Steve’s mouth, his nose, his cheek. Some of it lands on Steve’s tongue and he doesn’t hesitate to swallow it, he hums at the taste and licks his lips, chasing more of it.

Eddie groans a soft “Jesus, Stevie,” before he’s leaning in, giving Steve a hard kiss that quickly turns soft and tender. He runs his clean hand through Steve’s hair and mutters “That was so good, baby, so perfect. I’m so, so lucky to have you, honey. You’re so good for me.”

Steve goes gooey under the praise and he leans into Eddie as they just sit there, catching their breaths and slowly coming back down. He would be happy to stay here longer, just kneeling at Eddie’s feet, but the cum drying on his face coaxes him into action. He whines softly, words still hard as he slowly settles back into his body, and Eddie knows exactly what he’s asking for.

The man presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead and says “Okay, baby, get’s get you clean,” before standing and helping Steve up onto shaky legs. Their aftercare is extremely consistent, the familiar motions necessary to keep Steve from crashing quickly.

It’s not until they’re out of the shower that Steve finds his words again, and he mutters a soft “We need to get satin laces for those boots or something, my dick is sore.”

Eddie just laughs and presses a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth. “I’ll get right on that, sweetheart.”

#once again giving my friends the gift of filth #also sorry for making you give me input on your own gift lol #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #joey writes

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olderthannetfic · 8 days ago

Note

I'm always excited when I read this blog. Mainly because this is an interesting space where it seems like most of the participants are engaging in the fandom in good faith and are trying to create environments (either on their blogs or in private communities) where other people can also join in. But also it feels like this is such a vanishingly small subset of audiences. Not just in the scale of tumblr but also in the scale of fandoms in general.

And its not just because people are acitvely choosing to be mean and unwelcoming these days but also it feels like the way people are engaging with art is also shifting into a hyperconsumerist mode I can't explain it in words but I feel it. So seeing this kind of space thrive is like a balm to my soul but also a sort of reminder that this kind of spaces are few and far in between :(

There are more people engaging deeply than you think, but they're often doing it with a few friends in private or in a more hidden space. Doomscrolling and other behaviors as deep as a puddle are what's the most publicly visible.

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valeriianz · 2 years ago

Text

Thinking about how we, as a fandom, seemed to have forgotten the ridiculousness of the mistletoe tradition. Oh, to be kissed by a stranger under a parasitic plant in public! Why yes, sign Dream up.

Thinking about Hob decorating the New Inn for Christmas. Dream drops in unexpectedly (but certainly not unwelcome) as usual, curious to see Hob draping multicolored lights along the open shelves of liquor behind the bar.

“What are you doing, Hob?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” and Hob would turn back to his work, and Dream would watch, fascinated. Listening to the cheery music playing through the speakers, listening to Hob speak of the centuries past, how the celebration of the Christmas holiday had been pretty steadily thus since the mid 1800’s.

“The pagan holiday?” Dream would inquire, dragging his fingers along the taped up holiday cards along the backsplash of the bar, like moth’s wings stuck out and on display. Some even transferring soft glitter on Dream’s fingers, making him rub them together curiously.

“Well,” Hob would shrug with a grin. “The Christian bastardization of it.”

“Hardly,” Dream mused. “The Romans celebrated Saturnalia in this time, honoring the god with a feast and gifts.”

“No foolin’, eh?”

And, since it was late and Hob was feeling good about the work he’d done, he’d pour Dream a glass of red and offer him a seat, both of them sitting at the bar and admiring the twinkling lights, the smell of pine from the fresh garland, the garish oversized stockings tacked to the walls, and– Dream noticed with puzzlement, a single bunch of berries and leathery leaves hanging from the ceiling in the middle of an archway.

“I do not recognize this.”

Hob followed his friend’s gaze and, “oh,” he’d laugh. But it sounds… off-kilter, nervous or embarrassed.

“It’s mistletoe. Just this– parasitic plant–”

“Why does it have a bow on it?”

“For fun.” Hob would level Dream with a look like, lighten up. Get into the spirit.

“Elaborate.”

And Hob would hmm and haa about this relatively silly tradition about kissing under a mistletoe, how the “rule” had kind of faded away in the past decade or so, but it was still a fun little thing and Hob, ever the purveyor of all things dreadfully human, wants to keep the tradition alive, even if no one really follows along anymore.

And Dream, knowing full well he doesn’t need an excuse to kiss his immortal, very human partner, decides to humor Hob.

He slips from his seat, hearing Hob snicker from behind him, probably knowing full well what he’s about to do, and Dream walks to stand directly under the plant.

The bar is closed, no one else is in the building, but Hob looks around anyway, like there would be anyone else who would take advantage of this opportunity. Dream has to physically bite down a delighted smile as Hob shrugs– well if no one else will– and all but jumps from his stool, slowly walking toward Dream with his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Without even touching Dream, Hob leans in and pecks him on the mouth.

Dream’s brows rise up to his hairline. “Is that it?”

“I’m afraid so, love.” He points up to the plant above them. "They don’t hang these in public places for full blown make out sessions, you know.”

“Hm…” Dream considers this, and decides if the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe only yields one chaste thing, then he’d have to start collecting them enough to make something substantial out of it.

Cue the ridiculous montage of Hob finding Dream in various locales, venues, anywhere he’s at (even at a holiday staff party) and in all manner of positions, under a mistletoe.

“Was that even there before?” Hob would ask, a red solo cup in his hand and smirking like a fool at the sight of Dream slouching against the wall, a– quite large actually– mistletoe dangling from the ceiling above his head.

“Does it matter?” Dream would counter and Hob would shrug, fair enough, and acquiesce to the plant’s demands. It was a Christmas tradition, after all.

Or Hob entering his office at work and finding Dream draped across his desk, holding a plastic mistletoe that looked like it was bought at a drug store high above his head.

Hob would take a few moments to stand and stare, enamored by this ridiculous creature.

“You know how much I love you?” It’s not what Hob meant to say, he was going to quip something about dramatic Endless and their need for attention, but he’s so gone over Dream that his mouth barely cooperates with his brain in these situations.

Dream would preen, stretching his long legs down so they dangle off the edge of the desk, like a cat sunning himself, shaking the plastic plant for emphasis.

“You could show me.”

This is their new tradition, every Christmas season. Hob finds Dream everywhere in the waking world, distracting Hob, raising eyebrows, and starting up strange rumor mills. But it’s in the privacy of his own home, coming back from work, and finding Dream wailing desperately against the foyer of his kitchen, a planted mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, as usual.

“Oh, Hob Gadling,” Dream would cast an arm over his eyes. “How I’ve waited for you to come back and free me from the spell these dreadful berries have put me under.”

“Okay,” Hob would grin, biting back a laugh. “Would a kiss suffice?”

Dream would be hanging off the wall, his long, rail thin limbs bent at every angle under faux duress.

“Oh! It might do. I feel shackled under this strange power this greenery emanates.”

