#does not excuse him from the implications of his political leanings

[smthscoming]

not directing this at anyone in particular but lest we all forget... kim kitsuragi IS a cop and a centrist and acab DOES apply to him

he can be your uwu gay bby that's fine but he does make it clear he's chosen pragmatic moralism. so just like... think about that perhaps.

[bitebitekxll]

Kinktober ‘24 || Day 5

NSFW || MDNI

shotgunning | breeding | knifeplay

Kaeya x gender neutral! Knight!reader

Notes: This prompt list is actually the reason I now know what shotgunning is, and I thought I’d give it a go. I’ve never actually smoked, so if it’s inaccurate— blame it on teyvat being weird that’s the excuse we’re using. Also I wasn’t actually trying to make this match any real world drug, it is literally some random non-existent herb that is used as a plot device.

CW: recreational drug use (well, mentions of it being medical? Potentially? But mostly recreational), smoking, implications of being high, breathing in smoke from another person’s mouth (which is what shotgunning is).

w. 1888 (this is a long boi)

Masterlist . Kink list

It was always peaceful being in headquarters after hours. Of course, you didn’t ever intend to work overtime, but the soothing atmosphere of halls without a soul around— apart from the guards at their stations, of course —was a nice consolation. Walking out of your office, you were ready to finally get back home. You had no pressing work to attend to the next morning, meaning had the chance to lie in after your late night.

Except… you noticed one of the doors you passed was open: The Calvary Captain’s office. The light was off inside but the movement you caught through the crack in the door made you pause.

You spotted Kaeya, leaning against the wall behind his desk right next to the cracked open window. There was an odd sense of ease about him that wasn’t usually there, like the carefully constructed personality he always held had been stripped back, revealing something more natural.

He also looked to be… smoking something?

“It’s not polite to stare, you know.”

The smooth voice snapped you from your thoughts. Kaeya didn’t glance back at you, gaze still trained on the view outside, but tension creeped back into his shoulders. You only noticed it because of how deeply you observed him, driven by fascination or admiration— you couldn’t tell which.

Considering he hadn’t told you to fuck off, you figured it was safe to slip into the office, shutting the door behind you. “Captain,” you greeted.

He laughed, a chuckle too even and perfect to be entirely genuine. “Oh come now, we’re both off the clock. There’s no need for formalities…” Finally his gaze turned to you, even as he kept his face angled away. Taking another drag or whatever was between his fingers, he softly exhaled out the window. Smoke curled over the edge of his lips, dancing up into the cool night air. Unlike regular fire smoke, this smelled floral with perhaps a dash of mint. Astute as ever, he picked up your curiosity right away. “This is a blend of herbs from Liyue,” he explained. “Albedo has been experimenting with them and found they contain possible medicinal properties.”

“…when smoked?” You asked.

Kaeya smirked, the joint between his lips as he replied, “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” There was a lull in the conversation, but it didn’t feel awkward. “Why are you here so late, anyways?”

“Was finishing off a report.” You shrugged, leaving out the fact that it only took so long because you fell asleep halfway through. “Figured I’d get it done tonight so I can enjoy my day off tomorrow. What about you?”

“It’s peaceful…” The smile that graced his lips was smaller and softer than the usual cheshire grins he sported. And along with being smaller, it also looked… vaguely sad. “…being in headquarters after hours.” It seemed like this wasn’t the first time he had stayed back like this. You couldn’t help but wonder if he truly preferred staying here, or if he was just reluctant to go home. But you knew trying to pry would only ruin whatever connection you had built with him. Moving forward, you rested your hip against the edge of his desk, watching the moon highlight his silhouette as he stood before the window.

“What does that taste like?” You changed the subject to something less sensitive, nodding at the joint in question.

Pursing his lips in thought, he twirled the * from one slender finger to another. “It’s hard to explain… Care to try for yourself?” Raising an eyebrow, he handed it to you.

You hesitated. There didn’t look like there was much left. But, then again, you didn’t dare disrupt the mood that had fallen over the two of you. It felt almost… intimate— being allowed to glimpse something more personal of the Cavalry Captain when he could have instead politely dismissed you. Taking it from his hand, you glanced up at him.

“Did this help you with anything?” You asked. Then, awkwardly, you added, “Medically.”

He hummed, considering. “It seemed to help with a headache I had earlier,” he admitted. “There’s something quite soothing about it. I can’t tell if it’s the work of the herb or simply the action itself.”

He did look more peaceful than you had ever seen him. It was as if an underlying tension you had never even noticed in his frame was finally released. You felt bad to deprive him of the last of it. In fact, a small, daring part of you had a terrible idea to resolve that issue…

No. No, that would be a bad idea. This wasn’t some random man at Angel’s Share who you could get closer to under the excuse of having one too many drinks. This was the Cavalry Captain, who may not have been your superior— you weren’t in the cavalry, after all— but was still a superior as you certainly weren’t any kind of captain. So, to avoid acting on the very inappropriate thought bouncing around your head, you placed the joint between your lips and breathed in.

You expected to choke or maybe just feel an unpleasant burn as you usually did with the second hand smoke you had smelled. But it seemed, whatever herb Albedo had procured produced fumes that were light, like mist or the crisp morning air. The taste was faint, but sweet, and slightly floral.

Taking a step closer, Kaeya asked, “How is it?” After holding in the smoke, enjoying the pleasant buzz, you exhaled in order to reply. Turning your gaze back to him, you realised his own was trained on your lips.

You couldn’t even pretend it was the smoke he was looking at; his stare remained even after the plume dispersed into the air of the room. This close you could see his eye more clearly than ever, a deep blue that mirrored the night sky behind him. It even had its own star: a gorgeous pupil with points like a diamond. Though, the edges were less sharp than usual as it had blown wide, and you didn’t think it was simply the darkness of the room causing that reaction.

That same, terrible idea began to rear its head, sounding much less terrible than before. Before you could lose your nerve, before the moment could pass, you said, “We could share.”

Kaeya’s brows furrowed, a bemused smile playing on his lips, as he leaned in even closer. Taking another drag of the joint, you barely even let it sit in your lungs before gently blowing the smoke into his face, letting him breathe it in. His lashes fluttered as he drifted closer, like there was some force pulling him in. Then, his hand came up to cradle your face. Nimble fingers curled around the edge of your jaw and you held back a shudder; for a cryo user his touch was deliciously warm.

You couldn’t help but lick your lips, a reaction to your throat going dry more than anything, but it seemed to push Kaeya to close the distance between you entirely. His lips moved against yours with a gentle ferocity— not rough or demanding but desperate all the same. Your bodies came together and the two of you twisted, losing track of your surroundings for a moment. Then, gravity pulled you down and Kaeya was slumped over his desk with his elbows propping him up, your own body above him after just barely catching your balance.

That didn’t stop either of you, however. Without ever breaking apart from him, from the soft slide of his lips and the strong grip on your hips, you grabbed his plush thighs and lifted. You used the leverage to slide him further up on the surface, adjusting to hover over him with one knee on the edge of the desk.

Gripped by another delicious idea, this time with no reservations to hold back, you pulled back just enough to take one last drag of the joint, while there was still any left of it. Then, before Kaeya could do anything more than open his mouth to complain at you pulling away, you sealed your open mouth to his and breathed out.

Smoke billowed out from the seam where your lips met, and he let out a high keen as his eyes rolled back. His hands moved up your back, arms circling to tug you flush against him and your own found themselves planted on either side of his head. You couldn’t tell if it was the lack of air or way his tongue rubbed against the underside of yours, but your head was spinning. Maybe you were high— could this thing even get you high? You still didn’t know exactly what was in it, but the fucking Calvary Captain himself was kissing you and letting out the sweetest sounding little moans so who cared?

The silky strands of his hair brushed against your face, more and more coming loose as your hand— and when did that get there? —held his head.

Kaeya’s honey-smooth voice came out in a broken chain of noises, arching his back so he could press up against you. You sunk your teeth into his plush bottom lip before realising the burning in your lungs wasn’t just from the smoke.

As you pulled back for air you saw the last of the smoke leaving his lungs. The plumes curled out from his lips and into the air, before being disrupted by his own panting as he tried to catch his breath. You gave him the chance to while you turned your attention to his neck, peppering kisses down the expanse of his throat.

“Mm~ Please,” he murmured, sounding completely gone— drunk off of lust and perhaps Albedo’s mystery drug.

You bruised his pretty skin, leaving teeth marks in your wake, until you realised what was left of the joint was still burning. It had been reduced to a small nub of paper between your fingers. Kaeya followed your gaze and his eyes lit.

“Let me,” he purred, fingers wrapping around your wrist and gently guiding your hand close to his mouth. In one graceful, sinful move, he pressed the lit end of the joint to his tongue, putting it out with a quiet hiss. The flash of cryo around the stub explained how he hadn’t flinched. Your eyes were locked onto it, heat pooling in your stomach as he took the paper roll between his teeth and pulled it from you, tossing it to the side with a snap of his head. Then, he tugged your arm closer and licked a stripe up your forearm, peering up at you through his long lashes with a molten gaze.

Fuck, he knew exactly what he was doing. It made your blood burn, and you would’ve pounced on him again if he hadn’t continued speaking.

“You know, my office isn’t exactly the most… well-equipped,” he admitted. “But I can think of somewhere else we would be more comfortable.”

You couldn’t help but grin at his offer, marvelling at the disheveled state of his attire: jacket slipping down his shoulders, hair coming loose from his ponytail, the fabric of his trousers straining against his—

“Then by all means,” you replied with a grin.

Thank Barbatos you didn’t have to go into work tomorrow.

[wildechildwrites]

Bodice Ripper

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: 18+, noncon, kidnapping, violence, oral, masturbation

No use of Y/N

Summary: You, the princess of an unnamed kingdom, are attending a masquerade ball. You get kidnapped by a man in a skull mask with unclear intentions.

A/N: I got too caught up into the nuances of political kidnappings which is crazy because I really just wanted to write some bodice ripping smut but the social implications of being ravished were too detrimental to your fake life that I couldn't commit to it fully

AO3 Link: Bodice Ripper

18+

The gown you’re wearing is decadent, layers of pearlescent pink silk flowing around you, your shoulders bare, your waist tightly cinched. You’re wearing your mother’s best diamonds, glinting prettily in the hollow of your throat. The mask obscuring your face matches your dress, delicately resting on your nose bridge. 

The ballroom around you is lush with wealth, thousands of candles illuminating the space, rich tapestries covering the walls. Couples spin in the center of the room, and laughter fills the space. The masquerade is the event of the season, everyone decked out in finery. The prince is here, somewhere amongst the masked guests, and you’re determined to find him. Your country is small, but powerful, and there have been whispers of an engagement, an advantageous love match between you and the young dauphin. You survey the scene, looking for a familiar figure.

The man who catches your attention is massive, wrapped in a black burial shroud. His face is entirely obscured by a skull mask, the very visage of death. It's a horrible costume, brutal in a way that makes it striking, sticking out from the soft splendor of the rest of the crowd. He’s standing completely still, a harsh juxtaposition from the revelers milling about, and his eyes are unmistakably fixed upon you. A chill runs down your spine, and fear makes you turn away from his cold gaze.

A young man approaches you and asks for a dance, and you quickly recognize him as one of the sons of a duke your father often goes hunting with. He’s a fine enough dancer, despite his clammy hands, and you allow him to twirl you about, temporarily forgetting your unease. Your eyes catch on another man, tall and slender, dressed in velvety royal purple, and smile to yourself. The prince certainly hasn’t made the sport a difficult one. You detach yourself from your partner, politely making your excuses.

When you cross paths with the prince, you let your fan slip out of your hand. He smiles brightly at you, before leaning down to pick it up. His mask does little to hide his handsome face.

“You dropped this, madam.” He says, returning your fan to you with a gallant, slightly pompous, bow. When you reach for it, he captures your gloved hand in his, softly bringing it to his lips. 

“Thank you, your highness,” you say, dropping your eyes and curtseying appropriately.

“I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” he responds, his voice playful. “But if you’ll do me the honor of dancing with me, I will attempt to behave as princely as I am capable.” 

You’d be a fool to think you’ve captured his full attention, and you ignore the way your dance partner's eyes stray hungrily away from yours. You know what’s expected of you, what is expected of him. True fealty from the future king is an unachievable goal, one you have no interest in. This is what you’re meant for, the duty that has been hammered in since you were a child. Resources and connections for your father’s kingdom, the admiration and envy of the court. The prince talks about his own accomplishments, the hunting he’s done recently and his skills with a blade. Your eyes flit almost unconsciously around the room while he speaks, looking for the terrifying specter from earlier, but the man that had frightened you is nowhere to be seen. You let yourself unwind, getting lost in the music and the prince’s eyes.  

You dance a few waltzes before the prince excuses himself. “I promised I’d play cards with the duke,” he says, his eyes following an earl’s daughter across the room. You curtsey sweetly, murmuring the appropriate tittering phrases, and you two part ways. The room is warm, and you head towards the balcony, desperately in need of some fresh air and solitude.

Outside, the terrace is deserted, and you’re grateful for the momentary peace. Music filters through the open doors, the sound of conversation muted to a dull hum. You sigh quietly. The gardens beyond are dark, but the moon is shining brightly. You stare up at the stars, picking out constellations. A branch snaps, just out of sight, and you stiffen, peering into the dark. 

“Is there someone there?” You call. 

The only response is the quiet chirping of crickets. 

You’re uneasy, hairs standing on end. Turning back, you yearn for the crowded safety of the ballroom.

The man in the skull mask stands between you and the french doors, and you let out a gasp. You grapple for your manners, trying to regain control of the situation.

“I–I apologize, sir, you startled me.” You say. The stranger makes no answer, taking a step closer to you. You step back. He takes another step. His eyes are cold, locked on yours as he advances. 

“You’re behaving most uncouthly.” Your tone is demeaning, but it makes no difference, not seeming to register as the man takes another step, closing in on you.

“You can’t– You’re not supposed to–” your composure cracks, adrenaline coursing through your veins. He reaches for you, and you evade his grasp, whirling around to run into the gardens. 

You hike your skirts up, uncaring of modesty, sprinting as fast you can through the darkness. Branches scrape at your skin as you dodge around them, trying to put distance between you and your pursuer. You hear him behind you, loud footfalls drawing closer and closer. Lungs burning, you desperately try to breathe around your tightly laced corset. There’s a hedge maze on the grounds, and if you could just get away from him–

You yelp when he lunges for you, tackling you roughly into the dirt. Your gloves rip, your palms and elbows aching from the impact, but you struggle against the weight on your back. You throw your head back hard, smashing the back of your skull into his nose, and are rewarded by a string of oaths, half of which you've never heard before, falling from the stranger’s mouth. His large, thick fingers wrap around your throat, pinning you in place. 

“Stay still,” the man snarls. He’s breathing heavily, voice raspy. His accent is thick and distinctively english. 

Something hard is pressed into your back, and you fearfully wonder if the man is armed. When he grinds his hips against yours,  a cold trickle of realization hits you. Your parents had kept you largely in the dark about what happens between men and women, but you had heard the whispered stories of the servants, the tittering of married friends. Horror stories about highway men and rapers. Your maidenhead is the only thing of any real value that you have, and you renew your struggles even as he keeps you pinned. 

“Get off of me!” You shriek, and the man freezes, as though caught off guard, before pushing himself off of you. He lets out a string of curses, before grabbing your arms and roughly pulling you up. 

He reaches up and pulls the mask off your face, drinking in your features hungrily. You stare at each other for a heartbeat.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, trembling. Your words seem to reset him, and he straightens up, towering over you. He’s massive, broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight, his costume sending a chill down your spine.

“It's not what I want from you, princess. It's what I want from your father. What you’re going to help me get from him.” he replies coldly. “The people are starving. Not that you’d even notice, hm?” He’s hurting you, his grip almost crushing, shaking you as he speaks. “Your father and that bastard of a prince don’t care about the common folk’s struggles.” 

“What exactly do you expect me to do about it?” you hiss, speaking before you have the sense to stop yourself, irritation rising. The man’s expression is impossible to read with the mask, but you think you’ve shocked him. “I have no claim, no real power. I do what I can, I feed the poor and donate to the church, but I do not write laws. I cannot influence my father’s decisions nor the prince’s.”

“You’re standing here, neck dripping with diamonds, telling me you’re powerless?” 

The aggravation in his voice scares you, but you forge on through gritted teeth. “I am merely a bauble and a future broodmare. You’d have better luck kidnapping one of my brothers. My father may not even condescend to pay whatever ransom you’ll demand, but you obviously didn’t plan this out quite well.” Your tone is frosty, haughty despite your terror.