“Dream of the Endless,” Hob would tease, dropping his bag and taking off his coat as he walks to his impossible lover. “Brought down by a common earthly sprout.”

“Yes, yes, now will you get over here?”

And once Hob is within arms reach, laughing hard enough to wheeze, Dream would grab him by the shoulders and pull him in.

#dreamling #hob x dream #hob gadling #this is very much crack treated seriously #except its not that serious pfft #i saw a tiktok like this and couldnt get Dream dramatically posed against a wall out of my head #its just so him #my writing #the sandman

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cielettosa · 5 months ago

Text

SEED OF DISCONTENT

Chapter 1: a burden unchosen

PAIRING: levi ackerman x fem!reader

RATING: explicit

FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)

SYNOPSIS:

The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.

cw of the chapter: none

navigation

previous chapter - next chapter

Heavy air, thick enough to chew on. It sits on Levi lungs like a stale loaf of Dhalis' smug superiority.

Tick tock, tick tock. Clock mocks them all, counting down the precious minutes wasted in this shitty staring contest.

Polished table, a mirror reflecting the distorted faces of these pompous windbags. Zachary, the "General," a walking monument to paperwork erosion. His beard – a tragic map of battles fought with red tape, not Titans. His eyes, like a bloodhound sniffing out dissent, but too slow to catch the real monsters in this room.

Erwin Smith. The almighty, the strategic genius, the commander of the Survey Corps.

He sits there puffed up like a pigeon on a flagpole. Levi can practically hear his ribs creaking under the weight of his own titan sized ambitions and eyebrows. All bluster and dreams, that one.

He does not understand the grime under your fingernails, the blood that seeps into your soul after every mission. He talks about the "greater good," about humanity's "salvation."

Levi's fingers itch for the familiar weight of his blades. They would feel more comfortable here than this damn chair.

Erwin's icy blue eyes are probably doing calculus right now, strategizing the most soul crushing paperwork avalanche to unleash on Levi after this bureaucratic circus. Wonderful.

Just what Levi needs – another mountain of paper stacks to wade through, each one a monument to the utter cluelessness of these so called leaders.

Nile Dawk, perpetually looking like an offended toddler – ever the picture of simmering discontent. Tapping a rhythm on the table like a bored child, scowl permanently etched on his face. Military Police Brigade must be a real snooze fest if this qualifies as entertainment for him.

Dot Pixis. The Garrison commander with a smile sweeter than rotten fruit. Just the kind of saccharine charm that could probably disarm an abnormal Titan with a sugar high.

All sunshine and lollipops, that one. Probably thinks the biggest danger he faces is a paper cut.

And then there is Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Levi Ackerman. Years spent dodging death by Titan and defying gravity have turned his posture into a weapon itself.

His eyes, a stormy gray reflecting horrors most would not dare dream of, are a mask. A stoic facade forged in the fires of countless battles. Iron will, they call it. Yeah, well, sometimes even iron feels like it is about to snap under the weight of this never ending hell.

The air hangs thick, its intellectual density barely surpassing a sluggish potato. Dhalis slurs out his opening remarks, the weight of his words attempting, and failing, to mimic a momentous thunderclap.

"Esteemed Commanders and Captain," he declares, "we convene today on a matter of utmost importance." A dramatic pause follows, his pronouncement lingering in the air like an unwelcome houseguest. "The Ackerman bloodline."

The General utters the words with the gravitas one might reserve for announcing the cure for Titanism, a cure that would undoubtedly be more newsworthy than this current charade.

Here, in this room choked by the stench of bureaucratic ineptitude, the only true concern should be the ever present threat of humanity becoming Titan chum.

A tremor of unease ripples through the assembled commanders, a collective shiver down the spine of the room. Erwin, ever the opportunist, leans forward, transforming into the very image of rapt attention.

Nile, on the other hand, can not contain a scoff, a harsh sound that would likely send chills down the ever nervous Armin Arlert's spine.

His voice, dripping with disdain like a neglected mop, barks out, "The attack dogs utilized for combat by the Survey Corps and kept under their control - what bearing, if any, does this topic have on the current discourse?"

Dhalis counters Nile's scoff with a clipped retort, his tone as sharp as a drill sergeant addressing a trainee with the intellectual capacity of a sluggish spud. "With all due respect, Commander Dawk,," he emphasizes. "the Ackerman bloodline exhibits demonstrably abnormal combat capabilities. These capabilities demonstrably exceed even those of our most elite soldiers, if such a designation can be ascribed to the current standard."

Nile slams his fist down on the polished mahogany table, the resulting impact sending a tremor through the crystal glassware that evokes a startled flock of pigeons.

"The Ackermans are nothing more than volatile instruments of war! Their allegiances are fluid and dictated by whomever holds the reins of power! They are Smith's sword perpetually hanging over our heads, a festering danger to the very foundations of the Wall's Military!" He puffs out his chest, the very image of an outraged toddler whose favorite stuffed animal has been snatched away.

Predictably, the very mention of the Ackerman bloodline ignites a cacophony of idiocy within the room. Nile, bless his perpetually furrowed brow, predictably launches into a tirade about "the potential dangers," his voice laced with the kind of bluster one might expect from a petulant child.

Pixis drawls out a response, doing little to quell the simmering tension in the room. "While your concerns, Commander Dawk, are duly noted, perhaps a more measured approach is warranted.," he says, his voice dripping with a nonchalance that borders on mockery. "Captain Levi, appears content to fulfill his designated role. One might even argue he demonstrates a certain efficiency in battlefields And surely, their demonstrable utility in such endeavors cannot be entirely dismissed."

Dhalis clears his throat with a theatrical flourish, the universal signal for the assembled commanders to shut their yaps.

"Indeed, Commander Pixis," he concedes. "While I acknowledge Captain Levi's utility, Commander Pixis." He continues, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, as if he is about to drop a bombshell more explosive than a Titan spotting a juicy human morsel. "we must consider the entirety of the Ackerman bloodline. The private known as Mikasa Ackerman also warrants our attention in this discussion."

Nile growls, a bulldog with a stubborn bone lodged in its throat. "Private Mikasa Ackerman presents a potential complication," he spits out. "Her emotional attachment to the impulsive and reckless Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope, could be a detriment to her objectivity. The military requires unwavering focus and strategic acumen, qualities potentially compromised by such sentimental entanglements."

Dhalis offers a curt nod, the gesture of a teacher indulging a slow student. "To be perfectly clear, Commander Dawk" he clarifies. "while Private Mikasa Ackerman's emotional attachments warrant observation, they are not the immediate cause for concern. Our primary focus must remain fixed upon Captain Levi, Humanity's Strongest Soldier. It is imperative that we establish, with absolute certainty, the nature of his allegiance. The military requires unwavering loyalty, a commitment that must be secured on a permanent basis"

They want to clip Levi's wings, transform him into a government sanctioned attack dog, a good little soldier following their every beck and call.

The irony is so thick, so suffocating, it could be slathered on burnt toast and passed off as a gourmet meal. Levi's loyalty, if they could even begin to understand it, lies solely with the singular objective of ending this bloody war.

And achieving that requires a hell of a lot more than empty promises and a patronizing pat on the head.

They dangle the Ackerman bloodline before him like a juicy carrot, all the while preparing to yank him in with a leash. Because, apparently, a goddamn Titan slaying machine, a man who has stared into the abyss and emerged unbroken, is a threat to their precious little power structure.

These self proclaimed leaders could not fight their way out of a paper bag, let alone navigate the treacherous political labyrinth they have constructed within these damned Walls.

The only true anomaly associated with the Ackerman bloodline is their complete and utter lack of tolerance for bureaucratic idiocy.

This s whole damn meeting is a pointless exercise in futility, a waste of valuable time that could be spent slicing Titans, not listening to them spout nonsense.

The only entertainment comes from watching these self important wind bags trip over their own inflated egos.

Maybe Levi should start a mental betting pool – Nile, with his perpetually constipated expression, or Pixis, with that oily salesman grin he can not seem to wipe off? Knowing their track record, it will be a nail biter of a finish.

Jaw clenches tighter, frustration a rising tide threatening to spill over. They have been droning on for an eternity, and not a single one of them has offered a decent cup of tea.

The lack of proper tea is a war crime in itself, and frankly, Levi is about to reach his breaking point.

Levi cuts through the tense air with his voice, a low monotone as sharp as a carving knife slicing through butter. "Loyalty," he declares, "is something that is earned, not something you bully into someone like a conscript force fed expired rations" His steely gaze sweeps across the room, taking each face in turn, a silent challenge. "If my lineage is such a delectable dish for your paranoid ruminations," he continues, leaning back slightly in his chair, "then by all means, let me demonstrate my value on the battlefield. It seems a far more productive use of time than this childish charade of bureaucratic musical chairs you've orchestrated here today."

A flicker of surprise, as fleeting as a gnat caught in a hurricane, crosses Dhalis' weathered face. Erwin, however, can not quite suppress a smirk playing on his lips.

The man understands Levi better than most, recognizes the unwavering dedication that burns within him like superheated Titan blood.

Pixis, the oily eel of a Garrison commander, leans back with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Perhaps, esteemed General," he drawls, his voice dripping with a false sincerity. "the Captain raises a salient observation. Indeed, why not allow him to take to the field? Let him spill his own crimson ichor in defense of humanity. In the crucible of combat, his loyalty can be forged anew, not through empty pronouncements, but through actions etched in the very blood he sheds for our collective survival."

Dhalis releases a sigh that ruffles the papers scattered across the table, the sound betraying the frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed facade.

Dhalis reaches up to stroke his beard, an unhealthy habit that likely yanks out more hair than a pack of hungry Titans swarming a buffet. "Very well, Captain Levi," he concedes, his voice laced with a begrudging acceptance that strains to mask his underlying apprehension. "You have been granted this… opportunity to demonstrate your fealty. Consider this a reprieve, a chance to redeem the inherent suspicion that clings to your bloodline like a persistent miasma." he leans forward, his gaze hardening into steely glint, "But make no mistake, Captain" he adds, a cruel edge creeping into his voice, "the moment even the slightest tremor of disloyalty betrays your actions, the repercussions will be as swift and merciless as the blade you wield so effectively. And let me assure you swiftness will be a forgotten luxury in the face of your transgression. The full weight of the military will come crashing down upon you, a juggernaut of retribution that will leave you yearning for the sweet embrace of oblivion.

Levi meets his gaze head on, his expression an unreadable mask. "Understood, sir," he replies, his voice betraying none of the storm brewing within him.

"However," Dhalis continues, his voice taking on a sly tone, "as Commander Pixis eloquently articulated, mere pronouncements hold little sway in this esteemed chamber. Deeds, Captain Levi, deeds are what we demand. As alluded to in our prior deliberations, the undeniable admiration Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope holds for you, Humanity's Strongest Soldier, is a matter of public record. His unyielding trust in your capabilities borders on the fanatical, would you not agree? The boy would not hesitate to follow you into the very maw of a Titan itself. Therefore, we require a… proof, shall we say? A public spectacle that unequivocally demonstrates that Humanity's Strongest Soldier is, without question, prepared to adhere to our directives, regardless of their perceived absurdity or apparent pointlessness. We require absolute, unwavering certainty that your allegiance remains firmly tethered to the military. Any hint of wavering, of a potential defection that could see you and Eren Yeager stray from the designated path, will not be tolerated. The consequences of such a betrayal would reverberate throughout humanity's fragile existence. Imagine the chaos, the erosion of trust that would follow in the wake of your disobedience. Think of the fragile hope you would shatter, the blood that would stain the ground due to your misplaced loyalties. No, Captain Levi, we cannot, will not, accept such a catastrophic scenario. Therefore, a public display of your obedience is paramount. We need the world, and more importantly, Eren Yeager himself, to witness your unwavering commitment to this cause. Only then can we move forward with a semblance of confidence, knowing that our strongest soldier stands firmly beside us, not against us."

Levi's voice cuts through the veiled threats, cold and sharp as a discarded blade. "How exactly do I prove this loyalty you are so desperate for?"

Dhalis leans forward, his belly straining against his uniform like a sausage casing about to burst. If Levi squinted real hard, maybe he could pretend it was sincerity wrinkling his brow.

"Ah, Captain," Dhalis Zachary drawls, a sickeningly theatrical tone creeping into his voice, "there in lies the crux of the matter, would you not concur? It would be a most unfortunate turn of events, a veritable tragedy of epic proportions, if…" Tragedy? More like a comedy act gone horribly wrong. "…something unforeseen… were to befall our invaluable asset…" Unfortunate for who, exactly? "…Humanity's Strongest Soldier, Levi Ackerman. The potential loss of such a potent genealogical lineage, the Ackerman bloodline, brimming with unparalleled combat prowess - an unconscionable waste, would you not agree? A crying shame that would echo through the annals of humanity's struggle for survival. Fear not, Captain, would never dream of placing you in an untenable situation. However, a strategically orchestrated public display of obedience, one that showcases your unwavering commitment to this very institution, would be most… reassuring. Think of it as a necessary formality, a safeguard against the unforeseen. After all, who amongst us can predict the capricious hand of fate? Imagine the public outcry, the despair that would grip humanity, if some… mishap… were to befall our most prized weapon in the fight against the Titan menace. Surely, Captain, a man of your esteemed stature would not want to be the cause of such widespread devastation, would you?" His gaze fixes on Levi, "The task I propose, Captain, is a mere formality, a carefully choreographed performance designed to quell any lingering anxieties. Think of it as an investment in the future, a testament to the enduring unity between yourself and the very military of the Walls. After all, the potential consequences of your… disobedience, shall we say, are a prospect that would leave us all trembling in the face of an uncertain future."