He slaps you, hard, and you gasp in shock, tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me, princess.” He snarls. “Whether it’s money or your pretty little head on a spike, I’ll get what I want.” 

He pulls coarse rope from his cloak, binding your hands tightly, cutting into your delicate wrists. He heads into the darkness, dragging you behind him. You stumble in your heels, and he lets out an irritated sound before wordlessly throwing you over his shoulder. It’s as if you weigh nothing, and your face feels hot when his large hand presses against the back of your thighs, holding you steady. You can feel the warmth of him through the layers of fabric. You’re hyper aware of the indecency of it, your skin tingling.

The path isn’t lit, but his footsteps are confident. A horse snorts softly in the dark before the man suddenly puts you down, grabbing your bicep roughly. 

“Don’t move,” he says, his voice ice cold. You nod, too frightened to speak. The horse in front of you is beautiful, stormy gray and massive. He lets go of your arm and reaches into his cloak, procuring an apple. He offers it to the animal, whispering softly as he feeds it, petting its nose gently. You take a step back, trying to be subtle, and his head whips around. 

The man boosts you onto the horse, throwing himself on after you. You’re pressed against his chest, back flush against the hard planes of muscle as he urges the horse on, setting a quick pace. 

The horse is bigger than your own, stretching your legs uncomfortably wide, and you shift, quickly getting sore. Whatever is in his pocket is prodding into your lower back, and you wiggle your hips, trying to make yourself more comfortable with the limited space you have, when the man lets out a low noise in the back of his throat, a firm hand grabbing your waist.

“Quit squirmin’,” He grounds out. His voice sounds oddly strained, and you cease your movements immediately. You ride in silence for a few more moments. 

The path you're taking is unfamiliar, and curiosity wins over your reason.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask.

The man ignores you. Time passes, and you peer into the darkness, trying to spot any landmarks. Hopefully your absence has been noticed by your guards by now, and there are people looking for you. The night is cold, your arms covered in gooseflesh as you begin to shiver. Your captor wordlessly pulls you closer to his chest, wrapping the cloak he wears around your bare arms. You murmur a thank you automatically, and his grip on you tightens slightly.

“What's your name?” You ask softly. 

“It's Ghost,” the man replies after a moment. You feel a spike of irritation. 

“What’s your real name?” you ask, your tone slightly petulant.

“Why do you want it so bad, hm? Going to set your betrothed on me? If he’s not too busy whoremongering, maybe he’ll chop off my head.” His tone is mocking. “You’ll call me what I tell you to call me.” 

 You ride until dawn is breaking over the hill, coming upon a barn in the middle of a field. The surrounding countryside is unfamiliar, and you haven't seen any other houses or buildings for miles. You're exhausted and sore, body aching and stomach rumbling. Ghost stops short of the barn door, dismounting before pulling you into his arms in one fluid motion. You don’t resist as he carries you into the barn and places you with surprising gentleness on a pile of soft hay.

“I need to go feed and water the horse.” His voice is stern, a cruel bite to it that chills you. “There’s no one around us for miles. You've run from me once before and I caught you, if I have to chase you again I will punish you.” 

You stare up at him, trembling uncontrollably. There’s a beat of silence. He sighs, an almost wistful noise, before wordlessly leaving the barn. 

Your body is failing, the long horse ride and constant terror leaving you drained. You fight against unconsciousness, worried about what Ghost may do, but the hay is soft and sweet smelling, the barn warmer than the chill of the night.

Ghost finds you curled up on the hay, head cradled in your arms. He watches the soft movement of your breath pensively. The soft skin of your wrists is rubbed raw, angry beneath the ropes still holding them together. There’s a bruise forming on your cheek, and he’s sure that you’ve got more bruises hidden under your dress.

The concept had seemed so noble when the revolutionaries who hired him planned it. Distribute the ransom money amongst the poor, remind the monarchy of their own vulnerability. Standing in the dim light of the barn, confronted with a frightened girl and his own brutality, Ghost doesn’t feel noble. 

The desire that has been mounting since he had chased you down doesn't feel very noble either. 

Less of a man and more of a monster, he removes his mask and lowers himself on the hay beside you.

When you wake, you're laying on Ghost’s chest, hand curled in the tunic he wears. Your wrists are no longer tied, and he’s no longer wearing that horrible mask. Your face gets hot. He’s handsome but rough looking, light scars scattered across his face. There’s a smudge of dried blood under his crooked nose from when you headbutted him last night. You attempt to untangle yourself from him as gently as you can, scared of waking him. In response, his brow furrows, arms tightening around you unconsciously. You freeze and lie still, watching the shadows on the wall change as the sun rises, his heartbeat steady in your ear.

You can tell when Ghost finally wakes by the way his breathing changes. He pushes you off of him gently, and you feign sleep, listening to him move about. When the door of the barn creeps open and shut, you sit up and look around. It had been too dark before, but now you look around for any exits. There’s a loft, and you wonder if you could reach it before Ghost gets back. 

The mental image of him dragging you down after you’ve climbed up makes you reconsider the idea. 

You wonder if he can be bargained with. You knew how to play the game with men, how to simper and say the things they wanted to hear, and the game was much easier when they were attracted to you. You remember the way Ghost looked at you when he first ripped off your mask and heat rushes to your face as you begin to strategize.

When Ghost comes back inside, you’re standing, hands clasped behind your back and posture straight. You look more like you did when he first saw you, confident and blooming in the low light of the ballroom. The dirt on your face and gown do little to detract from your regal nature, and your eyes meet his without the fear from last night.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, your voice clear and almost musical. 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze trailing down your figure, and you bite your lip, pushing down your trepidation and stepping towards him. The surprise in his expression is poorly masked, and he tilts his head, an unspoken question.

“I’m being paid a large amount of money to bring you to a revolutionists group.” He says frankly. He’s stalking closer to you, soft and slow, like a fox after a hare. You resist the urge to step back.

“Please Ghost,” you respond, eyes wide, letting your bottom lip tremble, “My father can pay more than what they’re offering. Whatever you ask, I will write a letter demanding it, and we can have a courier from the nearest town take it to the palace immediately.”

You close the gap between the two of you, gently reaching out and placing a hand on his chest, tilting your chin to look him in the eye. Your expression is soft and pleading, and you resist a shudder at the odd, predatory look quickly forming in his eyes. One of his hands shoots out, grabbing your wrist, keeping you trapped against him. 

“Are you trying to negotiate with me?” Ghost murmurs. The intense look on his face frightens you, and you take an abrupt step back, trying to pull away from his iron grip, realizing your judgment of him had been erroneous far too late. You’d been desired before, exchanged longing looks across ballrooms, swapped love tokens and letters, but no one had ever looked at you with such fierce hunger. 

“I–I’ll tell the king that you rescued me. That you heard my screams and saved me.” You feel the tables quickly turning against you. “I’ll get you whatever you want.”

He laughs, a dissonant sound against the grim set of his features. “What I want,” Ghost leans in, his voice dropping. “Is something I can’t have.” Your chests are nearly pressed together.

 “I have been fighting my baser nature since the moment I saw you.” The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, his voice like velvet. 

“I don't care that you're a princess. I wish you were a shepherd’s daughter, then I'd have snuck you away to the woods to fuck you on the soft ferns while your father tends his flock.” 

No one has ever spoken to you in such a way. Heat fills you unexpectedly, but you rebel against the foreign sensations and growing need, tugging your wrist out of his grip.

“You can’t have me,” you say weakly. Ghost leans down, fisting his hand in your hair. You expect him to kiss you, but he uses his grip on you to pull your head to the side, exposing the smooth column of your throat. His breath is hot against your neck.

“Come now, princess. You expect me to believe that there have been no trysts with stable boys? I’m sure your beloved little prince has stolen a kiss or two. It’ll be our little secret.” His voice is a purr, and he places a delicate kiss right below your ear lobe. You tremble, gasping at the sensation.

 He huffs, amused, before sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin. You let out an indecent mewl, hands rising up to fist the front of the tunic he wears. Ghost pulls back, his eyes sparking with an avian intensity before capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is fierce, want shooting through you as you gasp against his mouth. His tongue sweeps against yours, and you lose yourself in it until you feel his hands wandering, touching your breasts. You struggle against him, tears welling in your eyes as you try to pull away. He pulls you against him harder, grinding his hips against yours. You turn your head to the side, trying to escape his demanding mouth.

“Please don’t,” you cry. “I’ll be ruined.” 

“We wouldn’t want that.” His voice is full of sarcasm, but he cups your face tenderly, wiping the tears from your eyes. “Don’t cry now, dove, I just want a taste. We’ll keep you nice and pure.” 

He picks you up, laying you back onto the straw. You look at him, a pinched expression on your face, and he captures your mouth in another kiss, devouring you. You can feel the burning heat of his body through the layers of your dress. His hands run down your sides, bunching in the fabric of your skirt. He hikes your skirt up, forcing your legs apart, and you know what's coming, bracing for his touch as he mouths along your neck, but his rough hands are still a shock as he pushes your thighs apart. You freeze with anticipation as he lowers himself down your body.

The only warning you get is the feeling of Ghost’s skin brushing against yours before his warm tongue traces a long, relishing lick up your dripping slit, ripping a gasp from you. He buries his face against you, licking deeper, his tongue exploring previously untouched places as you writhe beneath him. The sensations are all so foreign and overwhelming. You fist your hands into his hair, unsure if you want to push him away or pull him closer. 

Ghost is relentless, his hands pinning you down, trapping you as he licks you open, and you let out a wail. An odd sensation is building in your stomach, and you try to escape his insistent mouth, squirming against his hold. His nose is pressed up against the top of your slit, his tongue circling around inside you. A shudder runs all the way through your body, reaching a pitch that has you crying out, bucking against him as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your thighs tremble around his head, and you whine as he continues his ministrations, feeling overstimulated, your head hazy. He finally allows you to push him away when he’s had his fill, leaning backwards. The lower half of his face is soaked, and you blush as he uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.  

Ghost unlaces his breeches, pulling you out of your haze. He’s still got one hand holding you down, and you begin struggling again, fear building.

“No, you can’t—” Ghost leans down and captures your lips with his, interrupting your pleas. He pulls back, gently cupping your face in his hand and shushing you, making soft noises as you struggle against him. 

“I promised princess, I just want to feel you.” You relax slightly, still nervous as he pulls his cock free. It’s huge, the tip leaking and nearly purple. He kisses you again, his mouth rough against yours, and you whimper as he presses himself against you, dragging his cock through your folds, gathering your slick. When the tip catches against your entrance, you let out a gasp. 

He pulls back, his eyes dark. You watch, entranced, as he wraps his hand around himself, pumping his fist slowly up and down, coating his cock with your slick. It’s obscene, and you feel yourself flush at the indecency. Heat rushes down to your core as you watch him stroke his cock.

Ghost’s gaze is burning, eyes flitting between your face and your wet center, drinking up the sight. 

“See what you do to me?” He snarls, picking up speed. He grabs your hip and pulls you closer, flat on your back with your legs spread around him as he fucks his fist, his knuckles brushing against your center. You whimper, and the hand on your hip digs into your skin, hard enough to bruise. 

When he finishes, he says your name like a litany. It echoes in the empty space of the barn, like the clanging of church bells. 

His cum dries on the soft skin of your navel and mound, sticky and uncomfortable. He helps you pull your dress down, and tucks himself back into his breeches. 

Ghost kisses you again, his mouth is softer against yours now, and you kiss back, your inexperienced tongue rasping against his. He pulls away, and the silence between you is heavy. 

“What are you going to do now?” You ask, your voice quiet. His expression is conflicted as he reaches up a large hand to push some stray hair out of your face.

After a long silence, he finally answers you. “I’m taking you home.”

[spiderman2-99]

✨:happy-Gabriella

[06.12.2022, TRN-1042]

“Papa. Papaaaa!”

“Hmrgh.”

“¡Vamos! It’s almost noon!”

“HwuAGH?!”

Miguel blearily opens his eyes and is promptly assaulted with, as promised, the bright mid-day sun. And then is physically assaulted by about 100 pounds of over-excited ten year old girl clambering on his bed to wake him up.

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” he says frantically, voice still rough around the edges from the vestiges of sleep, as he futilely wrestles with his daughter in an effort to stop her from turning him into a shaken-up pop bottle. Christ alive, he feels like it already.

  Only once he harmlessly pins Gabriella down so she’s sprawled on her back, himself half leaning over her, does she finally concede, her face ruddy from laughing. How the shock kids can have this much energy is beyond him.

(Then again, it is noon, and he was out all night. So.)

Miguel leans back up when he’s certain she won’t try any funny business again, slowly, like she’s a particularly ferocious little velociraptor.

“You were snoring again,” she states as she sits up beside him, brushing imaginary dust off her shirt.

Though his brain is still trying to boot up, he manages to scoff in mock indignation. “I do not snore-“

“Uh, yes you do. It’s like- HOOOOOONK- SHUUUUUUUUUU”

“-and I certainly don’t sound like that.”

“Yes you doooo- no, wait, actually, it's louder, like,” she throws herself back on the bed for emphasis, “BWAAAAAAAAAA-“

“Alright, missy, now you’re just exaggerating. I don’t always sound like that.” Even with the faux irritation, he can’t help but huff out a short chuckle.

“Noooo,” she drawls, leaning up on her arms. “you only sound like a chainsaw when you stay up all night.”

Miguel winces. After he’d replaced his alternate, he still kept up the mantle of Spider-Man, even though the other Miguel wasn’t spiderman; and that universe, that New York, wasn’t his to protect. Oh, and it was about 70 years behind his native 928. Old habits die hard, even for the most skilled of usurpers.

"Yeah, I do. I just... had a lot of work," he finally concedes, ruffling her hair, making her squawk.

The amount of times she’d caught him sneaking back late and beaten were too much for his own liking— to writ, only four, but still four too many. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into his shit. Though today wasn’t one of those days, he was still so worn-out that he missed the whole morning with his daughter. He forces a smile, a poor attempt at hiding the complicated feelings stirring in his chest.

"You know how that goes. But don't worry, I’ll make sure to go to bed early tonight. So I wouldn't... y'know. Snore."

She pouts a bit. “You always say that. it's always work and you can't talk about it.”

Ouch.

“You know, if I had a super duper cool secret government job," oh, right, that was the excuse he pulled out of his ass, “everyone would know about it. And I mean everyone.”

"You don't even know what I do for a living," he states, "How do you know it's as cool as you think it is?"

“BecauuuuuuseUH! It’s with the Pentagon! You probably see the President!”

(As far as Miguel is concerned, with the hellhole that this universe’s politics are currently in, he’d rather stick a lit cigarette in his eyeball than meet the President. But that’s neither here nor there.)

“Maybe you stopped World War Three! Maybe you went behind the great firewall of China! Maybe you found the cure for cancer or found aliens and the world will never KNOOOOW,” she continues, throwing her arms out for dramatic flair and flopping back down hard enough to make her whole body bounce.

Miguel had completely bullshat that whole “secret government job” story, and he definitely did not anticipate the amount of implication in it for Gabi to latch onto and try to pick apart. That’s just…

Jesus. Way too much for his sleep-deprived brain.

“Maybe that’s why I’m the one working there and you’re not, princessa. You’d blab to everyone.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. Miguel can’t help but snort in spite of himself. He runs a tired hand over his face and shakes his head.

"The truth isn't as exciting as you think, I'm afraid,” he explains, “I'm like... a glorified paper-pusher, really. I get to read the boring reports and watch security footage all day. Super boring."

“Aw.” She crosses her arms in an exaggerated show of petulance.

“Yeah, ‘aw’,” he murmurs, propping his head up with his hand as he leans on his side. Without really thinking about it, he reaches out to play with the flyaway curls around Gabriella’s forehead.

After a bit of brooding, she glances back up at him. “But are there aliens in the footage?”

"No, honey, there's no aliens," he replies with a dry chuckle. "If I saw something strange on the footage, I would've told you by now."

Finally, Gabriella seems placated with this answer. If there’s anything she inherited from her father, it’s the O’Hara ability to cling onto a subject for ages.

Even if this one isn’t her real father.

“Fiiine. But promise me you’ll be on CNN first thing when it happens,” she says, holding out a pinky.

“When I end up on CNN?" Miguel raises an eyebrow. "You don't think I'm important enough already?”

Her eyes fly open. “I’m just saying-“

She scrambles to sit back up. “None of my friends can say their papa’s on the news! Or that he found aliens!”

"Well... you can tell them I work in a super secret place that I can't ever talk about. That's gotta count for something, right?”

“Yeah, but then they’re like ‘what does he do’ and I can’t even answer it!”

Miguel lets out a sardonic laugh. He should… really work on his lies.

"You don’t need to know what I do,” he chides, keeping his tone light, “it’s boring stuff, anyways. Definitely no meetings with the president or alien ambassadors.”

“Uuuggghhhhhhh.”

“And I should definitely stop letting you watch so much Discovery Channel,” he grumbles, though it lacks heat. Just add that to his list of parenting failures; failing to check if that channel is really age appropriate.

All the obsessive research in the world can’t truly make up for the fact that he barely knows how to be a father. That he’s nothing but a cuckoo in someone else’s nest.

Blessedly, his train of thought is cut short by his daughter’s voice, ever stubborn and ever hopeful. “But what if you do find aliens and you’re on there one day?”

“You’re still on that?!”

“Uh, yeah; I don’t wanna miss when you find aliens! Promise me you’ll tell all about it?”

With a soft sigh, he extends a pinky up for her to hold. She giggles and gives it a little squeeze.

"I promise you’ll be the first to know," he says, with as much conviction as he can manage for this batshit conversation. "And when I'm on TV, I'll tell you 'hi', okay?"

“Okay, papa.” The smile she gives is blinding.

“But right now,” he starts, finally getting up and swinging his legs off the bed (pointedly ignoring the way his body aches from the fights last night) “we need to get you fed.”

“I ate though!”

“What, a donut?”

The silence incriminates her immediately.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. C’mon, let’s get actual food into you.”

Father and daughter, carefree as ever, make a late start to the day, but a good one. Life is good, even if it’s one Miguel had to steal. He has a tiny little brick house in residential Manhattan, he has a beautiful little girl, and the most pressing concerns are making sure he manages to bullshit his way into being a good parent— no multiversal tragedies. Not yet.

Not yet.

[katcadecascade]

If you believe the lies I tell (Snowjanus fic)

Summary: Coriolanus Snow doesn’t scent mark anyone, he doesn’t hand out tokens of his affections. No one can change his mind. Not Tigris’ pleading, not Clemensia’s begging, and not Arachne’s taunting.

Certainly not Sejanus Plinth’s gifts.

(Coriolanus Snow is a horrible omega and Sejanus Plinth is a horrible alpha. They’re a perfect match.)

Ao3

Chapter One: Bread

Word Count: 3,287

“You might be a top student, adorned by the masses, but I think there is one thing you fail at Coriolanus Snow.”

It’s not a surprise that Arachne Crane is openly taunting him. Usually she has more poise than going the direct route.

Here in the Academy’s dining hall, it’s more than their usual circle of classmates that are actively listening. No doubt by the end of the day, this little spat will go through the rumor mill.

Coriolanus has to control this little bug before he’s caught in a web.

Snow lands on top.

It has to.

He’s as collected as ever, giving Clemensia an apologetic smile, “Excuse me Clemensia, I have to go deal with this.”

“None taken, we can talk about our flawless grades later.” Clemensia flows his lead, degrading Arachne with their polite smugness.

“Alright Crane,” he addresses Arachne finally, standing to his full height but that’s too threatening.

He leans back to sit on the table, trying to ignore his half finished lunch.

It’s one thing to taunt a Snow. It’s another to interrupt a starving Coryo.

“Pray tell, what is the one thing I apparently fail at?”

Acclaming wealth.

Owning more than one clean shirt.

Gathering enough food to feed him, his cousin, and his grandmother.

Attaining his family’s former way of living any time soon.

Arachne doesn’t know this, she can’t know this. Yet she would flaunt her status much more than anyone else. Even more than Felix Ravinstill and his presidential nepotism.

The girl puts on a show, there’s a flare up in the air. Each and every one of their classmates gets a noseful of vanilla, fresh pressed and honey coated. Coriolanus wants to puke from the sweetness.

“You fail at being a good, no, a decent omega.”

This honestly catches him off guard. He can’t hide a glare before schooling his face, trying to remain as passive under the smug gaze of his fellow omega. Yet Arachne is watching him, believing she found a weak point.

As if, little spider.

“Arachne, I come to school to study.” He gestures around to their audience, “Not to flaunt around my scent. You might give people the wrong impression.”

He doesn’t bother to whisper, playing a little dirty with such an implication. Arachne doesn’t react angrily but her scent does lessen, no longer attacking his nose.

“Oh nonsense, Coriolanus,” she laughs off, “I’m just being sociable. Besides, my friends love carrying around my scent. I happen to not ever recall you gracing your own with classmates we so dearly grew up with.”

He can’t deny that. Any sort of scent of Coriolanus Snow hasn’t been spread out since they were little and on the playgrounds.

“We all have our preferences,” he begins diplomatically. “You don’t have to make a show out of something so trivial. I’m flattered that you're curious about me, Arachne but please, mind your manners.” This time Coriolanus does lower his voice, leaning down to be at her eye level, “It’s unbecoming of an omega to act so crassly.”

There’s a satisfying twitch in her left eye.

She whispers back, “You would know, Coriolanus Snow.”

The Crane heir backs away, hurries off to another table where her friends mutter to her, no doubt reassuring her that mean Snow totally got unnerved and that she didn’t look like a fool.

That’s not how everyone else will see it though. Coriolanus already sees others in the dining hall gossiping about their little spat.

Cooly, Coriolanus returns to his lunch. He’s got a bite in before acknowledging his companion.

“What is it, Clemensia?” Her hesitance flares up an irritation in his chest. One look of her uncertain frown tells it all. “No, no way. You can't be serious about what Arachne said.”

“Coriolauns,” and he instantly despises how worried she sounds. “We’ve known each other since primary school. You have never given anyone a token with your scent on it.”

She’s implying herself, trying to make him feel guilty over something that friends should do.

Gifting a piece of cloth or an article of clothing that has their scent on it or directly scenting over their glands. It’s a sign of friendship, of close companionship and community. Also the earliest stages of courting but for the most part the intention is platonic. Scent marking as a comfort for the pack.

Traditionally, it is the omega companion to initiation gift giving.

Coriolanus Snow can’t give away the little possessions he has just to prove he has friends. He could not sacrifice any of his clothes or money to please others, he would never. If he doesn’t bother with gifts, then there is no chance he’ll let anyone scent his neck.

“There’s no need to hand out my scent like holiday cards, Clemensia.” He says it slowly, like he’s lecturing a small child and not the person he aces school projects with.

Clemensia presses her lips into a thin line. Not happy with his explanation but she doesn’t fight back.

Good.

He doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s a useless fantasy to dream of.

In an ideal world, the Snows would have a full wardrobe, a well stocked kitchen, pristine furniture and a rose garden always in bloom. Nothing regarding a nest or gifts with scents were ever in Coriolanus’ priorities.

They continue on with their lunch. Clemensia’s wounded attitude remains but Coriolanus refuses to give in. He can repair their partnership with another passing grade. They work well together, he’ll admit that.

Just as the dining hall clears out, right as he’s about to swipe away some food into his school bag, Clemensia is still next to him.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, unknowingly wasting his time to steal food, “I didn’t mean to offend you or be pushy about scenting.”

He tries not to stare at the remaining food. An apple for Tigris and some bread rolls they can use for breakfast.

“Apology accepted Clemensia,” he tries to leave it there, willing her to turn away but she continues.

“Still, I just always wondered why. We all grew up with each other, we’ve seen how everyone’s dynamics presented and know their scents. Scent marking just became natural for us except…”

“Except for me.” Coriolanus didn’t need to force himself to match her sadness. “Clemensia, I just don’t want to be swamped with so many scents. I’m not sorry. Nothing that Arachne says will change my mind.”

He knows not to say ‘nothing that you say will change my mind.’

That’s just too mean, too directly in Clemensia’s feelings. Yet she’s smarter than he gives credit because there is a twang of sadness in her scent. A bitter tea that unnerves Coriolanus’ senses.

“Okay,” she says, “but if you ever need anything, you can tell me.”

This is permission to something Coriolanus won’t ever take her up on. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A genuine smile accepts his empty words, the scent of lavenders are once more fresh.

“Let’s get to class, Coriolanus.”

Clemensia stands up with no intention of taking her food tray to one of the trash bins. They have janitors to clean this all up, after all.

Under her gaze, Coriolanus leaves his food behind and follows suit. He struggles to think of what could be for dinner now. More often than not, he relies on Tigris for their dinners but he can’t always expect her to be lumped with its work.

He has to push those thoughts to the side as he focuses on his classes. Yet once in a while he catches Arachne’s eye.

Was this her intention? Rattle him up with criticism on his dynamic as an academic distraction? It’s so stupid that it cannot be true. This is just his paranoia, his hunger bleeding to his fears. Luckily none of his thoughts are broadcasted into his scent, he will never allow that major of a slip up.

Scent blockers are a requirement just as much as their school uniform. A daily pill that conceals anything surface level. While its effectiveness varies from person to person, it’s all about self control. Not once in his spat with Acrahne did his scent falter or reveal itself. For years he has kept a handle on it. The most integral communicational instincts of everyone and Coriolanus Snow has never partook in that exchange of trust.

Tigris and the Grandma’am are the only ones who’s faced the blunt force of his scent. The Snows were their own pack, in agreement to never let anyone in. They couldn’t afford to.

Yet under Grandma’am’s knowledge and her deteriorating sense of smell, he catches Tigris with tokens. Colorful scarves or shawls that smell of a multitude of friends. He has no idea who they could be. Coriolauns never had the boldness to ask.

Knowing that his alpha cousin scent marked tokens for others made Coriolanus wonder about doing his own. It’s a conflicting idea.

On one hand it’s the norm, exchanging scented gifts strengthens bonds. It all staves off loneliness and invites kinship and intimacy. But the idea of pouring his heart to anyone is terrifying. Coriolanus absolutely refuses the idea of letting anyone lay some sort of mark on him.

He simply can’t so he rejects gifts and never offers a token to anyone else.

It’s for the best.

Yet it happens everyday. A traditional courtship that just became a commonplace occurrence in the modern day. This small and simple thing that sends a wave of envy down with his hunger.

Sometimes the gifts are food.

The rest of the Capitol has it so easy. With enough food and clothing to leisurely give to anyone who catches their eye.

He hates that they all have so much to give but he’ll hate it more if anyone gave him a token. Because it means they want something from Coriolanus Snow.

The moment anyone realizes that he has nothing to give, it’s over.

Coriolanus Snow has to remain as perfect as ever. One of the top students of their year, in the good social graces of his peers or can dominate any smack that Arachne can throw at him. Here at the Academy, no one can know how far the Snows have fallen.

No wealth.

No food.

No one else to rely on.

A blinding envy roots around his cerebral cortex, seeing everything he has ever wanted in every other student he passes. Clemensia Dovecote has her intellect. Urban Canville is a calculus genius. Felix Ravinstill can and will use nepotism by virtue of being related to the president. Even Arachne Crane uses her lavish wealth for her fashion habits.

Worst of all there is Sejanus Plinth. It’s hard to ignore his existence ever since primary school.

The boy from District Two who’s father literally bought their place in the Capitol. Drowning in more money than others, Sejanus still acts like he’s a plain boy in the Districts.

Everyone views him as an outsider. Coriolanus tolerated him better than most. After all, he’s smart enough to not get on the bad side of money, no matter if it came from the Districts or Capitol.

Sejanus may not be the one to start arguments but he certainly finishes them.

It’s the only proof of his alpha nature.

By the time they all began their studies in the Academy, there hadn't been much fighting amongst themselves. Only the usual snipes from Arachne or boasts from Festus.

Today surprises Coriolanus by how many of his classmates want to make fools of themselves.

When classes are done, everyone heads out the Academy’s grand doors to where lines of valets are waiting to pick students up.

None of these automobiles are for Coriolanus. He hadn’t had a chauffeur since his mother was alive. So he remains inside the building, pretending to read or assuring his kinder classmates that he’s waiting for the crowd to die out.

He always declines Clemensia’s offer to take him home.

No, he can’t risk her seeing how bad his house is, let alone the disrepair the street is in.

Coriolanus planned his routine well enough after all these years, once there’s no more cars around he is free to walk the long way home.

To his dismay there are two cars waiting for passengers by the hour mark.

“Hey Plinth, fancy seeing you here!”

“This is school Festus, if anything it’s a shock to see you’re still around.”

Fantastic, another one of Festus getting a rise out of Sejanus. That boy is a glutton for humiliation.

Coriolanus manages to hide behind the doors, outside of anyone’s perspective but also leaving him in the dark.

Thankfully Festus is loud.

“A shock? Wow, that really hurts my feelings, Sejanus. I thought we were friends.”

A snort is almost a reflex, Coriolanus can’t believe how utterly transparent Festus is. What in the world is he doing, trying to butter up to Sejanus?

“Festus, I already told you, no. I’m not doing it. Also I don’t believe we were ever friends.”

“Alright, but what about Persephone? She’s like the nicest girl in class. Do it for her.”

“I see why you’re doing this. It’s really sweet of you to try to arrange this but I’m not doing all the work just because you can’t do it yourself.”

That gets Festus to shut up for a moment, likely reflecting on his soul on Sejanus’ words. Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf and becoming as honorable as Sejanus Plinth.

“I can sabotage Urban to flunk so that you can get the top calculus score.”

Or not.

“Festus, just stop. No party is worth screwing over your friend’s grades.”

“It’s for Persephone’s birthday! It’s worth it to me to get her favorite desserts.” A ragged sigh makes it sound like Festus is truly suffering, “She just had to love your homemade cookies and your mom’s red velvet cake.”

“They are really good, so I’ve remembered. I can’t quite recall the last time I baked you all pastries.”

About a couple of years ago, back in their early primary school days. Coriolanus recalls perfectly the time when Ma Plinth brought the most delicious baked goods to their class. He and Persephone had to hold back tears from eating that red velvet devil cake. They knew they were in the same boat of starvation at that time.

Persephone Price’s family fared better in the later months, no doubt pushing those dark times of desperate stomachs and questionable meals to the back of their minds.

As for Coriolanus, on his worst days he’d remember the taste of those peanut butter cookies. His stomach aching for its weight while his ego despises the fact that they were made by Sejanus Plinth.

Many of their classmates teased Sejanus for doing the work of servants after that day. As a result, Sejanus never again brought them food.

Coriolanus Snow hated all of them. They don’t know the games of hunger they put him through. Maybe that’s why he never felt like scent marking any of them. A young stomach never forgives those who deny it food. It’s easier to blame them all for his hunger.

“My answer is still no, Festus.”

From the silence, it sounds like they’re doing a staring contest.

Utterly bored, Coriolanus uses the best of his imagination on what Sejanus looks like.

Brown hair that’s too curly, too unruly. Moles are scattered on his face, one predominantly on his cheek. He can’t ever recall Sejanus’ smile. Maybe once when they were little but it’s hard to picture that wet-eyed, plain looking boy onto the young man with soul-seeing eyes and a defensive scowl.

Tis the fate of someone surrounded by enemies, any genuine kindness out of sight.

Festus leaves stomping. No doubt back where he started, frustrated by Sejanus Plinth. Coriolanus can sympathize with that.

“He’s gone now.” Sejanus’ voice sends a chill down his back. “You can come out, Coriolanus.”

Coriolanus can really sympathize with Festus on being frustrated by Sejanus.

He steps out, taking in the empty courtyard. There’s a car waiting for the Plinth so Coriolanus has to deal with him before walking home.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he tests out something that’s not quite an apology, but it does paint him as not at fault.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sejanus shrugs. “Unless you want to tell Persephone how desperate Festus is trying for her.”

He thinks he understands what this is all about. “If Festus is trying to give her the perfect cake for her birthday, then he should try a little bit harder than begging for it. Or conspiring against Urban’s calculus skills.”

That surprisingly makes Sejanus laugh, “A conspiracy for good grades? That sounds like something Dennis comes up with, not Festus.”

“You obviously don’t know Festus’ grades, then.”

It’s strangely easy to talk with Sejanus. It’s mostly just making fun of their classmates but enough to feel normal. But that’s a ridiculous notion, Coriolanus is only so carefree with his tongue because it’s only them here.

No one’s around to witness Coriolanus Snow being friendly with Sejanus Plinth.

That’s for the best when the richer boy takes a step closer. He’s actually taller than him but Sejanus is broader in the shoulders, his uniform well fitted.

“Coriolanus, I…” Sejanus awkwardly stumbles with his words, leaving Coriolanus hopelessly confused.

He quickly opens his satchel, takes something out to shove into Coriolanus’ hands. He blames being too curious to just reflexively hold whatever this is.

It’s a balled up handkerchief. Flipping one corner over reveals bread rolls.

An ache rings around his stomach. A usual reaction to food but this makes Coriolanus nauseous.

He saw. He has an idea, no matter how small, on Coriolanus Snow needing food.

For a split second he has the urge to throw it all to the dirty ground. Survival instincts stop him.

“Coriolanus?”

His voice is so small, like he sees Coriolanus as small.