Unease flickers across Nile's face, a fly caught in a spiderweb. The man is a walking bad mood on a good day, but even he seems to recoil at the thought. Turning soldiers into government breeding stock? The very idea is enough to make a Titan reconsider its lunch options.

Nile growls, "Are you implying, General," he spits, disgusted "that we revisit that proposition tabled earlier, the one concocted in hushed tones between yourself, Commander Smith, Commander Pixis, and myself? The utterly repugnant notion of Captain Ackerman being transformed into some… government sanctioned stallion?" The word hangs in the air, vulgar and obscene, shattering any remaining pretense of decorum in the room. "The very notion is not only abhorrent but strategically unsound!"

Government sanctioned stud? Levi's blood runs cold, a primal fury clawing its way up his throat. The audacity of these men! Do they think Levi is some mindless beast to be bred in captivity? A weapon to be passed down through generations?

The General might acknowledge the validity of Nile's point, but government sanctioned stud? Even these pompous windbags have a limit on their tact, apparently.

Dhalis clears his throat, the sound like a clogged drain trying to cough up a hairball. "Commander Dawk, while your concerns regarding the… unorthodox proposition previously discussed are duly noted, perhaps a more nuanced approach might be warranted. We must consider the long game, do you not agree? Who can say what unforeseen threats lurk beyond the Walls, what monstrous adversaries may rise to challenge humanity's very existence? Therefore, would it not be prudent, some might even say a matter of humanity's security, to ensure the… continuation of the Ackerman bloodline? After all," he wheezes, strained like a man trying to swallow a rotten potato whole. "their demonstrably superior combat prowess is an asset too valuable to squander. Perhaps, a more… conventional arrangement could be facilitated. A suitable female candidate, carefully vetted for loyalty and robust health, could be identified. A union, orchestrated with the utmost discretion, could see the Ackerman lineage flourish, a safeguard against the potential horrors that the future may hold." He continues, the word dripping with self serving righteousness, "There is much to consider, do you not agree? But surely, the potential benefits outweigh any initial discomfort such a course of action might engender."

This attempt to sugarcoat their barbaric proposition with necessity is about as transparent as a window.

Erwin stays silent, a mask hiding any flicker of internal debate. Maybe he is strategizing, formulating an escape plan for this bureaucratic nightmare.

Who knows what goes on behind that calculating mind of his?

"Are you suggesting, that I become a government sanctioned sperm bank for the Walls?" Levi's voice cuts through the obfuscation, a blade slicing through their web of lies.

Dhalis, the oblivious buffoon, throws his head back and lets out a laugh that grates on Levi's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. The amusement in his eyes is a stark contrast to the thundercloud that has formed above Nile's perpetually grumpy face.

Does this man find humor in reducing a soldier to nothing more than a stud?

Levi's urge to wipe that smug grin off his face with his bare fists is overwhelming.

"Now, now, Captain Levi," Dhalis wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes brought on by his amusement. "There is no need for such modesty! Consider this a paramount contribution to the very survival of humanity, your ultimate patriotic duty! Imagine the glorious possibilities! Why, with a little," He leans forward, his eyes gleaming with a manic glint that sends shivers down spines more accustomed to Titan chills. "Imagine the possibilities!" he crows. "… selective breeding, we could cultivate an entire goddamn army of Ackermans! An unstoppable legion, bred for war and impervious to Titan threats! Think of it, Captain Levi," he trails off, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could engineer the ultimate weapon, humanity's salvation forged from your genes! Generations of Ackerman prodigies, each one a genetic marvel honed for combat! The very future of humanity rests upon your… cooperation, Captain." he continues, "Refusal to cooperate with this endeavor, however distasteful it may seem, could be misconstrued as… disloyalty. And disloyalty, Captain, as we have already established, has a very unpleasant cost. So Captain, what say you? Will you embrace your patriotic duty and become the progenitor of a Titan slaying army, or will you force us to consider… alternative solutions?"

Is he reading out some twisted fairytale? These are not puppies you can breed for good looks and tricks, these are lives, lives he has ready to gamble on like chips in a rigged game.

The sheer audacity of these self important buffoons leaves Levi momentarily speechless. An army of mindless Ackerman babies, bred like cattle to fight their battles?

The very notion is so ludicrous it borders on comical. Almost. Levi forces down the urge to laugh, instead opting for a slow, deliberate blink.

The icy glint in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent challenge that hangs heavy in the air.

Nile's question cuts through the idiocy like a blade through overcooked cabbage. "And who, pray tell, General, who would be the lucky lady tasked with… producing this Ackerman army of yours?" He drawls the words.

An army of Ackermans, bred like some twisted livestock? The image that flashes in Levi's mind is enough to make him clench his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms.

Who would be the sacrificial lamb in this grotesque breeding program?

Nile's question is seemingly ignored.

A flicker of interest crosses Erwin's face, a spark of intrigue igniting in his blue eyes. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on General Dhalis with a healthy dose of skepticism. "Intriguing," he finally concedes, his voice measured and devoid of emotion. "The potential for such a military force… an army specifically bred and trained to combat the Titan menace… it is a concept that warrants serious consideration. The Ackerman bloodline, with its demonstrably superior martial prowess, could indeed be the cornerstone of such a revolutionary endeavor." He leans back in his chair, his voice dropping to a low growl. "However," he continues, his gaze turning laser focused on Dhalis, "one must approach such a proposition with utmost caution. The ramifications of failure, of a genetic experiment gone awry, could be catastrophic. And frankly, General," he adds with a sardonic edge, "your sudden and fervent advocacy for Captain Ackerman's… reproductive contributions leaves much to be desired. I wonder what ulterior motives might lurk beneath the surface of your zealous enthusiasm." He fixes Dhalis with a stare that could crack stone. "Nevertheless," he concedes with a sigh, "the potential benefits are undeniable. Therefore, I am willing to entertain this proposition, on a trial basis. Captain Ackerman will be… monitored closely. The success or failure of this venture will hinge entirely upon his cooperation, and upon the viability of replicating the Ackerman lineage. Only time will tell," he concludes, his voice laced with a hint of grim determination, "if this gamble will reap the rewards we so desperately seek, or usher in a new era of unforeseen horrors."

Nile, bless his perpetually grumpy soul, erupts like a volcano spewing common sense. "Insane!" he bellows, a bulldog who has not only had his bone snatched, but stomped into oblivion by Dhalis' twisted amusement. "We can not trust these Ackermans!" He throws his hands up in exasperation. "Who knows what kind of pint sized killing machines they will churn out?

The image that explodes in my Levi's mind is terrifying – miniature versions of himself, miniature Levi's running amok, tearing through the streets with a bloodthirsty gleam in their tiny eyes.