A bitter fury shakes through his hands as he shoves it into his bag. Coriolanus refuses to even look at Sejanus, being reckless by knocking their shoulders together as he stomps off.

This is the type of alpha Sejanus is. Always giving others a reason to hate him.

He could not begin to care if Sejanus is curious as to why the Snow is not driven home or why he wanted to scavenge food.

Sejanus already knows too much and Coriolanus will not provide any more ammunition to be used against him.

When he gets home his feet humm with tension, too much marching the weight of a poor boy. Yet this little bundle of food weighs truly on his mind, trying to pin down Sejanus in his memories.

Arachne tried to make a mockery of Coriolanus in front of as many people as she could get. If anyone paid attention to him, they would’ve noticed if he ate with starving rapture, which he didn’t. They would’ve noticed him save the remainder of his lunch in his bag, but he never got the chance to.

All Coriolanus did was send one last parting look at his lunch tray before Clemensia took him to class. That was enough for Sejanus Plinth to witness, to know something is wrong with Coriolanus Snow.

As he takes in the peeling wallpaper, the creaking floorboards, the dulled and worn down furniture, and the ruin of his once beautiful home, Coriolanus hopes that Sejanus won’t know more about him.

He takes out the handkerchief and now inside these cold walls, away from the world and its endless distractions, he smells it.

Nutmeg.

It’s not from the bread, its smell is on the cloth.

Coriolanus hates how good it smells.

-

Thanks for reading!

[exd3nn]

What even are we?

Chapter two : The journey

Warning⚠️swearing , smoking , implication of death

Masterlist

August 2nd , present day

“03:00 am” , I read on the clock before sticking my head back into my closet. I had to be quiet , they can’t know. I honestly couldn’t believe I was actually doing this. It finally feels real.

Back to the important stuff though, since I won’t be able to take much stuff with me , I have to choose carefully. Vivienne didn’t want to see me on the day I’d leave , saying it would only make it more difficult.

I had to be at the train station by 4am and at the airport by 6. That should be enough time.

I finally chose the clothes I wanted to take , leaving me with space for one more pair of shoes. I took my favorite pair , my most expensive one too , my only mary jane heels . I honestly don’t know what I’d do without them.

I took a backpack and threw in my essentials like my makeup bag , toothbrush and toothpaste , skincare. Just the important things. I put my jacket on , my favorite beanie , threw my hood on and turned my earphones on. I had to walk to the train station , it wasn’t that far anyway.And so I closed that door for one last time.

At the train station I had to buy my ticket. After that I still had a little more time , so I decided to get myself a coffee and a pack of cigarettes , to calm myself down. I sat down outside , lit my cigarette , and leaned my head back while blowing the smoke out. Holy shit . I’m actually doing this. What once felt like a dream out of reach , was actually turning to reality. “I’m sorry mom,Matthew” , I felt the need to apologize , I didn’t want to leave Matt behind like that. I didn’t plan on making him grow up without me by his side. But I guess you just have to be selfish sometimes. I’d rather have him slowly forget about me , than having to look at a stone with my name on it.

Enough with the negativity. I finished my coffee , and went to where my train would arrive. I looked at my watch , “04:16” , I read before touching the frame of it. My mom had gifted it to me on my 17th birthday , it’s precious to me ,I couldn’t leave it.

Three minutes later , the train was there. And so my journey began.

On the train I slept , then once I got on the plane , I wanted to sleep once more.

But luck decided not to be on my side in that moment. I got to my seat , it was a window seat. Which is already bad enough when you’re traveling alone. But I guess the guy that’s supposed to sit beside me decided to be an asshole.

This guy just put his bag on my seat while I was trying to sit down.

“Uh, excuse me sir , but this is my seat. Can you please take your bag?”

He looked me up and down , took the bag , and just focused on his phone. He didn’t even apologize , how rude! But whatever , I just sat down and waited until we took off.

I was ready to get cozy in my seat , and since it was pretty cold , I took out my favorite blanket that I decided to take with me. I heard him scoff beside me.

“Does this bother you? Sorry I was just feeling cold” , I said in a polite tone. He, however , said: “Whatever” while side eyeing me. What the hell was this guy’s deal? I just ignored him and turned on my phone to listen to some music , it was too early to deal with guys like him anyway.

While I was listening to my playlist I decided to look at some of the songs , before deciding on a song by Enhypen , the song being ‘Blind’ . It was a calm song , so it was nice to fall asleep to. I could see the man from the corner of my eye looking at my phone , his eyes widening when he saw what song I was listening to. He quickly looked away before taking his cap off to run his hands through his hair , then putting it back on. And in that moment , it hit me.

That shit hit me harder than the bus that ran over Regina George. I knew this guy. And I was starting to panic , cause there was no way in hell , I was this close.I was sitting so close to him I could smell his cologne. I didn’t want to believe it , but the safety pin on his necklace was solid proof. The man I had just called an asshole, was…

Nishimura Riki.

[hologramcowboy]

https://at.tumblr.com/hologramcowboy/we-know-jensen-and-danneel-come-from-christian/amhzme20xldr

I’m sorry, but I am seriously offended by this anon’s stereotyping. Assuming Christians are automatically antisemitic is gross. Do they realize the two religions start from the same core? Bigotry is not only a label that should be reserved for right leaning people, clearly. Not being able to see past your own bias to empathize and just repeating hateful opinions about others is gross no matter who is doing it. Weather I agree with another persons beliefs doesn’t matter to me as much as as them being a decent person because I believe people have free will for a reason, and they have the right to personal freedom of choice.

Thank you @hologramcowboy for your nuanced reply to this ask.

As for labelling Danneel and Jensen as Christians and supposing that’s why they’d have antisemitic actions take place in their show and that being the reason for Jensen supporting Russia and war is gross, and really unlikely. Besides, Christians don’t exactly have any issues with Ukrainians that I’m aware of that would prompt them to support such a war.

For one, J and D aren’t exactly poster children for a “good Christian couple” since they treat each other with contempt and don’t appear loving with each other at all, while only seeming to be able to stand each other when drinking.

For another, I doubt there is any thoughtful intention behind either the burning of a golem (which is very tone-deaf) or playing a KGB agent to promote a Russian video game while the country is waging war in Ukrainian. I doubt Jensen pays attention to anything in The Winchesters besides scenes that mention or lead to Dean appearing again. Which makes him lazy and careless but not necessarily antisemitic. As for the Russian game, I don’t imagine he supports the war, but he’s out of touch enough that he probably just didn’t consider it. But, I have to admit it’s almost like he’s trying to self-sabotage at this point. Anyway, my point with this is that Jensen is more likely to be careless than actively hateful. And his disregard for these issues is likely not because he’s Christian (if he is) but because he is an out of touch celebrity who has been constantly petted and having his ego stroked for the last 17+ years. More thoughtless than hateful in intention, though the end result is what we have here, so it’s not great either way.

Or maybe he does support those things and I’m wrong, but for crying out loud let’s stop automatically equating Christianity with supporting things like hate and war. Not every person of the same religion, nationality, political leaning, etc thinks exactly the same. We are all still just people.

I have Christian friends and they are some of the deepest, smartest, most loving people I've ever met. In the end it's not even about the religion someone has but about their core character. You define your religion by who you are and your choices and some do define their beliefs beautifully others tragically but we see this with every religion.

Just to be clear, Christian faith does not condone violence or abusing others in any way.

I do feel that what the anon was referring to was those fringe cult like religious groups that may have different nominations but all ultimately toxic as they endorse racism as well as other deeply negative views. So I do get where the anon was coming from because, especially in Texas, some groups are scary. It's completely natural to assume someone's religious views affects how they filter life. I think all anon was trying to do was shine as spotlight on the less than ideal ideologies some "christians" display. Not actual Christians but people who misrepresent the faith. If I understood correctly, that is.

As for not being aware of the social implications of his choice, sorry but I'm going to disagree on that or, rather, just add that being privileged should not be an excuse to be ignorant, on the contrary, people who are privileged should be a voice for those that do not have one. So i'm not letting Jensen off the hook on this one, he made a bad choice and is still failing to respond to the backlash.

[molsno]

I felt so insane that chieda riichi was portrayed in a good light at all. if this was 999 he would have been one of the villains. he funded horadori institute even knowing that they were doing human experiments. like fucking hello??? his whole excuse that they were also doing good research that would cure diseases comes across as deeply liberal. like wow, I guess it's fine to lock children up in a basement and torture them as long as it means that in the process you learn how to cure heart disease!

if this game didn't have the political ideology that it does, then I think what would have made him a better character is if they leaned harder into his complicity in what happened to bibi and the other kids at horadori institute. they could have made kizuna incredibly sickly and suffer from many genetic disorders so that he would have a very selfish personal reason for funding them while knowing what they were doing. if that was the case, and we go with the idea of uru being dead due to what horadori did to him, then that would have further implicated chieda for letting that happen to one of the kids at his orphanage and highlighted the level of privilege that kizuna has to be the beneficiary of this research. imagine how that would strain her relationship with bibi, too! I could easily imagine that she left kizuna specifically because it made her furious to see how the pain and suffering she went through was all for kizuna's sake.

but as it stands, kizuna doesn't really even serve a purpose in the story. her character as a whole seems to be an attempt to write about how she is denied agency as the daughter of one of the richest men in the world, but they fail at that because she truly doesn't have any agency within the writing itself and just serves as a beautiful girl for lien (who also doesn't have any purpose in the narrative and is extremely unlikeable to boot) to relentlessly pursue.

it's especially baffling because if they wanted kizuna to have a romance arc where she asserted her own desires, she could have fallen in love with amame instead. she fits the bill of the working class character that should be off limits to kizuna! sure, you'd have to change a lot about amame's character and by extension shoma and komeji's actions in the story, but that would be significantly more interesting than what we actually got! as it stands, amame's character is almost completely hidden from us because they don't want to provide too many hints that she killed uru and shigure, but when she has basically no personality other than being depressed and quiet all the time (and loving gen, because of course she has to be with a man), the reveal doesn't feel particularly impactful! she's supposedly close with a lot of people (iris, kizuna, mizuki, shoma, komeji, to name a few), but the only person we ever really see her with is gen, which makes all of her relationships feel hollow and her character feel really flat.

like, what the hell happened? this game has so many interesting ideas, but it fails to deliver because it needs to prioritize liberalism and heterosexuality above all else.

the villains of aini should have been shigure, horadori, and chieda. you can still have amame be a killer but tearer didn't need to exist. uru could even still have existed but he should have died before the story even began. this would make aini so much more narratively interesting but it's so hard to take it seriously when tearer is such a cartoonish villain. shigure was such an interesting antagonist but she never really did anything, she just groomed uru into advancing her plans in the background. I would have liked to see her act more directly. unfortunately this game makes all of its women less important than they should be which makes most of them worse as characters and overall makes the entire story weaker.

[no-droids]

Whenever You Want

Part Fourteen of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: Listen there is some dirty smut in this one yall okay like I was blushing when I wrote it, it has a very stark beginning and theres a pagebreak afterwards if you would prefer to skip over it. Smut includes oral sex (female receiving) rough sex, sensory deprivation, butt stuff (ass to mouth, anal fingering/penetration) so PLEASE LOOK OUT FOR IT PLEASE. Also there is jealous/possessive mando in this, season 1 Karga makes another appearance, and some angst/fluff towards the end

A/N: Nothing much today yoditos just love you all

***

Din said he’d meet you here.

You’re currently sitting across from Greef Karga in a cantina on Nevarro, a closed shield next to you and a blaster tucked into the back of your waistband, hidden underneath your shirt.  You’re barely even looking at him, though—your eyes are attached to the door by an invisible string, forcing your gaze back to it no matter how much it bounces around the room.

You don’t know where Din is, you haven’t seen him in hours.  But you do know that when he left, he was moving slower than you’re used to.  You don’t think anyone else would notice, but you sure did.  Not that he was obvious about it—you only picked up on very subtle hints.  Leaning up against things just a bit more than he usually does.  Taking slightly longer exiting the ramp of the Crest than his normal strides would carry him.

He didn’t say what he was going to do—just that he needed to find someone before meeting with Karga, and you accepted it.  But truthfully, you didn’t want to.  You were worried about him—still are, actually.  But for all intents and purposes, he was speaking and acting like himself, showing no real signs of exhaustion other than the smallest instances you described before, so you didn’t really have a leg to stand on.  He’s been through way worse, and you know it.  You just… find yourself worrying about him so much more than you used to, and you need to learn how to gain some control over that part of you.

The kid was still passed out from healing him and you remember Din carefully setting four pucks down in the sleeping baby’s sphere and giving his ears a gentle rub between leather fingers.  He turned back to you and told you to meet him at the cantina in three hours, but if it ended up taking him too long for any reason, to try your best to see if Karga will let you exchange on his behalf.

Admittedly, he didn’t sound too confident about it—the instructions were delivered with a tone that implied a doubtful, just-in-case scenario he wasn’t foreseeing happening.  Or maybe he just doubted the likelihood of Karga agreeing to do business with you, you’re not entirely sure.  All you know is that when he left, you were almost certain he wouldn’t be late, but you also took the time to grab the smallest blaster from his armory before heading out just in case.

Yet—here you are, three and a half hours later, eyes flicking between the door and Karga as you attempt to keep up polite conversation.  After turning down his offer of alcohol for the fifth time and still not seeing any glimpse of beskar coming to your rescue, you figure this may be as good a time as any to start the exchange.

During an extended break in the small talk, you slowly reach over to the corner of your booth and press a button on the face of the kid’s shield.  It hisses open and you completely miss the way Karga’s hand raises while three of his guards automatically reach for their hips.  The little green monster is still snoozing comfortably while you pull out the four glowing pucks Din left you and set them on the table one by one.

They scrape along the top of it as you slowly push them over to him, before sitting back in the booth and clearing your throat, flicking your eyes between Karga and his guards.  To you, nobody appears to have moved, so you muster a polite smile at him.

Karga smiles back, but makes no move to gather or inspect the offerings in front of him.

“Um…” you say after a moment, suddenly feeling your heart start to beat a little faster.  “Mando… Mando gave me permission to exchange on his behalf.”

“I believe you,” he drawls out in response, but the pucks still sit untouched in front of him as he leans back in the booth and studies you.  “Mando has always had a… let’s say, a frustrating penchant for disregarding the pillars of our code.  My apologies, young lady, but I’m afraid that I cannot accept these from you.”

Your voice comes out quieter than you’d like it to sound.  “Why not?”

“It is… unlawful,” he answers after a moment.  “Our organization operates under strict rules.”

Does it?  You blink.  No, it doesn’t.  You’re nothing to the Guild and you’ve sat next to Din quite a few times while Karga talked, listening to him drunkenly boast about return rates and out members by name.  You’re not sure why he’s barring you like this, but you’re also not self-assured enough to put practically any spine into it whatsoever.  “I’m… afraid I don’t understand.”

“I cannot legally do guild business with individuals not recognized as members in an official capacity,” he sighs, sounding grave and almost apologetic about it, but you don’t know him well enough to know if he’s a good actor or not.  “There’s nothing I can do for you besides provide you with my company, not until Mando decides to show.”

Well now that doesn’t make any sense, and you’re starting to worry that for some reason or another, he isn’t going to show.  Though it was incredibly well concealed, you’re well aware that Din was still lingering in the final recovery stages when he left the Crest earlier and all you have to go on is his word that he’d be here.  Something could’ve happened.  Something could be happening right now, you need to push.

“People pick up bounties for extra credits all the time,” you mumble, still way too fucking quiet about it.  Maker, you’re not even sure if he could hear that over the sound of the cantina.  Speak up, speak up.

“Yes, but those quarry are listed on the New Republic’s most wanted database,” Karga acknowledges diplomatically, educating more than he is arguing, before uncorking the bottle of glowing blue alcohol in front of him and beginning to pour himself another shot.  “They’re fodder.  Up for grabs—names, last known locations, and biometrics published for the entire galaxy to read.”  He tilts his head down at the four metal pucks on the table without removing his gaze from the gradually filling glass.  “Those pucks are different, they’re commissions.  Tied specifically to Guild contracts.”  Karga clunks the bottle back down again and corks it, pinning you with a stare.  “For all I know, you could’ve murdered a member of our ranks and come to collect payment for his bounties.  Can’t have that.”

Your blood suddenly turns to ice at the implication, eyes wide and your heartbeat rocketing as you look from Karga to the three guards casually stationed behind him.  “You—You think I murdered Mando?”

“No,” he says, easily and in the very same breath, before throwing the shot back and wiping his mouth with a grimace.  “Not sure I’d care too much if you did.  It’s not my rule, but I am required to follow it or risk losing my position in the Guild.”

Shit.  Shit.  What do you do?

You’re blank, left quiet and feeling increasingly unsure of how to proceed.  Karga, however, seems completely unbothered and even appears to be enjoying himself and your company.  He gives you another smile, this one a lot friendlier and more genuine than the one earlier, before setting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“Look, I want to help you,” he admits, keeping his tone light, “but my hands are tied.  Just relax and share a drink with me until he gets here, it’s not a problem.”

Fuck, you don’t like this, and a quick look around brings another reminder of Din’s continued absence.  Your chest feels tight, the anxiety starting to compound and make you jumpy.  It’s been too long—it’s been at least forty minutes or so of waiting by now and something just feels wrong about this.  Not having him next to you feels wrong enough on its own, but when he specifically told you he’d be here?

You clench your jaw and try to work up your nerve.  Karga is a nice guy, right?  He knows you by name, he knows who you are to Mando.  And while you never really thought about the bounty hunter’s omnipresent protection as being anything other than metaphorical, you suddenly realize that… it might be literal, too.  How much sway do you actually have here, you wonder?  You’re not stupid, you’re not going to try anything stupid, but maybe just another question won’t hurt?

“Well, um… how do you become a member, then?”  You ask him, and you watch as he leans back in the booth, raising both eyebrows at you.

“Excuse me?”  He asks, though there’s a genuine amusement in his voice.  Stunned that you’d even say the words aloud.

“I have four bodies,” you tell him shortly.  You’re still quiet about it, but his thoroughly entertained astonishment is beginning to rub you the wrong way.  You don’t want to be part of the Guild, you don’t want to be here, you’re doing this out of growing necessity.  “One of which I dragged through a blizzard on Hoth by its ankles and put into carbonite myself, so please just tell me what I have to do to get you to take them.”

“I can’t,” he repeats, shaking his head like you’re just not getting it.  “New members are only accepted if they bring in an S-level criminal from the database or if they complete a commission that was granted to them by someone of my station—neither of which apply to you.  If you cannot present me with any sort of reasonable argument for which they could, then I’m afraid this is not a favor I can swing.”

“I was sitting right here,” you return, suddenly finding your voice.  If Karga wants an argument from you to get this to happen, then you’ll do it.  You just need to finish this exchange, go back to the Crest, and scan around for Din’s signal.  “When you first gave the pucks to Mando, I sat right here and you pushed them over to this side of the table—I was present for the commission and now I’m here to complete it.”

He shakes his head.  “But I didn’t give them to you, I gave them to Mando—”

“Yes, but you only wanted to give him three,” you immediately point out.  “The last one, the one I told you I put into carbonite—you said you threw it in because you liked me, it could’ve been for me.”

Karga suddenly stops and blinks at you for a few seconds, and you bite your lip, wondering if the logic will hold.  It’s flimsy as fuck and you know he could very easily rip it apart if he wanted to.  It could’ve been for you but it wasn’t, he gave it to Mando.  You also purposefully leave out the fact that you’re also the reason Mando only gave him three bodies in the first place; your only goal here is to complete this transaction as quickly as possible and leave.  You don’t like the fact that it’s taking Din so long, and you also don’t like the fact that Karga seems so keen on keeping you here with him, no matter how many reassurances he provides.  He said he wants to help you?  This can be his chance to prove it.

After a few extended moments of consideration, Karga finally shrugs like he really couldn’t care less before reaching across the table for the pucks and beginning to stack them in his palm.

“What is your last name?”  He asks, turning behind him to gesture for one of his men with a jerk of his head.  The bodyguard exits the cantina without another word and your eyes flick back to Karga’s.

“Why does it matter?”  You ask uncertainly, watching another guard approach with a holopad as he shrugs once more.

“It doesn’t, but we need something for our records,” Karga explains, grabbing the device as it’s tapped against his shoulder without removing his gaze from yours.  “I can just use Doe if you don’t feel like sharing—most of our members tend to prefer anonymity, including your companion.”

Your eyebrows furrow even as your heart continues to pound, wondering how they can afford to be so lax about some things but take others so seriously.  “You have him down as John Doe?”

“First name Man,” Karga grunts in response, finally breaking eye contact to begin navigating through pages on the holopad.

“Ah,” you say shortly, knowing you’d probably find the joke funny in other circumstances.  You’re not out of the trenches yet, you still feel the worry tugging hard at your chest.

“Very well,” Karga announces with a sigh, pocketing the pucks in his leather overcoat and then handing the holopad back to one of the men flanking him after a moment.  “Someone is collecting the carbonite plaques from your vessel as we speak.”

You give him a nod, taking a deep breath that you hope is slow and subtle enough to not give your anxiety away.  He helped you out, you’re halfway through this.  Now comes the exchange.  Now it’s his turn to give you the credits and four more pucks, that’s how this should go.

Only, Karga leans back in his seat and cocks his head at you.  “Unfortunately, I believe we have found ourselves in the midst of yet another predicament.”

Your heart continues to slam, praying you haven’t somehow majorly fucked things up by getting this far.  Din still isn’t here, why is he so fucking late?  He nearly froze to death and you handled a dead body just to make this meeting on time, where the fuck is he?

You raise an eyebrow at him, willing the building panic not to show on your face.  “Have we?”

“You’re lucky credits are attached to commissions instead of rank within the Guild,” he prefaces, pulling out a large handful of them to begin counting, and your eyes flick around the cantina while you know he isn’t looking, “or else you’d be getting about half of what I’d normally give him.”

Heart galloping when you still don’t see any sign of him, you just decide to keep extra quiet as you watch Karga divvy out a sizable stack of credits, hoping your prolonged silence will protect you somehow.

“The question now becomes…” he lifts an eyebrow at you while sliding them across the table to you, “how many pucks do I give you in return, hm?”

Fuck, you don’t like this, you’re trying to make it crystal fucking clear that your intentions do not extend beyond the perimeter of this table.  There’s no you to be found in this deal, you’re just an emergency proxy in Din’s absence and you only inserted yourself in the situation to accomplish that task.  “I told you I’m only here to exchange on Mando’s behalf, that’s it.”

“Be that as it may…”  Karga glances around the cantina like he’s thinking extra hard about it.  This is a made-up problem, you both know there’s no predicament here.  He knows you didn’t kill Mando, he knows there’s no real reason to be giving you such a hard time about this, and you clench your jaw as he still seems to take his time considering it.  “Tell you what, young lady,” he finally turns back to you.  “Do me the honor of sharing one sip of this fine spotchka with me and I’ll give you four pucks to pass along to Mando.”

Okay.  Okay, you can do that, if he really cares that much.  Karga gestures for the closest droid to come by with a glass for you, but you just grab the bottle in front of him and uncork it without thinking too much, balancing the glowing blue liquid with two hands and diligently taking a small sip of it before setting it down again.  Appearing satisfied with your demonstration of upholding your end of the bargain, Karga grins and reaches into another pocket.

“Four for Mando,” he pushes four pucks across the table, “same rate and return as last time, as promised.”  You nearly deflate in relief as you quickly gather them up and begin dropping them into the snoozing baby’s shield along with the credits, but then Karga reaches back and pulls out another puck, pushing it over to you.  “And one for you.”

You blink at him, frozen in place.

“Lowest level, lowest pay.  Not even a criminal by New Republic standards, just a missing person,” he goes on to say, but then quite suddenly… 

Quite suddenly you’re absolutely fucking horrified.

You don’t want it.  Everything inside you surges up to scream that you do not want that puck.  It’s a waste of time, even if it’s an extra job—it’s too much trouble, too much fuel for such a small reward.  You already know good and well that Din won’t want to bother, getting this extra puck would be considered a detriment to him.

“What if I don’t want it?”  You ask, sounding nervous and vaguely out of breath as you look down at it.

Karga scoffs.  “Of course you don’t.  Nobody wants these, why do you think I’m trying so hard to pawn one off on you?”

Shit.  This is not at all how you expected any of this would go.  You know he’s not really asking, even if his tone and continued courtesy implies it’s only a request.  There’s an expectation attached to this, and it appears you take too long pondering an offer that isn’t actually voluntary.  Karga stares at you and your clear apprehension for just a few seconds more, before finally giving you an ultimatum.  “You said you’re here on his behalf.  You either take all five pucks now or Mando only gets three next time, your choice.”

Oh.  Oh, no.  This is a lose-lose; three pucks means more fuel and less credits, five pucks means more fuel and less credits.  It’s not like you have any real bargaining power here—almost everything he’s done for you today has been a favor of some sort and you’re well aware that things can always get worse.

Still, you take a deep breath and try your best to throw around whatever weight you have left in one final agreement.

“Give me your word you’ll go back to giving him four from now on, no more hassling or hard time constraints and we’ll take it just this once,” you tell him, trying to conjure and put power behind your words even though you’re unsure if they’ll stick.

“Deal,” Karga readily agrees with a smile, reaching his hand across the table.  You have no choice but to meet him in the middle and clasp it, unable to feel anywhere close to good about your performance here.  It was clunky and insecure and even though you just barely succeeded in making the exchange overall, you’re massively disappointed in the specifics.

But then Karga’s eyes quickly flick over your shoulder.

“Ah, Mando!”  He suddenly calls out, and your hand nearly snatches away from his while your body goes rigid.

Oh, this isn’t good, this is not good.  Well, it’s good that he’s here but it also really fucking isn’t.  You don’t even turn your head; you sit completely straight and still while the cantina falls to a hush and heavy footsteps begin to approach behind you.  You fucked up—you fucked up, you didn’t wait long enough and you feel the sharp regret instantly twist in your stomach.  He said he’d be here, why didn’t you trust him?  Your anxiety and stress compounded and spurned you to act too quickly, you made the deal a few fucking seconds before he showed up.

And, as Din eventually comes into your peripheral, taking his time leaning his rifle up against the table, you immediately realize that you should not have worried.  Recovery isn’t even a word in his vocabulary right now—he’s more intimidating than he’s ever been, more powerful and certain and dangerous while he lowers himself into the seat next to you than he’s ever felt to you before.  Everything is so quiet now that he’s here; you feel like even just swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat turns into an audible gulp.  The man sitting across from you may own this cantina and every material good under its roof, but the one sitting by your side feels like he steals the literal air from the room just by walking inside it.

Yet, in spite of the daunting presence of the Mandalorian, Karga beams and tips his glass at him.  “I believe you’ve arrived just in time for your favorite part of the conversation, friend.  The farewells.”

You stare wide-eyed down at the table as Din leans back into the booth and very slowly extends his arm behind your shoulders, saying nothing at all to him.

The testosterone is radiating from him to the point of near suffocation, you can taste the alpha in the air.  Your heart slams in your chest at the unspoken claim he just made with a subtle movement, and though you’ve never been one for masculine displays, this one weirdly feels… good right now.  You know it’s primitive and crude and you’re not a piece of meat to be fought over, but it doesn’t feel like that at all.  It’s the immediate feeling of security that serves to heat your cheeks, the fact that you’ve been a nervous mess trying to be extra brave this whole interaction and then suddenly you have the backup of an entire army contained within one single suit of armor next to you.

If you weren’t internally panicking at how badly you screwed this shit up, you’d probably be going fucking feral for him right now.

Karga says your name and your gaze snaps to his, feeling like you can’t breathe.  “My associate has collected the plaques, nothing keeps you here any longer.  It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

Still, nobody at the table moves.

After a moment, you carefully glance up and to the side at the sharp, metallic profile of his helmet.  Maker, you can’t explain it—it’s like you feel terrified but not really for yourself, if that makes sense.  You’re upset with yourself for not having enough trust in his word, absolutely, but something in Din’s demeanor tells you that he’s going to be considerably less understanding of how Karga handled this situation than the way you did.

The helmet slowly turns down to look at you, and you bite your lip while carefully placing your hand on his thigh brace under the table, letting him feel your fingers brush against the bend of his knee.

He turns back to Karga after a few seconds, still not saying a single word, until eventually Din’s arm is lifted from behind your shoulders and you feel his leather fingers gently clasp your hand, before he starts to rise from the booth and pull you along next to him.  You both stand, and he silently presses a button on his vambrace without dropping your grip, urging the kid’s shield to follow along behind him.

“Um, goodbye,” you just barely remember to tell Karga as Din begins leading you away, apparently not waiting for the polite farewells he arrived in time for.

“Wait!”  A voice calls out just before you can make your exit, and Din pauses just in time for Karga to extend that damned fifth puck out for you to grab.  Right in fucking front of him.  “Can’t forget this!”

Fuck.  Great.  Thanks.

Blood rushes to your face while you go to reach for it, taking the puck and then placing it in the open shield along with four others in a way that you hope is casual but you know isn’t.  You close the lid on it and then squeeze Din’s hand slightly, but he stays rooted to the spot for a few more seconds, having watched the entire exchange play out.  Though you obviously wouldn’t be able to read his facial expressions even if you could lift your head to look up at him, you can’t will yourself to do so right now.  You’re too disappointed in yourself and nervous—you just stand there silently as he looks back at Karga, staring at your feet and praying he doesn’t do anything brash.

After too many moments of uncertainty, you squeeze his hand again and slowly begin to pull on it.  Without needing much pressure at all, he goes where you go, and you end up being the one to lead Din out of the cantina by the hand still tangled with yours.

*** 

The walk back to the Crest lasts an eternity.

Neither one of you say anything at all to each other the entire way there, and you know he’s not mad at you yet, but you’re worried.  You feel incredibly self-critical right now and it’s really not helping that he seems even quieter and more wound up than usual.  You don’t know if it’s because he already figured out that you just handed him extra work or if it’s because whatever made him late to the cantina also altered his mood, hit a reset button and reminded him of the way he used to be, the armor he’s wearing.  Was there a confrontation, you wonder?  Is he okay?  He seems like he’s… extra Mandalorian right now, there’s not really a better way to describe it.

He doesn’t drop your hand, though.  As you pass through the markets and shanty huts lining the streets, Din holds onto you.  Shoulders tense and strides heavy, but his fingers stay tangled in yours.

Regardless, you keep your mouth shut and eventually the Crest comes into view.  The ramp drops to the ground and the three of you make your way up, and you have enough foresight to carefully drop Din’s hand and lead the baby’s shield over to the unused cot built into the hull walls, closing him in a safe quiet place to sleep and continue building up his strength again.

You turn around to see Din press another button on his vambrace.  He stays with his back to you as the ramp slowly closes, but as soon as it latches up against the hull and locks into place, he nearly whips around and suddenly he’s right in front of you, gloves cupping your face.

“What happened?”  He asks sharply, the helmet looking you up and down.  “Are you alright?  Why did you look so scared?”

You reach up to rest your hands on his, blinking up at him and not knowing what to say.  How are you going to tell him?  He’s gotta waste extra fuel and time on a bullshit quarry because of you, what are you going to say?  You don’t even know if it’s last known location is nearby; he might have to fly to some remote, desolate corner of the galaxy just for a handful of credits because you couldn’t wait a fucking hour for him.

“I, uh…  I-I’m sorry, I just…”  But it’s nearly impossible to form a coherent thought when he’s this close to you and sounding fucking sincere, genuinely concerned about you while you’re stuck worrying about how to break the bad news to him.  “Oh, stars, um…”

“Did Karga fuck with you?”  He asks in that same sharp tone when you don’t finish your thought, but you’re so absorbed in your own conflict that you barely even hear him.  “Because I can go back right now, the cantina is just—”

“Okay wait, please—” You suddenly speak up, “before I tell you, just… please keep in mind that I did save your life two days ago, so…”

“Sweet girl,” Din rumbles slowly, a subtle warning for you to hurry up and spit it out.  His fingers tighten just slightly on your cheeks, still so gentle but needing you to communicate with him right now.

Tell him, you just need to tell him.  If he gets mad, then he gets mad, but at least he’ll know at that point and you won’t just be springing it on him out of nowhere.

“I fucked up,” you breathe out, eyebrows pulling up in the middle as you tighten your own grip on his hands.  “I’m so sorry, I fucked up and you were late and I got nervous and I didn’t wait long enough and I tried to make the exchange like you asked me to but then I had to take a fifth puck and I didn’t want to but Karga threatened to short change you next time around unless I agreed to take an extra one for the lowest pay just this once and I didn’t have any bargaining power and you showed up right after I agreed to the deal and I’m so so sorry—”

You cut yourself off with your own ragged gasp, not having paused once to breathe throughout the entire thing while your expression twisted up with regret more and more the longer he allowed you to speak.

Din stands there in front of you and doesn’t move, hands still attached to your face.

“Okay,” he eventually tells you.  Stunted words, like he’s trying extra hard to find them when yours just fell out of your mouth in a complete mess.  “It’s okay.  You did… good.”