"Indeed," Dhalis concedes, "there are intricate details that necessitate further refinement before we can proceed. However," he continues, his voice taking on a forceful tone, "the potential benefits for humanity's survival are undeniable. Captain Levi," he leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint, "the choice before you is stark. Are you prepared to… contribute" – he emphasizes the word with a distasteful flourish – "to this endeavor, for the supposed good of humanity? Your compliance, of course, would be viewed most favorably." He pauses for a beat, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "However," he continues, his voice hardening into a dangerous growl, "should you choose the path of dissent, the consequences for your disloyalty will be swift and severe. We will not hesitate to leverage Private Mikasa Ackerman as a… necessary participant in this, ahem, breeding program. Furthermore," he adds with a cruel twist of his lips, "the currently planned operation to reclaim territory from the Titans, an operation you hold rather dear, Captain, if whispers are to be believed, would be indefinitely postponed. Let us be perfectly clear," he leans forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "this is not a negotiation. This is a decree. The future of humanity hangs in the balance, Captain. Do you truly wish to be the one who stands in its way? Does such an outcome, fraught with personal sacrifice and the potential to doom mankind, truly appeal to you?" He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, waiting for Levi's response, the air thick with unspoken threats and a palpable sense of distrust.

Punishment or breeding program? He may as well be asking Levi to choose between getting devoured by a Titan or becoming one himself. The veiled threat about Mikasa, about the mission – a desperate attempt to yank on his leash, a leash he never agreed to wear.

Now Levi understands Erwin's … acquiescence to this farce. The mission dangled in front of him, a carrot to a desperate horse, all to get his grubby little hands on Grisha Yeager's basement and whatever secrets lie buried there.

The audacity of these self serving buffoons is breathtaking. Do they truly believe Humanity's Strongest Soldier can be reduced to a mindless beast to be controlled, a cog in their eugenics scheme? Levi meets Dhalis' gaze head on, his own eyes as cold and unforgiving as a Titan's stare. His posture remains rigid, a silent testament to his unwavering defiance.

Dhalis, sensing Levi;s resistance, does something unexpected. A barely perceptible smile, devoid of warmth or humor, tugs at the corner of his lips.

It is not a smile of camaraderie, but something far more unsettling - a predator sizing up its prey.

Let them stew in their own uncertainty. The real question is, when the time comes, will they be the ones holding the leash, or will Levi be the one snapping it in half?

"We acknowledge, Captain Levi," General Dhalis begins, his voice dripping with a false sincerity, "your unwavering dedication to the Survey Corps. Indeed, such loyalty is a beacon of hope in these perilous times. However," he continues, his tone subtly shifting, "loyalty, much like any well forged bond, demands reciprocity. Can we, in good conscience," he asks, his voice laden with veiled doubt, "extend our trust to a man with your… unconventional background? A past shrouded in the criminal underbelly, a stain on your otherwise exemplary record." He leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint. "If you choose to defy this directive, Captain," he warns, his voice hardening with barely concealed menace, "we will be compelled to revisit those unsavory legal entanglements that dogged your past existence in the Underground. Those little indiscretions, conveniently swept under the rug upon your enlistment with the Survey Corps, will be resurrected with ruthless efficiency. The pact of silence, a tacit agreement reliant upon your continued obedience, will be null and void." He throws his hands out in a theatrical gesture. "Disobeying an order, Captain," he continues, his voice laced with a chilling finality, "is tantamount to disobeying the very military that has shielded you from the consequences of your past transgressions. The consequences, I assure you, would be swift and merciless. You will find yourself stripped of your rank, stripped of your freedom, and cast back into the very depths you so desperately clawed your way out of. The Underground beckons, Captain, its cold embrace a fitting punishment for disobedience." He leans back in his chair, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "The choice is yours, Captain. Will you honor the unspoken pact that binds you to this institution, or will you risk a return to the abyss?"

Nile Dawk, that perpetually grumpy bulldog of a Garrison commander, can not quite suppress a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"My past, has absolutely no bearing on my current abilities." Levi's face is a blank slate, an unreadable mask that would not crack under a Titan's roar. Let them stew in their ignorance. Levi's past, those scrapes and scuffles in the Underground, those were like pebbles on a dirt road compared to the mountains he hass climbed since joining the Survey Corps.

Who cares about a few youthful indiscretions, or for that matter, overthrowing a corrupt monarchy? Water under the bridge, ancient history best left buried.

Dhalis lets out a chuckle, a dry, humorless sound that sends shivers skittering down Hange's spine despite the summer heat radiating from Pixis' ever present belly.

"Ah, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, leaning forward in his chair with a predatory glint in his eye. "It appears you harbor a fundamental misunderstanding," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that could curdle the blood of a seasoned Titan researcher. "Your past, Captain," he emphasizes each word with deliberate weight, "is far more… nuanced than you might believe. It is a tapestry woven with threads of rebellion, a penchant for violence that borders on the barbaric, and a rather lengthy, shall we say, apprenticeship in the notoriously brutal underbelly known as the Underground." He leans back, a hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips. "A most… colorful background, do you not agree? One that raises a multitude of questions regarding your suitability for the critical role we envision for you." His gaze narrows, scrutinizing Levi with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "The question, Captain, is not whether you are loyal to the Survey Corps – your dedication is undeniable. The true question lies in the depths of your allegiance. Can we, in good conscience, entrust the future of humanity to a man whose past reeks of defiance and whose very existence is steeped in the savagery of the Underground? Loyalty, Captain, is a double edged sword. It demands not only obedience but also unwavering trust. And in your case, Captain," he concludes with a chilling finality, "that trust is a most precarious commodity." The air in the room hangs heavy with suspicion, a silent battle of wills waged between a man haunted by his past and a ruthless leader determined to exploit it.

A flicker of something - annoyance, perhaps, or maybe a tightly leashed fury - crosses Levi's features for a fleeting moment before he slap it back down under the mask.

These self important buffoons would not know a colorful picture if it bit them in their oiled ass.

"Those… youthful transgressions," General Dhalis continues, drawing out the silence with practiced ease, like a skilled interrogator milking a suspect for information. "By the benevolence of the military, these incidents have been relegated to the dustbin of history… for the time being. Consider them a dark stain on an otherwise pristine record, Captain, a lapse in judgment shrouded in the merciful cloak of the military's discretion." He leans back in his chair, a predator savoring the discomfort of its prey. "However," he continues, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "let us not mince words, Captain. This amnesty, this act of extraordinary leniency, is a weapon. While it shields you from the harshest repercussions of your past, it also binds you to the military in a way most soldiers can only dream of. Your freedom, Captain," he emphasizes the word with a cruel twist of his lips, "is a conditional privilege, a gift bestowed with the expectation of unwavering loyalty." He fixes Levi with a cold stare.

This is about control.

They want to shackle Humanity's Strongest Soldier, a weapon of unparalleled skill honed in the fires of the Underground, to their will. Turn him into a loyal attack dog who only answers to their whistle.

The only thing they are overlooking is the fact that leashes can be chewed through, snapped, or used to strangle the very hand holding them.

'Well, General, you may think you have got me backed into a corner, but let me tell you something - corners have a nasty habit of disappearing when you know how to fight dirty. You do not even how much "former" criminal I can be.'

Levi's fists clench at his sides, the only outward sign of the tempest brewing within.

Years of meticulously crafting a life within the Survey Corps, the grudging respect he has earned through rivers of blood and mountains of Titan corpses, all teetering on the precipice of collapse at the whim of this power hungry peacock of a General.

Dhalis' self satisfied visage makes Levi want to wipe it off his face with the back of his hand, but the glint in his eyes, cold and calculating, warns against such impulsive actions.

Nile Dawk, that bulldog of a Military Police commander who perpetually looks like he is one bad nap away from spontaneous combustion, can not contain himself any longer.

A low, guttural chuckle erupts from him, the sound as pleasant as a Titan gnawing on a stubborn bone.

Dhalis leans back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction. The predatory glint in his eyes intensifies, and for a moment, Levi almost expects him to unsheathe a pair of claws from beneath his manicured fingernails.

"So, Captain Ackerman," he purrs, the word dripping with false sincerity, "are we in agreement? Do you continue to serve humanity, conveniently forgetting your little… indiscretions, under the banner of the Survey Corps, or do we take a stroll down memory lane and revisit those… misplaced documents?"

The seconds tick by, each one an agonizing hammer blow against the already suffocating atmosphere. Levi's jaw remains clenched, his face an impassive mask that would not crack even if a Titan decided to use it for target practice.

A battle rages behind Levi's icy gaze, a war between self preservation and the gnawing sense of being played like a cheap fiddle.

The weight of the decision presses down on him with the crushing force of a Titan's fist.

"You leave me with no options, General."

It is not an agreement, not truly. It is a surrender, a forced compliance in the face of an impossible situation.

"A wise decision, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, his voice oozing with a cloying satisfaction that sends a shiver down spines in the room. "We had every confidence that reason would ultimately prevail." He directs a dismissive gesture towards Erwin Smith. "The details of this… accord," he continues, his voice laced with a subtle emphasis on the word, "will be meticulously overseen by Commander Erwin Smith, with myself, of course, maintaining a watchful eye on proceedings. He," he adds with a pointed look in Erwin's direction, "will ensure your… contribution to the perpetuation of humanity is both optimized and meticulously documented." The veiled threat hangs heavy in the air – cooperation will be rigorously monitored, any misstep scrutinized.

Contribution. Right. As if Levi has any say in the matter. More like ensure his continued usefulness as their personal Titan slaying attack dog.

The rhythmic tap tap tap of Levi's boots echoes through the sterile hallway, a chilling counterpoint to the silent scream building in his chest. This is not walking, it is a war march towards an enemy he can not quite punch.

Each step is a beat in the symphony of his simmering fury, punctuated only by the silence that hangs heavy in the air. This silence is a tangible entity, thick with the absurdity of the mission he has been strong armed into accepting.

Erwin's office door looms ahead, a stark slab of wood mocking Levi with its finality. The nameplate, "Erwin Smith, Commander, Survey Corps", bold and brassy, screams "authority" – the very thing they are trying to assert over Levi.

Levi takes deep breath, not to calm the inferno, but to fan it into a roaring blaze. This is not about calming down, it is about channeling the anger, using it as a weapon. Fist meets wood in a resounding boom, the impact echoing like a challenge through the hallway. The windows rattles, a surprised gasp from within the office the only response I crave.

A startled yell of "Come in!" pierces through the wood. Levi throws the door open with a flourish that would make a Titan flinch, entering Erwin's office in a whirlwind of barely contained rage. The room itself is a spartan reflection of its perpetually calculating occupant. Maps and battle plans dominate the walls, a grim tapestry chronicling humanity's losing struggle against the Titans. These plans, however, seem sterile and lifeless compared to the raw, simmering anger radiating off Levi.

Paperwork teeters like a drunken soldier on Erwin's desk, the only sign of life in this sterile office besides the furious scribbling of his quill. The quill looks like it wrestled an enthusiastic rodent for ink. Erwin glances up, that glint of amusement in his sapphire eyes like a taunting dare.

The door slams shut behind Levi, the sound a physical manifestation of the rage choking him. Each step towards the Commander's desk is a calculated move, a predator stalking its prey. Levi stops just a hair's breadth away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, and lock eyes with him.

Levi's gaze is a thousand suns focused into a single, icy point, a silent scream before the real roar begins. The air itself seems to crackle under the pressure, a tangible tension that hangs heavy in the air like a storm about to break.

This "arrangement," this leash they have forced around Levi's neck – it twists with every beat of his heart, a constant reminder of the simmering fury boiling beneath the surface.

"Levi," Erwin greets, a hint of amusement flickering in the depths of his blue iris. "What brings you here in such a… dramatic state?"

"Let us talk about the little… surprise Dhalis dropped on me today," Levi demands, his voice laced with barely contained fury. The very notion of Dhalis' "surprise" leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Surprise? More like a thinly veiled threat masquerading as bureaucratic hell.

"Levi," Erwin begins, his voice even and steady, a stark contrast to the raw emotions swirling around the Captain. "About the Ackerman proposition," he inquires, his tone more curious than accusatory. "Yes, I was aware of it. In fact," he continues with a wry smile, "I spent the weeks leading up to this meeting locked in a rather tedious exchange of letters with Dhalis, arguing the finer points until I thought my head might explode."

Erwin lets out a sigh that sounds like the air escaping a punctured Titan tire. He leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically block out the sheer absurdity of the situation. The image paints a clear picture: Erwin, the brilliant strategist, forced to waste his time arguing with Dhalis, the buffoonish general, over a ludicrous proposition.

"Dhalis," Erwin mutters, the word dripping with contempt, "would clutch at any straw to keep the Survey Corps on a leash. Any leverage, no matter how ludicrous, seems fair game in his twisted little power grab."

"And that straw," Levi counters, his voice laced with enough bitterness to curdle milk, "happens to be my… reproductive system?"

The very concept is so absurd it takes Levi a moment to process it, and even then, the words come out sounding like he is choking on gravel. The image of him, humanity's strongest soldier reduced to glorified diaper duty, is enough to make him want to disinfect his brain with industrial grade disinfectant.

Erwin's sigh morphs into a long, weary groan that speaks volumes about the weight of his command. The man looks ten years older after his little meeting with Dhalis.

"Believe me, Levi," he says, his voice heavy with a sincerity that almost sounds genuine, "let me assure you, the last thing I want is to see you reduced to some stud for the military's benefit. And the thought of your hypothetical offspring being mere pawns in this twisted game? Frankly, it revolts me." he continues, leaning forward and locking eyes with Levi, "The Survey Corps, would never stand for such a blatant violation of your autonomy. We fight for humanity's freedom, not to become some twisted eugenics project. Besides" he adds, "the whole proposition is ridiculous on a practical level. Imagine the logistics involved! The paperwork alone would be a nightmare."

Levi's eyes narrow into slits, skepticism radiating off him like heat waves. "So why do you not shut this whole charade down, Commander Erwin?" he challenges. "Is that not your job, Commander? Making the tough calls, navigating the political labyrinth, and steering this damn ship through the storm? Or are you content to just shuffle paperwork while they dangle my balls over a fire?"