The silence is tense and you’re becoming more and more anxious the longer he takes to speak.  He’s lying for your benefit, he must be.  When he drops his hands from your face and takes a full step back, you take the gesture as symbolic and nearly launch into panic.

“Maker, I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for—”  You start to say, but Din cuts you off.

“Did he make you…”  His back suddenly goes a little straighter, voice finding a quiet edge through the modulator as his fingers subtly twitch at his sides, “…Uncomfortable?”

You pull back at the sudden change in subject and furrow your eyebrows.

“Who, Karga?”  You have to think about it.  Did he make you uncomfortable, or were you just uncomfortable already?  You might’ve just been scared because you were making it scarier than it really was, you can admit that’s a valid possibility.  “Um… no?  I don’t know, not… not really, I don’t think.”

“No?”  He asks, taking a small step forward.  “You don’t know?  Or not really… you don’t think?”

You know you can only see the blade of his visor, but something makes you feel like you’re looking right in his eyes.  You even go back and forth between where you’re pretty confident each one is, trying to read his intentions right now.  It’s like he’s purposefully trying to keep space between you even though he looks like he wants to move closer, fisting his hands at his sides when he looks like he wants to touch you.

“No, he just… lowballed me towards the end of it and I got intimidated, but I’m also not…”  Your expression narrows in concentration while you try to find the words to explain yourself, wanting to be as honest as possible with him.  “I don’t know, I’m not like you.  I’m not that strong, but I’m trying to get better.  I think he was probably just being normal.  He did offer me alcohol a bunch, but I’m pretty sure he also did that last time, so—”

“And I didn’t like it the last time he did it,” Din says quietly, taking another small step forward.

You blink up at him, completely dumb.  This is what’s bothering him?  Is he really not upset with you at all for giving him more work?  It’s like the major fuckup on your behalf just went in one side of the helmet and out the other, he barely even acknowledged it other than the role Karga played.  He said it’s okay and you did good, which are like… five of the most common words in Galactic Basic, a Wookiee could probably find a way to say them.  How are you supposed to take that?  Were you just overthinking this whole thing from the very beginning?  You know anxiety tends to be irrational by definition, but has none of your panic from the past hour been justified whatsoever?

“Why were you so late?”  You ask him, but it’s not accusatory in the slightest.  It’s… concerned, worried about his well-being without having a real reason.  He’s clearly more than fine right now, he’s like a hurricane enclosed in metal and holding still in front of you.  Too much potential energy just waiting for a reason to be released, too much tension held tight and ready to snap.

“I’m sorry.”  He quickly reaches out to grab your hand and squeeze it, before dropping it just as quickly.  Fucking lightning quick, you’ll never understand how he can be so damn quick with all that extra weight strapped to him.  “It took longer than I thought it would and she’s not really someone you can rush.”  His response, ironically, feels very rushed, like he’s trying to address the tangent but also keep things on track, but something in the answer he gives catches your direct attention.  “Did he flirt with you?”

“Who is she and what can’t be rushed?”  You blurt at the same time, not even taking a split second to think about it.

Din stops short at the blunt question, staring at you in a silence that feels like it’s vaguely taken aback.

After a few moments of that… strangeness, of the two of you realizing that you’re both feeling slightly possessive over each other for absolutely no reason whatsoever, you start to feel… warm.  In another weirdly stupid, primitive way.  You know that letting those kinds of thoughts have their day in a relationship isn’t a good thing, but you can’t explain it.  Some deep-seated, prehistoric instinct inside you just goes fucking nuts whenever he gets in either provider or protector mode.  Now you understand exactly why he wanted to get you alone after you admitted to being jealous once before.  You totally fucking get it, you’re right there with him right now.  He hasn’t said anything, but you think he feels it, too.

“She makes things,” Din finally answers you, careful with his words and somehow managing to address your question while also sidestepping it, leaving you with only the smallest bit of information to go off of.  “Did he flirt with you?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly.  “Maybe.  He could’ve just been trying to be friendly.  What did she make for you?”

“She made it for you,” he responds, again not really answering the question but continuing to juggle two separate conversations for your benefit.  “Did he scare you?”

“For me?”  You ask, eyebrows shooting upwards.  Provider, that stupid cavewoman DNA whispers to your lower body, making your voice go a little breathless.  “You asked her to make something for me?”

“Did he scare you?”  Din repeats sternly, grabbing your hand and giving it a firm squeeze.  “Because I can go back, I swear—”

Protector, it whispers this time, and your knees nearly buckle.

“Everything is scary when I don’t know where you are,” you admit to him, knowing it’s the truth regardless of how self-deprecating it sounds.  The only times you’ve ever truly been brave was because of him or the kid.  Stabbing a Corellian and then immediately flying the Crest out to him afterwards, walking through a pitch black forest believing a dangerous criminal was hiding in it, dragging a dead body through snow and shoving it into carbonite, standing up for yourself and pushing a deal through when odds were stacked against you.  Though it’s nothing to him, it’s nothing, it’s leaps for you.  You’re slowly learning to find a backbone, and he’s the one inspiring it.

Din holds there for a moment, unmoving with his hand still clutching yours.  You can’t get a read on him but you know how you feel right now.  Achy.  Hot.  Needy.  Wanting him to come closer.

“Will you do something for me?”  He asks you after a prolonged silence.  His voice is quiet, but… incredibly restrained.  Controlled chaos—his body is rigid and he’s flexing muscles that aren’t necessary for just standing, feeling like a sprinter holding still on the starting blocks.

“Of course,” you breathe out.

Din lets go of your hand and tilts his helmet over at the corner of the hull behind you.  “Go turn around and face that wall.”

You freeze, immediately recognizing the undertone in his voice.  Heat ladles deep into the pit of your tummy, sends warmth pooling downwards.  He wants to do this here?  Right now?

“We’re—” you look around the enclosed hull, “Mando, we’re not in hyperspace, we haven’t even left the surface yet…”

He looks around too, taking a second to blankly take in his stagnant surroundings like he had absolutely fucking no idea, before turning back to you and not saying a word.  Maker, everything below your waist is already stirring, twisting hot and deep inside, but you’re trying to be the voice of reason for a second.

“What if somebody hears us?”  You whisper, and Din cocks his head to the other side.

“I can help you stay quiet,” he murmurs, and… fuck.  You don’t know what it means, but you immediately imagine his hand held tight over your mouth while he takes some of this stress out on you and you already feel yourself wilting at the thought.  Okay.

“Okay,” you breathe without needing anything else at all, before spinning around and standing exactly where he told you to.  It’s just a corner near the back of the hull, nothing else here to look at besides two metal panels meeting at a right angle, but that’s admittedly what makes your heart start beating quicker.  You can’t see him come up behind you but you can feel it.  Slow, measured, but so restrained.

But then he stops almost immediately, before the back of your shirt is suddenly being yanked upwards and you remember at the very last second.

Din carefully grips his blaster and then eases it out of your waistband, the metal sliding warm along your skin from pressing against it for so long.  You never told him you took it with you, and he’s so fucking quiet behind you.  You have no idea how he’s reacting to that piece of information you originally didn’t think twice about.

“Do you like carrying my gun around?”  Din’s voice murmurs soft through the modulator to you, but then the blaster is tossed uselessly to the side, skittering loudly across the floor of the hull.

“Yes,” you reply, beginning to shyly turn your head back to look at him, hoping to gauge his response.

“Don’t turn around,” he quickly interrupts you, pushing your shoulder back into position and keeping you facing the corner.  You blink at the metal walls in a bit of a daze but follow instructions regardless, feeling your heart pound at the sudden display of dominance from him.  He has a very valid reason for it and you don’t realize what it is until a few seconds later, but even if he didn’t and he was just telling you what to do for the fun of it… you’d still like it.

But then his helmet is carefully being lowered over your head and you shudder as your vision is replaced with a familiar black abyss.  Fuck, his helmet, why does he like it so much when you wear this?  Admittedly, you don’t have much time to contemplate—as soon as it’s fitted and secure, he spins you around and you have to just do your best to maintain your balance, not having any visual to help.

“Can you hear me?”  Din asks, and your clothes start to be ripped off of you.  Your shoulders tip sideways with how quick he is about it, feeling him pull the fabric off and hearing the soft sound it makes landing on the floor.

“Yes,” you tell him, but he doesn’t respond, continuing to strip you completely naked in the hull.  Once your upper body is bare and he’s yanking your pants and underwear down your legs, you try saying it again as you step out of them, louder for him this time.

“I can’t hear you,” his voice grunts after a moment.  You know he’s in front of you but you can’t really tell where, now that he’s not touching you.  “Scream.”

You take a second, not having hard evidence anymore but still very well aware that you’re parked close to a marketplace on Nevarro and multiple people are nearby while you’re wearing his helmet.  This is dangerous for him, and not sure if you should, but then an arm is wrapping around your back and a large leather palm rests directly over your chest.  Din repeats his last word very slowly and clearly for you, waiting to feel it under his hands.

Your sternum lifts while it rises with your deep breath and then collapses as you diligently yell as loud as you can into the helmet, feeling like you might deafen yourself with the trapped sound.

“Good,” he growls, suddenly spinning you around and pushing you back into the metal paneling.  “I can’t hear you, be as loud as you need.  Hit me or something, put up a fight if you want me to stop, alright?”

Arousal rockets through you and you let out a moan already, taking advantage of the noise suppression and beyond turned on at this point.  You feel like you’re buzzing with it, lit up with excitement and wondering with bated breath what he’s planning to do to you.

“Alright?”  Comes his voice from behind you once more, and you quickly jerk the heavy helmet in a nod for him.  You can put up a fight and you know he’ll stop, you don’t have any problem with that and the fact that he specifically made sure to wait until he knew you understood him makes you start to pant inside the hollow beskar.

But then you feel him flick a small switch at the base of the helmet and then everything abruptly cuts out and goes dead silent.

Nothing.  Nothing.  You’re standing in a pitch black room where no other sound exists besides your own labored breathing.  Just like the waterfall on Naboo, but you can’t speak this time.  Temporarily making you blind, deaf, and putting a proverbial gag over your mouth all with one powerful piece of armor.

You shudder and he kicks your legs apart before you can do much else, yanking your hips back while you just try your best to cling to the wall for stability.  You don’t know what he’s going to do, you’re completely isolated in here and the only way you can even tell he dropped to his knees is the hot glide of his tongue through your pussy from behind.

Oh fuck—you arch into position as best you can while hands wrap around your ankles to pull them apart, trying to make the angle better.  His tongue licks softly over your clit and each time is like an electric shock jolting through your body, making you twitch back and up for him, stretching and begging him to do it again.  You can’t see anything right now so your mind readily imagines the visuals instead, providing you with a third party view.  Din, fully clothed and face shielded by your thighs, eating you out from behind while you brace yourself against the wall, completely naked and at his mercy, head tilted down from the weight of his helmet and living for the moments he decides to drag his tongue across your clit.

Without warning, a sudden burst of sensation ripples along your backside and causes you to lift the beskar in surprise, but without being able to hear anything, it takes you a second to figure out that he just smacked your ass.  The realization comes more or less at the exact time he decides to flatten his tongue and follow the curve of you back and up.

You gasp into the pitch black and there’s a moment where you just hold utterly still for him, experiencing and processing the sensation for the very first time.  His mouth is soft and warm as he tastes you here, his fingers digging into the swell of your cheeks to spread you open.  You’re glad your face is hidden so he can’t see the shock in your expression, the way your mouth drops and your eyes close as you let him explore you this way.

His gloved hands leave you for just a moment while he continues gliding his tongue against you, along every single bit of skin he can reach, and then you feel a bare hand reach up between your legs and begin to rub slow circles around your clit.  His other arm pushes against your lower back and you’re forced into the corner even more, your naked breasts pressing hard against cool metal and feeling his hot mouth and strong fingers work you closer to the edge from behind.

You’re panting into the helmet, your hips arching back to feel that stimulation on your clit better, and as his fingers move over it slow and strong, you feel a soft vibration against your skin and you realize he’s moaning into you.  The knowledge sparks a different kind of heat through you and makes you suddenly go still and tense right here.  If he stays just like this for even just a few more seconds, you’re going to cum.

“Din, I’m gonna cum,” your voice warbles inside the enclosed steel—just as his touch decides to abandon your body.  You groan loudly in distress, completely alone without his hands or mouth on you anymore, but all he likely hears is the silence of the hull and the way your palm smacks against the wall with it.  You were so close, everything feels like it’s pulled up so tight and painful and it hurts—

A hand clutches your hip and then a thick cock is suddenly pushing up against your soaking wet entrance, going to alleviate that twisting discomfort.  Your eyes roll back and your whole body goes limp as he slowly eases forward and breaks you open, fitting himself deep inside where you love to feel him most.  Your hands claw down the walls with a swell of bliss as he pulls out and then starts thrusting—and fuck, you love this.  You love the way he’s trapping you up against the corner and making you see stars at the same time, the way he’s supporting your weight but crushing down into you, too.  It makes you go boneless and want to riot simultaneously, groaning loud into the quiet abyss as he gives you what you both desperately needed.

One of his hands sinks down between your legs to play with your clit again, while a slick finger presses up against your ass and you gasp as he slowly penetrates you there, too.  Din’s hips work steady and powerful behind you, pushing you into the wall with every desperate thrust, using the arm shoved between your legs to support you as well as stimulate, and you just feel yourself move into a different place.  You don’t have a name for it but it feels like hyperspace.  Silence so loud it feels suppressing, faster than anything light can touch, nowhere and everywhere, hurtling towards something you can’t see but know lies in the distance.  You can tell he’s still fucking the tension out of his body, you can feel him working another wet finger inside you and stretching the virgin muscles back there, but every sensation begins to slowly blur together in a wicked uprising of ecstasy.

You don’t know where you are anymore, just that his fingers keep rubbing your clit and you think he's trying to ease a third into you when your destination abruptly arrives.

You nearly collapse when you cum, contracting so hard around his cock and fingers that you cry out unexpectedly—and because of the helmet, you think it’s just as unexpected for him.  He stops moving—everything stops moving besides you.  Your hips stutter backwards into his stationary body, dragging your clit back and forth against the tips of his unmoving fingers and fucking him as best you can.  It shatters white hot and goes straight through to your soul, wringing pleasure and wetness between your legs in waves.

Your knees are knocking against each other when Din pulls out, his cock still deliciously hard and now soaking wet with your cum, and then they just suddenly decide to give up without warning.  You don’t fall necessarily, but you do slowly slide down the wall like a slug and Din follows you to the floor instead of holding you up any longer.  His sternum moves quick and heavy against your back as he breathes and then suddenly the same switch at the base of his helmet is flicked, and sound bursts into existence all at once.

He’s panting.  Harsh breaths behind you that match the rapid pace of his chest, and the ambient noise of the rest of the hull.

“Can you hear me?”  He gasps, sounding fucking wrecked, and you nod the helmet against the wall while gravity and exhaustion and his beskar chestplate squishes you into it.  “P-Put up a fight if you want me t-to stop, p-please—” he rasps out, almost the entire thing air and so close to cumming, and then his knees lift just slightly and the blunt head of his cock presses against your other entrance.

And, if you wanted, you absolutely could.  He’s got you boxed into the corner but he’s not constricting your movements, he’s given you every ability to struggle.  You could easily throw an elbow back against his side, push against the wall to shove him away, smack at his arms or even just flail against his body in panic—you could do one or all of those things to signal him to stop and you know he’d do it immediately, he’s asking you to.  You could struggle.  If you wanted.

Instead, you just grab hold of the beskar strapped to his thigh and drop the helmet to your chest, nearly vibrating with the thrill and preparing yourself for it.  You know he’s gotta be inches away from orgasm, you know from the tone of his voice that he’s right there on the edge and it’s not like it’s going to last a long time.  Thanks to him, you also feel like you’re just as slick and wet back there as you are between your legs, stretched open by his fingers while you came all over him.  You want nothing more than to give this to him, to let him be the only person in the universe that knows how you feel this way.

When you pointedly do not put up a fight and even go so far as to arch your lower back for him in presentation, Din curses and his fingers begin jerking back and forth over your sensitive clit once more.  It might normally be too much for you, but your body is sparking with lust and quickly acclimates to the stimulation, learning to burn and ache for it, too.  Fuck, it feels so good, you tense and melt into it at the same time, letting him ease you back up to that peak once more.

He pushes up against the tight ring of skin and you can’t fucking explain it—his fingers keep rubbing your clit and he’s slowly pushing into your ass and—

“I—I think I’m—” you suddenly lift the helmet to gasp out in surprise, forgetting he can’t hear you, “ngh—D-Din, I think I’m gonna c—”

He’s just barely able to breach the tight entrance and fit the head inside before he freezes—and even though everything happens consecutively, it’s all so rapid that it feels simultaneous.