Erwin meets Levi's gaze head on, his blue eyes unwavering. "In an ideal world, Levi," he says, his voice firm, "of course I would put a stop to this nonsense. But the reality is far from ideal. Dhalis recognizes our potential, the potential of the Survey Corps, and he craves control. He wants to leash us, turn us into his own personal attack dogs."

Levi scoffs, a harsh rasp that echoes in the confines of the office. "Entrap our potential? You make it sound like some noble pursuit. They want a goddamn weapon, Erwin. An army of genetically modified super soldiers, all stamped with the convenient 'Ackerman' brand name."

The image that pops into his head again - miniature, murderous Levi Ackermans tearing through the streets - is both horrifying and oddly adorable.

Erwin shakes his head resolutely. "No, Levi. That is not what I want. And," he continues, his voice dropping, "I assure you, I will not allow them to use your children, or any potential offspring for that matter, as pawns in their twisted game."

A flicker of doubt dances in Levi's eyes, battling with the anger that still simmers beneath the surface. "What makes you think you have any say in the matter?" I ask, his voice laced with a challenge.

Erwin may be the Commander, but that does not mean he has complete control over Levi or his … superior reproductive capabilities.

"Levi," Erwin leans forward, his voice laced with a seriousness that brooks no argument, "let me get one thing perfectly clear. You, Levi Ackerman, are an indispensable asset to the Survey Corps. Perhaps our most indispensable, if I am being honest. Your skills, your unwavering dedication to purging the Titans from this world – these are qualities that cannot be easily replicated. We need you on the front lines, your blades flashing like a storm as you cut a bloody swathe through those grotesque monstrosities. The thought of you being relegated to some… government sanctioned breeding program," he lets out a snort of derision, "is frankly ludicrous." He fixes Levi with a steady gaze. "However," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we need a concession, Levi. Dhalis, that pompous windbag, requires a certain… optics play to secure approval for the operation we have been discussing. The idea of a potential Ackerman bloodline legacy, a new generation of Titan-slaying prodigies – it is a narrative they find palatable. So, yes," he acknowledges with a sigh, "fathering children may be a technical requirement to appease the bean counters. But there is the thing, Levi," he places a hand on the Captain's shoulder, his voice firm but friendly, "those children, your children, will not become pawns in this game. Their future is their own. The Survey Corps will ensure their safety and well being, but any choices they make, any paths they choose to walk, will be theirs alone. This is a necessary deception, Levi, a strategic maneuver to secure the resources we desperately need to achieve our true objective: to eradicate the Titans once and for all. We need you on the battlefield, Levi, and I assure you, I will fight tooth and nail to ensure your freedom and that of your future progeny. We are in this together, Captain. Now, let us go carve a bloody path through those Titan hordes and show the world what humanity is truly capable of." Erwin leans back in his chair, a determined glint in his eyes.

Levi's gaze drifts to the map plastered on the wall, a tangled web of humanity's despair. Walls that confines them, Titans that devour them – it is a suffocating cage. The weight of the situation, the impossible choices Erwin faces, presses down on Levi like a physical force.

Erwin may not be the enemy here, but he is certainly not the one calling all the shots.

"Alright, Levi," Erwin begins, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, "let's dissect this whole charade, shall we? Dhalis, bless his ambitious heart, has undoubtedly already identified a woman deemed genetically and physically suitable receptacles for your, ahem, Ackerman seed." He pauses for a moment, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes. "But fear not," he continues, his voice laced with a dash of humor, "I have every confidence that this… candidate will not resemble… farm equipment." Erwin throws his head back and lets out a short, humorless laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "The good General may have a rather… agricultural approach to this whole thing," he adds with a wink, "but rest assured, Levi, I will not subject you to such a crass charade."

Levi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Just keep the wide eyed, hero worshipping brats fresh out of the womb away from me," he retorts. The mere thought of babysitting some hormonal, hero worshipping brat is enough to make him yearn for the sweet embrace of a Titan's maw (Hange would find that amusing, to say the least). At least a Titan would not judge his social skills (or lack thereof).

Erwin throws his head back and lets out a genuine laugh, a full bodied sound that fills the office with an unexpected warmth. "The entire concept of this breeding program is absurd! Ludicrous, even," Erwin exclaims, his voice laced with a frustration that Levi clearly shares. "It is more ludicrous than the idea of a Titan trying to waltz in a tutu."

The mental image that springs to mind - a lumbering, naked Titan clumsily pirouetting in a ballet skirt - is enough to almost make Levi gag.

Levi raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in Levi's icy gaze despite the tense situation. "Ludicrous?" He echoes. "Erwin, we are talking about manipulating human genetics here. This is not some barnyard breeding experiment gone wrong. These buffoons are talking about creating a super soldier factory, and they want me as the star breeding stallion."

"Exactly my point, Levi, think of the logistical nightmare! Compatibility testing, mountains of paperwork, not to mention the potential for some truly… nightmarish sexually transmitted… anomalies." He shudders dramatically, the image clearly repugnant to him. "The whole thing is a bureaucratic minefield waiting to explode in Dhalis's face."

A grimace curls Levi's lip. Erwin's words conjure a mental image of some grotesque, Titan sized sexually transmitted diseases that will make even the most hardened Wall cultist reconsider their life choices.

"Now that is a horror story I would not want to read," he says.

"Indeed," Erwin agrees, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "Let me introduce you to the candidate selected."

"Now, to the specifics of this… arrangement," Erwin continues, his voice adopting a dryly official tone. "Dhalis has selected a candidate, a young woman named Letta Reader. She is, as of this year, twenty four years of age. Her background includes a stint with the Interior Military Police's Anti Personnel Control Squad." He pauses for a moment, consulting a document in his hand. "However," he adds, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "recent events have cast a shadow over Ms. Reader's otherwise exemplary record. Apparently, she expressed… misplaced loyalty towards a certain Kenny Ackerman, an individual whose activities have been deemed detrimental to public safety." Erwin sighs, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "This lapse in judgment has resulted in her incarceration. The General proposes a… unique solution. If Ms. Reader agrees to participate in this endeavor, to contribute to the continuation of the Ackerman bloodline, as it were, her release from custody can be facilitated, with the full endorsement of the Survey Corps."

He leans forward, his gaze fixed on Levi. "It is important to note, Captain," he continues, "that Ms. Reader hails from Trost District, a region well within Wall Rose. She chose to dedicate herself to serving humanity by joining the military, and her record, prior to this unfortunate entanglement, was indeed unblemished. Furthermore," he adds, a hint of intrigue flickering in his eyes, "her ingenuity extends beyond the battlefield. Ms. Reader is credited with the design of the Anti-Personnel Vertical Maneuvering Gear, a significant contribution to the Military Police's arsenal." He steeples his fingers, his expression thoughtful. "Letta Reader, Captain, is a complex individual. A woman of unquestionable talent, but one whose judgment has been demonstrably flawed." Erwin sits back in his chair, leaving the weight of this unexpected information to settle upon Levi. The fate of a woman, the potential future of the Ackerman bloodline, all hinged on Levi's next move.

Kenny. The name explodes in Levi's head, a grenade lobbed into the fragile peace. Supporting Kenny Ackerman? Stupid girl. They are using you as a leverage, dangling you freedom in front of you. Carry Levi's child, support the Survey Corps, and maybe, just maybe, you walk free. Erwin continues, his voice monotone as he reads from the file, a litany of facts that blur together in Levi's anger. Trost born, military history, even designed the new ODM gear.

Levi's face remains an impassive mask, but a flicker of fury dances in his icy blue eyes. He keeps his voice low, controlled, but the anger is palpable. "What makes you think I'd even consider breeding with a criminal branded by Kenny's actions? This entire thing reeks of Dhalis' amusement, does it not?"

Erwin lets out a sigh, a weary sound that speaks volumes. "Amusement? For Dhalis, it is more than that. You know how twisted his mind is."

Levi clenches his fists, his jaw set tight. "Kenny is s still alive," he mutters, more to himself than to Erwin. "Out there somewhere…"

Erwin steeples his fingers and leans forward, consulting the document in his hand. "Now, Levi," he begins, his voice adopting a more neutral tone, "it appears there is more to Ms. Reader's profile. According to her records, she graduated with distinction from the 95th Cadet Corps, achieving the esteemed honor of ranking top of her class. Her instructors noted a tendency towards introversion and a reserved demeanor, with a social circle on the smaller side." He pauses for a moment, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze. "They further describe her as a staunch adherent to regulations, a 'by the book' individual who takes her duties with utmost seriousness. However," he continues, "these observations are counterbalanced by exceptional physical prowess. Her trainers consistently lauded her remarkable speed and fast reflexes. While raw strength may not be her most pronounced attribute," he acknowledges, "she possesses great level of stamina, allowing her to sustain peak performance during extended engagements. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Ms. Reader's profile," he continues, his voice dropping to a murmur, "is a certain… philosophical detachment. Her instructors noted a distinct apathy towards life and a somewhat unsettling acceptance of the ever present threat of death. This, coupled with her relentless pursuit of objectives, keen observational skills, and unwavering focus, are also nited." He takes a deep breath, his gaze meeting Levi's with unwavering intensity. "However," he adds, his voice hardening slightly, "the report also mentions a certain… inflated sense of self worth. While not overtly arrogant, Ms. Reader appears to possess a healthy dose of pride, perhaps even bordering on egotism. This, Captain, is a trait that may require careful management." A wry smile tugs at the corner of Erwin's lips as he continues, his voice regaining its formal tone. "The report concludes with a rather… unexpected observation. While Ms. Reader presents a demure and innocent facade, it appears her instructors harbored suspicions of a more… unconventional private life. Apparently, rumors circulated amongst her peers regarding a surprising number of casual sexual encounters. These suspicions, however, remain unsubstantiated." He leans back in his chair, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Levi lets out a frustrated groan, his arm rising to shield his eyes as he leans back in the chair. "That last bit of information was entirely unnecessary," he mutters, the irritation evident in his voice. The woman's sexual history is the least of his concerns. The idea of being reduced to a mere breeding stallion, especially with a woman seemingly chosen for her 'reproductive capabilities', is enough to make him clench his fists in silent fury.

Erwin flips open a file, revealing a stark portrait. Charcoal against faded paper, it captures a woman Levi does recognize. Her features are fine, delicate even, but her eyes hold a story the sketch can not quite tell.

Short, dark hair frames a face devoid of the hero worship he expected. No doe eyed wonder, no simpering smile. Instead, a quiet resignation stares back at him, a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like… despair.

Levi studies the portrait. This woman is not what he pictured. None of this is. No wide eyed cadets, no government sanctioned brood mares.

Just this quiet woman, a portrait of quiet indifference that edges dangerously close to… despair.

"This is her?" He finally manages, hua voice low and even.

"Indeed, Captain," Erwin replies. "Meet Letta Reader."

More like meet your… procreation partner, courtesy of Dhalis' twisted machinations.

Levi's gaze remains fixed on the portrait, dissecting her features line by line. Soft cheeks contrasted by a defined jawline, a hint of defiance beneath the resignation. There is an undeniable beauty there, a quiet strength that seems at odds with the defeat in her eyes.

The thought of being strong armed into this… procreative charade with her leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A branded criminal, no less. Especially when the whole charade seems orchestrated by the ever manipulative Dhalis. This feels like a cage, another way to leash him and control the strongest soldier humanity has.

But a different kind of cage. This one does not feel like bars and locks, but like obligations and expectations.

A different kind of burden, but a burden nonetheless.

Maybe Dhalis is not the only one playing games here. Erwin, with his secrets and desperation – is he the warden of this particular cage, or another prisoner himself?

"You'll be meeting with this… (F/N) (L/N) tomorrow," Erwin announces, flipping the file shut. "Dhalis will be there, of course, along with Pixis, Dawk, and myself. I'll also inform Hange, if you have no objections."

Levi scoffs, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "A meeting? This whole charade just keeps getting more bizarre with each passing minute. Are we expected to discuss baby names and nursery decor in front of a room full of overstuffed, lecherous swine?"

"The meeting is crucial," Erwin explains, a hint of exasperation tinging his voice. "You and (F/N) will have the opportunity to discuss boundaries, parental rights, and expectations. There will also be a contract to sign, outlining the terms of this… arrangement."

Clearly, the fate of humanity hinges on Levi's ability to… procreate according to a government sanctioned contract.

Contract. The word hangs heavy in the air, a physical manifestation of the absurdity of the situation. Being issued an official order to impregnate a woman feels like a new low, even for the Survey Corps.

The whole notion is barbaric, a far cry from the strategic brilliance and deadly maneuvers Levi is accustomed to employing.

Levi's whole life, his entire being, has been poured into this damn Survey Corps.

Even after Farlan and Isabel, even after that gaping wound in his soul, he kept pushing forward.

Grief, a relentless tide, he channeled it all into this fight, this desperate struggle for humanity's survival. Erwin, the embodiment of that fight, became his guiding star.

Backing down now, kowtowing to these bureaucratic leeches, would be the ultimate betrayal. A slap in the face to every fallen comrade who entrusted Levi with their sacrifice, their shredded dreams woven into the fabric of this cause.

This… breeding program. A sickening joke, a perversion of everything he stands for. But the alternative? Letting Erwin down, letting the ghosts of his squad haunt the halls with their unfulfilled futures – that is a path he refuses to walk.

This is just another indignity, another hurdle to clear, another grotesque Titan to slay. Fine.

This is about more than him. This is about honoring the fallen, their sacrifices a flickering torch he holds aloft in this suffocating world. They died believing in a dream, a dream he refuses to let die with them. So he will clench my teeth, swallow his disgust, and play this hand they have dealt him.

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