Your hips could go forward, but they don’t.  Your body decides to send you backwards into him, pushing him inside nearly halfway all at once as your muscles lock down and just fucking strangle his cock.  Your piercing scream gets trapped in the silence of his helmet as you cum once more—painfully, madly and with every fucking part of you for him.  There’s maybe one or two mind shattering pulses of ecstasy before the rest of your body catches up and starts convulsing, and by then Din is already gasping and fumbling behind you, suddenly realizing what’s happening without hearing the sound of your ragged warnings and then ripping himself away just in time.

He punches out your name when he cums like you just fucking snapped him in half—his body hunches and the beskar digs hard into your back as warmth starts splattering along your skin.  You crumple while he shoves his hips up against your spine, riding and working the orgasm out of himself while yours just fucking obliterates you.  You think you whine his name—or a curse word or something, but it gets strained and your lungs lose air every time his powerful armored body humps you into the wall of his ship.

Finally he eases up and you just lay there and listen to the ringing in your ears.  Blissfully empty, still pulsing from cumming so hard and feeling like your bones just decided to stop existing and the rest of you was okay with it since you were already on the floor anyways.  You feel him shudder and twitch behind you, letting go of that last bit of tension until he too allows gravity to slouch his heavy torso over onto you.

You both stay like that for a while, until your eyes close and your everything below your waist goes numb.  Eventually you feel him shift and your head bobbles as the helmet is slowly removed, but a large palm cradles your chin to stop your face from slamming into the wall in exhaustion once it’s off.  You just continue to melt into the paneling like you’re nothing more than goo of a human being while he trades it back to its rightful place on his shoulders and tucks his cock back into his pants, before wrapping his arms around you and lifting you both up.  The floor and metal walls, once feeling like you and them were one, suddenly decide to disappear entirely as you’re hauled up into Din’s powerful arms.

He slowly carries your naked, fucked senseless body over to the fresher, and you squint your eyes open over his shoulder to see… he’s still got his rifle slung around his back while his cum is dripping down yours.  Not a single thing on him is out of place and you’re, well… a mess is a word that works.  Limp and doll-like, carried like your weight is practically nothing to him after years of having the densest armor known to the galaxy strapped to his body.

Setting you down is a mess, too.  At some point you think he just gives up and decides to return you to your humble floor abode with a patience and care unexpected from someone who just defiled you so thoroughly.  You hear the fresher door open and the faucet squeak, before he turns back around and crouches to your level.

“Stay here,” Din tells you lowly, his modulated voice coming gentle and warm through the sounds of water raining down against metal.  You don’t feel his touch directly, but your hair moves away from your face.  “I’ll be right back, okay—just stay here.”

Can do.  Easy.  He waits until you murmur a soft mhm to him before he leaves the tiny compartment, and then you soon hear his heavy footsteps ascending the ladder to the cockpit.

***

You don’t think you fall asleep, but the powering up of the Crest’s thrusters make you realize your eyes were closed.  Opening them barely qualifies as a squint though; you look around to see steam slowly filling the fresher, the water already running hot and welcoming in the small room.

You know you need to shower but you’re so fucking exhausted, you feel like you can’t even move your body.  You also know you can just do the same exact thing in there as you’re doing in here, you just need to muster up the energy necessary to get inside it and then fall back asleep.  He set you down in the small little space outside the shower door and then got everything set up for you, you can at least stand up and take a few steps.

Unfortunately, you might pick just about the worst time possible to plant your hands on the ground and work to struggle upright on all fours like a newborn animal.  The steady rise through Nevarro’s atmosphere pushes gravity down harder than you’re expecting—is he trying to fly quickly or are you just that dead-limbed?—and then of course, by the time you do manage to fight it and successfully get on two wobbly legs to hold yourself up, the subtle shift of the hyperdrive kicking in nearly knocks you back down again.  You stumble and grab the walls, bracing yourself against them and looking down at your knees in exasperation.  Come on, work.  Move forward.  Come on.

You’re glad he’s not here to witness this monstrosity, honestly.  Just opening the door and taking a few steps into the fresher is a feat—while you’re not in any pain and he didn’t leave any marks on you, you just feel… steamrolled.  Ran over by a truck.  Only having the strength to keep your feet beneath you as you finally move under the water and close the door behind you.

Oh, but this is wonderful.  This was such a good idea, he’s so fucking smart.  The shower falls warm and lovely against your body, wetting your hair and immediately heating you down to your bones.  You don’t move really at all—you kinda just stand there and slouch, closing your eyes against the spray and slowly breathing the mist into your lungs.  It feels so nice—not really restorative even though you like that word, it would imply the water provides you with any energy whatsoever.  It just feels like a comfort, a relief and sedative for your already wildly fatigued body.

You haven’t been in here for more than a minute or two when knuckles tap gently against the metal walls of the fresher, before the natural bass of Din’s unmodulated voice murmurs from somewhere beyond it.  “Hey.  Keep your eyes closed.”

How did he know?  You figured you’d be way ahead of him.  You’re standing but slumped over, wanting nothing more than to just say fuck gravity and pass out right here.  The walls are too cold to lean against now that you’re all toasty from the heat and steam, so you’re just unconsciously swaying on your feet, trying to balance the precedence of sleeping versus not falling over.  You don’t even comprehend the sudden flip of the light switch overhead beyond the fact that it makes it easier to snooze without being so bright behind your eyelids.

The door eventually opens at the very same time you realize you never answered him, but you just commit to the silence at this point.  It’s easy, you like it.  Soon you feel warm hands touch your shoulders, slowly spinning you around while you follow and hang your head, your neck not wanting to support it any longer, and then suddenly a bare chest is pressing up against you and powerful arms are wrapping around your body, and you can just lean all of your weight into him while your head rests right here on his shoulder.

He holds you without moving for a long time, keeping you just like this—your ear pressed against his skin while water rains hot and comfortable down your back.  Knowing you’re facing one of the walls, you crack your heavy lids just the slightest bit and finally notice the tiny compartment is dim and shrouded—the only light source is a single one coming from somewhere in the hull beyond the partially closed doorway.  It’s dark and quiet and you can barely see anything besides the metallic fresher walls and unfocused droplets chasing each other down Din’s naked skin.  Just you and him, flowing water with a sheet metal backdrop.

You think you spend an eternity like that and yet you still find yourself wanting another when he finally shifts, reaching over you to grab a bar of his generic soap but making sure to use the arm whose shoulder you’re not currently resting against.

It glides slow and hypnotic down your back, dragging up over your sides and then back down the curve of your spine.  He’s so sturdy and he doesn’t say a word while he does it, lathering it along your body and rubbing it into your skin.  His bar of soap, not yours.  They started out almost the same since you picked them up at the same vendor, but there’s just a slightly bolder and sharper scent to his that you recognize.  How the bar is far larger than yours because of how often he’s gone away.

Your eyes droop and you feel the water trail over your lips, dripping down your chin and pooling the dip of his collarbone.  The only other time you two shared this fresher was terrifying and he’s rewriting the memories right now, whether consciously or not.  Hot water, not freezing cold.  Standing upright and supporting you.  Heart beating strong under your ear, taking care of you this time until you can care for yourself.

You… you just worry so much more now, it’s becoming an issue.  You didn’t realize how much until you nearly lost him, and you know in your heart that he’s just going to go away again.  Throw himself into more danger, tempt death as always, risk his life for mere credits while all you can provide in return is this.  Skin to skin contact.  Someone to hold.  Someone who knows him, who knows the way he struggles between reaching out for a softness that life has always denied him and clinging to what is rough and familiar.  Someone to remind him that there’s still gentle and forgiving things in this galaxy that won’t disappear when he’s gone, and that he can always come home to them, as long as he can manage to find his way back.

Something sad tugs hard at your chest.  You want to tell him not to leave.  Again, again—you want nothing more than to beg him to stay.  You don’t have anything better to offer instead; if he asked you how it would work, how you imagine your lives would go if he wasn’t hunting quarry on a constant timetable, you’d be hard-pressed.  You don’t know.  But you know what you want to say, because it’s two words you shouldn’t say but always find yourself needing to say regardless.  

Don’t go.

But, instead of two words, you give him three.

Instead of asking him not to leave you again… in the haze and comfort of his arms, you think you just tell him that you love him.

And… you also don’t think the water falling down on the two of you is loud enough to cover it up this time.

It’s not ideal, you know.  You know.  From his point of view, he just got finished releasing all sorts of pent up tension on you, overwhelming your body with the strength and power of his in a way that normal people wouldn’t take as an expression of affection.  But you know him.  You know that he finds it much easier to express the things he feels in a physical way, which is why there’s a bar of soap against your back right now instead of his voice in your ear, telling you all the things you’ve always wanted to hear from him in return.  You know that sex is how this all began and it’s likely just the closest link between roughness and sweetness that he can really put his hands on, something that can fit him equally as well as it fits you.  Love is different, it’s thrilling and scary.  Even to someone like him, who lives everyday of his life surrounded by thrilling and scary things, who’s seen more bloodshed and suffering and pain than you can ever even imagine, you know that it’s scary.

Din doesn’t say anything back to your confession, and truthfully, not a single part of you was expecting him to.  It wasn’t said so he could say it back.  It just is.  Some things don’t need explanations, they just are.  You’re okay with that.

But, you eventually come to realize that he always waits until you’re just on the very edges of sleep, holding out until your blurry vision and fading consciousness can trick you into thinking you only imagined it.  You won’t ever figure out if it’s purposeful or if he just needs that long to find what he wants to say.

Another soft, lilting sentence in a language you wouldn’t be able to translate, even if you could pick out a single word.  It sounds so beautiful though, regardless of how mysterious and far away its meaning feels.  There’s something hidden underneath.  You ache to know what it is.

But you’re so tired.  You just whine softly against his shoulder, not being able to transform the thoughts into sentences anymore but hoping he understands regardless.  He can’t just resort to bearing his soul in Mando’a all the time now, especially when you’re always on the verge of sleep when he chooses to do so.

But at some point, his arms subtly tighten around you and the pressure is one of the only things that’s keeping you awake anymore.

“I won’t ever ask you to,” he says to you, the quietness of his baritone getting lost in the gentle spray and your looming slumber.  “I’m…  not allowed to ask.  I can’t.”

Your expression twitches just the slightest bit against his shoulder in confusion, wondering distantly what word or sentence you must’ve missed from before that would make him make sense.  Was that a translation?  Or a continuation?

But then your wet hair is slowly moved away from your nape and his head tilts down, face pressing into your neck and voice lowering until it’s nothing more than a breath against your skin, nothing more than a confession that he couldn’t ever say out loud with his full chest.  It’s a secret he only ever wants you to know, a truth he’s choosing to admit to even though you could ruin him with it.  You have no idea how much, you won’t know for a long time just how much power he’s giving you by telling you this one very simple thing.

“But whenever you want to look,” Din finally whispers, the only version of I love you too that a Mandalorian knows.  “You can.”

[sunnylaurels]

Anata-あなた

@tortilla-of-courage @squid-ink-personal @musashi

Anata ultimately means ‘you’ but it can have several implications. I’m going to focus on two of them.

1. Intimacy. It’s so intimate that some people even translate it to ‘dear’ or ‘darling’

2. Hierarchy. It can mean that the person speaking sees the other as inferior, or equal at best. Like when a parent speaks to a child, or a teacher speaks to a student. 

You don’t use anata for someone you’ve just met. That’s... rude, as it should imply the latter. In fact, you should generally avoid using second-person pronouns in general when speaking in Japanese. Just use names.

Zelda

Zelda first calls Link anata when they’re rescuing Link’s Loftwing. She doesn’t call him ‘anata’ in the first scene together, though. Probably because Gaepora is there. She uses a more intimate version of ‘you’ once they’re alone. 

She also calls him anata when they’re together on the Goddess Statue, and when they’re flying through the sky together. 

Notice how they’re always alone, with no chance of being interrupted. Shows just how much anata means. When it’s used intimately like this, it does a great job of showing how close this particular Link and Zelda are.

Not to mention that anata is also commonly used between married couples...

(Did anyone need proof that sksw Zelink is canon? Because here’s your proof.)

Fi

Fi, on the other hand, doesn’t sound so intimate. Even if you excuse her in Link’s dream (since they aren’t technically face-to-face) she immediately calls him anata when they first meet. As I said before, that’s rude. 

Fi is... not very polite in her introduction scene. She apparently refers to Link as her inferior and when she does use his name, she just says “Link.” Without the  -san. (It’s okay for Zelda to do that because they’re close. Fi is not close.) Upon meeting Gaepora for the first time she hears how he’s missing half of Hylia’s message and pretty much says- “Fi expected this.” She doesn’t think highly of humans, it seems.

Hey, one anata(or two) could have been a mistake, right? Nope. Fi calls Link anata again. You can even see Link go on guard, he doesn’t exactly trust her. (She doesn’t stop though. She tells him Zelda is alive and that guard goes right down, and she continues to call him anata.)

Link draws the sword and she recognizes him. Then calls him “My Master Link.” In katakana, so that’s English. This is where Fi starts to call Link “Master” (she dropped the “my”) but there are moments when she still calls him anata.

Impa

Impa and Zelda use anata for each other. It really goes to show how close they are, even though Impa also uses -sama for Zelda. It makes them feel like they’re equals, rather than master and servant. Impa also differentiates between Hylia and Zelda.

Oh, and she calls Link omae. Which is generally very rude.

Hylia

Oh boy. Hylia calls Link anata too. The reasons aren’t exactly clear. But it hurts. I differentiate between Zelda and Hylia for a reason. In that one scene (you know which one I’m talking about) Zelda makes it obvious that she’s not really Zelda right now, but Hylia. And yet... she still uses anata. Maybe it’s because of the closeness between Link and Zelda. Maybe it’s because she’s the goddess, and sees Link as inferior. Maybe it’s both. But it feels wrong, because everything else from her watashi in kanji to the -desu is not Zelda.

Back to Zelda

Once the honorifics are gone and watashi is in hiragana rather than kanji, you can tell that this is “still your Zelda.” Time for yet another anata. 

“I’d always be the one to wake you up.”

Farewell Fi

Fi wasn’t very close with Link at the beginning, but the ending’s a different story. That occasional anata leans more towards intimacy now. She tells Link to place the Master Sword in the pedestal, and he does so, albeit reluctantly after getting confirmation from Zelda.

The ‘contract’ is now broken, so to speak. Link is no longer Fi’s master. Fi is no longer Link’s servant. Fi doesn’t wait to make a point of this. She calls him “Link” again, without the ‘Master.’ And then, anata.

Then comes her last line.

Despite not needing to, she says “my Master Link” again. Like when she first recognized him. But this time, it’s by her own volition. 

“Thank you, my Master Link... To be with your soul again someday...”

[minor-solemnity]

Curiosity pt. 2

He leaves you standing in the corner of the library, clutching your rucksack, the phantom touch of his lips against your ear and his breath on your neck lingering.

Next time turns out to be four days later. 

You’re in the library, attempting to get your essay for Binns finished before curfew. It’s going… very fucking poorly, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. You have no real interest in the history of vampire safety regulations and your essay lies accusingly on the table in front of you. The book you’re using for the main basis of your research is opened on a random page and you want more than anything to find Marie and Stephanie to alleviate you of your boredom. You sigh and begin to write your opening statement, hoping that maybe once you start the words will and arguments will begin to flow more easily. You don’t get very far when the chair opposite you scrapes back and you look up to find Riddle sitting across from you, a small smirk curling his lips at your evident surprise.

“Good afternoon,” He murmurs and you note that he hasn’t unpacked his bag. “It’s a lovely day, I would have thought you’d be outside with your friends? Playing quidditch, perhaps?” His voice is soft and smooth, like honey drizzled in black tea, a hint of amusement dances  in his eyes. You suppress the (incredibly childish) urge to stick your tongue out at him.

“Vampire policy. You know how it is,” You murmur in response and turn back to your essay. You share History of Magic with Riddle. You share most of your lessons with him, actually. He’s taking a ludicrous amount of subject for NEWTs and you wonder distantly if there’s a reason for it beyond a general interest in a wide variety of things. You decide that it’s best if you just ignore him. He’s not doing anything, after all; hopefully he’ll get bored and leave.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he watches you, which is incredibly distracting. The library is too quiet. Riddle is right: it’s a lovely day and it seems that everyone has decided to take advantage of that fact. It’s just you and Riddle and the quiet scratch of your quill and the steading sounds of his breathing. The longer that he watches you, the more you feel your frustration grow. It’s off-putting to be stared at, and even more so when it’s him. You’re not sure what it is about him that sets you on edge - he’d barely crossed your mind before the unexpected conversation at dinner - but there’s definitely something that tells you to be cautious.

Eventually though, your frustration gets the better of any caution you feel and you drop your quill onto the desk, uncaring of the small puddle of ink that pools beneath the tip. “Like you said, it’s nice day. Wouldn’t you rather be outside enjoying the sun rather than watching me write an essay?” You’re pretty impressed with how even you’ve managed to keep your voice. Riddle, damn him, smiles. It’s an annoyingly lovely smile.

He leans forward in his chair, his hands flat on the tabletop, his dark eyes focused on yours. It’s rather alarming just how intense his gaze is. Without meaning to, you pull back slightly. It’s barely a movement at all but he notices and if anything his smile gets wider. “You know, I really don’t think I would. I was hoping to talk to you actually, if you were amenable.” From anyone else, it would have been a question, a request. From Riddle, its a demand dressed up in politeness. You get the distinct impression that Tom Riddle isn’t used to not getting exactly what he wants.

“You see, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by Miss Kirkdale’s comment, the other day at dinner, you remember.” Again, a statement that would have been a question from anyone else. You don’t know why it unsettles you so much. “And I found myself most intrigued by what she could mean. Bribery is a fairly heavy accusation to throw around, is it not?”

“It wasn’t bribery.” You snap without considering the implications of what you’ve just said until you see his smile turn sharper. Predatory.

Before you can say a word in your defence he continues, “Which suggests that it was something.” Oh, you’re going to kill Stephanie for her big mouth. You don’t care that she’s the first female quidditch player that Hogwarts has ever seen or that everything you did, you did for her. You’re going to murder her and you will enjoy it. “I’d like for you to tell me what exactly it was, if not bribery.”

“Oh, you would? Well, I’m sorry, Riddle, what exactly it was or wasn’t that I did or didn’t do is hardly your concern.” You all but hiss, and with that, you shove your essay into your satchel and scrape your chair back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I will go and enjoy the weather.”

In a flash Riddle is on his feet. He’s still smiling but that smile does nothing to ease the tension that’s suddenly hanging heavily in the air between you. There’s no one else in the library, not that it would matter if there was: you’d chosen one of the quietest corners, tucked away between the History of Magic and Herbology sections. No one comes near this part of the library unless they’re under duress. He all but looms over you as he crowds your space and forces you to take a step backwards. A hand on your shoulder stops you and you determinedly ignore the heat that spreads outwards and down your spine from where he touches you through your shirt. He’s so close, so very much in your personal space that you’re forced to tilt you head back to see his face and when you do you find that he’s gazing down at you with a curious glint in his eye. You think he might be angry but there’s something else there too.

He’s definitely not used to being told no.

You blink and the emotion brimming just below the surface in Riddle’s eyes is gone. He looks deceptively pleasant. He lowers his head and your breath catches in your throat. A ghost of laughter tickles your cheek as he leans close, “It’s not often that I find myself curious about the goings on of my peers. I think you’ll find that I can be rather persistent when I find something - or someone - that does catch my interest.”

He leaves you standing in the corner of the library, clutching your rucksack, the phantom touch of his lips against your ear and his breath on your neck lingering.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

[ajaxwrites]

GENSHIN IMPACT FANFIC REC LIST II

(previous: part i)

Seaglass by Aevas

There was more to the contract than a gnosis and test of Liyue. It seemed like a simple deal five hundred years ago: so long as Morax never had a soulmate, the Tsaritsa would never harm Liyue and she would not get his gnosis. But the moment he gained a soulmate, all that belonged to him was forfeit. He thought the deal left Liyue safe—he'd lived thousands of years without a soulmate. The Tsaritsa would be dead and gone by the time she'd have a chance to collect.

Five hundred years later, Childe appears in Liyue, Zhongli gains a soulmate mark, and everything falls apart.

(The obligatory soulmate AU, featuring a Zhongli with PTSD, an oblivious Childe, and demon-worshipping cultists.)

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: I CANNOT BELIEVE I SLEPT ON THIS FIC FOR SO LONG. Read it and I mean it! I admitted initially steered clear of this fic because I wasn’t comforted with a soulmate tartali fic pre-Osial but this fic is actually post-Ostial *facepalm* The writing is phenomenal and Aevas does some beautiful worldbuilding that you typically don’t see in Genshin Impact fics. I love the dynamic between Childe and Zhongli here and the angst is real. The author writes the two as very human characters who makes mistakes, etc. and notably Zhongli struggles with the concept of Childe as his soulmate (who understandably is upset by the rejection when he realizes). They get better though. Also very plotty. A+ writing.

it's a hard rock life for us by reptilianraven

“Ah, no need to worry about that,” Azhdaha waves a dismissive hand. “There is no real Kun Jun. He’s dead.”

A leaf blows past and plaps onto Aether’s face.

“You killed him???” Paimon screeches.

“No,” Azhdaha scrunches his eyebrows. “He was dead when I found him.”

“And you just decided to wear his corpse?” Aether says, leaf still on his face.

He shrugs. “It was free real estate.”

“Azhdaha...” Morax says, sounding vaguely pained.

-

Or the one where Historia Antiqua Chapter II: No Mere Stone goes a little bit different and Azhdaha gets more time.

He ultimately uses that time to bully Morax into confronting his immortal neuroses, to make Aether and Paimon suffer, and to figure out how to get that ginger boy Morax has his eye on to make a move already.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe, Past Azhdaha/Zhongli

Notes: Very lighthearted, humor-filled fic. Love how Azhdaha is so flippant. Interactions with Zhongli and Childe are pure gold.

if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes by moonlight_mist

Childe has a Weapon problem- specifically, that he can't keep one.

He's too reckless, too wild, and too keen on pushing his Weapon partners past their limits. He's just about ready to give up when he meets Zhongli, a Weapon who just might be the solution- so long as Childe can manage to keep his dick in his pants.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: This is a Soul Eater AU with some college/university AU vibes (?) but you don’t really need to know much about the anime. It’s a cute AU and I love the premise. Light angst but otherwise, it’s a pretty semi-plotty fic. Easter egg Kaeya and Diluc though.

To Kill A God by IlluminanceinTales

In Snezhnaya, they call them sansis—lost souls that have no guidance but themselves. It’s an apt description, given that most of the time, wannabe-Archons have to go through dozens of tests with nothing as their reference, relying solely on their wit and strength and hoping it would be enough. At least, until they survive the end of the whole game—and they might not have to undergo a painful reincarnation which feels like a hundred bones being stitched together again.

On his seventh game, Childe Tartaglia reincarnates this time in the body of a young man.

Damn, he thinks, looking down at his thin body, his slightly calloused fingers. This won’t be good when facing the other Hydro Decisions.

In a world where an Archon's position is not chosen but fought for in games, Childe Tartaglia is a Hydro Decision who's poised to become the next Hydro Archon. Of course, that's only if he survives his seventh reincarnation. All would be so much easier if it weren't for a certain Geo Archon interfering with every possible chance he gets.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: Think Hunger Games meet Political Intrigue meet Genshin Impact. Love the premise and world building that’s done. Features overprotective Zhongli and lots of Childe whump. Has one or two supplementary OCs that aren’t really important outside of plot device reasons. Warning for character death tho lmao.

Three's a Family by IlluminanceinTales

Childe finds a kid that looks just like him.

Of course Zhongli wants to keep him.

Or: How a harbinger and an archon accidentally become fathers. The kid is their wingman

Ships: Childe/Zhongli (?)

Notes: Your everyday cute AF kid fic. Fluffy as hell and super cute. Zhongli and Childe get domestic pretty quickly. Xiao gets dubbed a grandfather and begrudgingly plays along. Super wholesome.

in pitch dark i go walking in your landscape by snowbrigade

He glanced down at him, at the silvery scars peeking out from beneath his robe, and at his eyes, properly now. They were the bright blue of high quality noctilucous jade, but he could see it, an underlying darkness.

Zhongli wondered what his eyes betrayed about himself. --

Rex Lapis is dead. Zhongli, formerly known as triad leader Rex Lapis, is a detective investigating his own "death." Childe, also known as Tartaglia of the Fatui mafia, is undercover as an escort looking to kill Rex Lapis- until someone beats him to it, and he wants to know who. Goals intersecting, they form a partnership of ulterior motives.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: There’s like one scene that skews NSFW but otherwise surprisingly not explicit. Really fun AU. Like how the author addresses Childe’s reaction to being stuck with the undercover escort stuff and how the dynamic between the two develops. Pretty plotty so far.

Phantom Lines by iskendaris

“It’s a measure of one’s self, Mr Zhongli.” Childe says. “Maybe you don’t understand it since you work as a consultant, but as an ambassador from the Tsaritsa, as one who fights in her name— this is how I learn to know the measure of myself.” “I understand,” Zhongli says thoughtfully. “It is a warrior’s way, to test one’s strength against the incomparable. To find where one falls short. To find where one has risen to the challenge.”

In which Childe has insomnia, vandalizes public property and runs into a mysterious funeral consultant on his first night in Liyue.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: THE FEELS. I can only describe this as the fic where Zhongli pays Best Boyfriend Ever only to FUCK UP big time (via Gnosis deception). Poor, poor Childe. Look, he gave the boy feelings and then broke him. You can really feel Childe fall in love in this love. He also does mental swooning a lot lmao. 

adventitious by Anonymous

It's said the Ley Lines remember all things that happen in this world, from the surface down to the deepest depths... But in the hidden corners where the Gods' gaze does not fall, there are those who dream of dreaming.

There's a dormant bud where Kaeya's eye once was. One day, it will bloom. (Never forget: memory is untrustworthy.)

Ships: Diluc/Kaeya

Notes: I don’t even know where to start. This is very headcanony and lore-focused. Very much concentrated on Khaenri'ah. The implications of this story is grotesque to say the least (according to this fic, Visions are the literal eyes of the people of Khaenri'ah). Warnings for eye and body horror.

Without Those Dark Memories by StrangeDiamond

Diluc awakens in Stormterror’s Lair with no memories of the past five years. Kaeya is on the trail of a rogue alchemist, with a habit of testing his chemicals on unwilling human subjects. Now, in addition to capturing the criminal, Kaeya has to shake him down for an antidote . . . and deal with an amnesiac Diluc who acts exactly like he did before their brotherhood fell apart. (Standalone Fic.)

Ships: Diluc/Kaeya

Notes: This is sort of a classic amnesia fic. I particularly really liked the way that Kaeya was written in this. I feel like the author did a really good job nailing his character and they have a way of capturing the subtle things.

Through the warmth, through the cold by strikedawn

“It’s you!” Paimon shouted with a twirl in mid-air.

“…Excuse me?"

They were drunk. Were they drunk? Was he drunk? Because Kaeya had the feeling his guests had been talking to him for a while now, but none of their words had made any sense whatsoever.

That was, until Venti stepped firmly in front of Kaeya’s desk and set his hands on the top, the better to lean over towards Kaeya and say: “For the end of the Windblume festival, Sir Kaeya Alberich, we’re going to auction a date with you.”

Ships: Diluc/Kaeya

Notes: Shortword, Kaeya gets auctioned off. Diluc makes impulsive (but good) decisions and scores himself a Date but displays an inability to do Date Planning. Venti deserves a pat on the back. Very sweet.

Hide and Seek by Kiri_Kaitou_Clover

Childe did not expect regaining his memories would bring him such frustration.

He makes the best of the situation by messing with one amber eyed consultant in anyway he can.

A reincarnated storm god wades through life in Liyue, all while screaming about one dragon god's incompetency at being human.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: Features Childe as Osial’s very exasperated reincarnation, who gets the joy of discovering that his rival/enemy Morax is not only an idiot but also broke AF. He still falls in love anyway. Contains this golden line: 

"Did... did that complete blockhead really use my money in order to get me a gift that basically says that he is proposing to me?!"

(Osial was screaming. When had the other god become like this?! Had he always been like this?!)

Getting that Bread by tzitzimeme

Concubine AU where Zhongli is Emperor, Xiao is an assassin sent to kill him while disguised as a woman in his imperial harem, and the only reason he doesn't actually do it is because he pities Zhongli for being so catastrophically stupid (also Xiao falls in love).

Ships: Zhongli/Xiao

Notes: Like Xiao says, Zhongli is an idiot. Fluff and humor filled. Xiao spends a good 95% of this exasperated by Zhongli’s bullshit. 

prayers for a boy by Recluse

The only way to reconciliation is fierce combat!

Hm... Come to think of it, there will be a lot of interesting news to be heard the next time we gather for drinks. Filling in the blanks.

Ships: N/A

Notes: I...don’t really know where to begin with this? It’s exactly what the summary implies...but more? I was tempted to describe this as the fic where Zhongli puts his foot in his mouth but...that’s not exactly write? I feel like this was more of a character study. It explores the aftermath of the Osial Incident and how Zhongli and Childe reconnect. Platonically...though I guess it can be read romantically. 

one kind of longing, two places of sorrow by lady_peony

Zhongli's hands rest behind his back, both gloved hands clasping one another. His fingers tighten around one another for the merest moment, before he relaxes his grip.

"There is a tradition in Liyue," Zhongli says, his back still to Childe standing behind him, "of inviting out a companion to a last meal before a farewell."

A pause.

"A tradition?" Childe echoes.

"Yes."

"With a companion?"

"Yes."

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: The fic where neither of the two communicate about jackshit but go on a quiet, sad not-date before Childe leaves for Snezhnaya. Childe pulls (? on accident or on purpose, I can not tell) the equivalent of leaving the jacket in the car post-date to get date to call for the second date. Also, the author has a gift for like...writing angst...without writing angst? Like the whole fic is like brimming with everything that the characters aren’t saying but the thoughts aren’t necessarily written out BUT YOU KNOW THOSE DUMBFUCKS ARE JUST LIKE. BRIMMING WITH FEELS? 

The People of Liyue by queer_occurrences

But Zhongli whispers, his low voice rooted in the back of Childe’s mind. “Changsun, the merchant, who is never too Mora-enthralled to turn away a needy child. There’s Tiantian—she will allow anyone to join the Adventurer’s Guild—she knows what it is to be desperate.”

Childe ducks away from them and hurries out over the bridge. It’s a warm, sunny day, the kind he would have complained about, whining about his delicate Snezhnayan skin. “It’ll burn, or worse, freckle. Would you still like me if I was freckled?”

Then Zhongli would say, “The people of Liyue will remember your sacrifice.” And he would wrinkle his nose.

Or: after it all goes down, Childe takes a walk.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: The author has a way with perfectly balancing angst with humor in a way that makes you cackle. There’s a lot of feels in this one. Zhongli tries communicating--Childe runs away a lot. There’s a lot of love for Liyue in this one.

cold blooded, warm blooded, hearts all the same by reptilianraven

Teyvat Petting Zoo @tyvtpettingzoo

Well would you look at that! Zhongli, our resident spinytail iguana, has gotten quite cozy with Childe, our new (and very feisty) ginger ferret! Aren’t they adorable all cuddled together like this? 😍😍😍

[Attached image shows a brown spinytail iguana curled up against a ginger ferret. The iguana’s head is nuzzled under the snout of the ferret.]

-

At the Teyvat Petting Zoo, Zhongli and Childe fall in love.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: ...I promise I’m not weird. This is just super cute. Cross-species love affair? Childe the ferret is very besotted. The internet is confused and the zoo keepers are just done.

a geo archon's guide to the modern era by Erina

“Morax,” Xiao says after Zhongli finishes his retelling of the incident. “He thinks you’re a weirdo.”

“No, don’t say that,” Barbatos snickers. “You’ll give him hope that this is salvageable.” He lowers his voice. “Morax, he thinks you’re a boomer.”

(In which Zhongli hibernates for centuries and wakes up in the modern world)

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: This took me, I shit you not, FIVE SEPARATE ATTEMPTS to read. Not because it was bad but BECAUSE THE SECOND HAND EMBARRASSMENT WAS REAL. Like, omg, just reading about Zhongli’s introduction to modernity made me want to dig a hole and die. Super funny though. Do not read in public or you will look like a lunatic. Has a...parallel (?) fic in the same series called  buy two get one archon free where Zhongli gets reversed isekai’d into an anime convention.

time flies like an arrow by Erina

He’s tired, tired of the unbreakable loop of watching his loved ones pass on, tired of getting attached only for the connection to be violently ripped away from him. He wonders if the real victors during the Archon War were those who perished, who died long before their godhood turned into a curse that chained them to the land that they were fighting for.

But that is not a problem for Childe to worry about. That is Zhongli’s burden to bear, delivered to him in a pretty package years ago in the form of a gnosis.

His very first contract.

(Zhongli and Childe, across many lifetimes)

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: This is a quiet fic. It’s this kind of slice-of-life fic colored by this overpowering sense of love and loss as Zhongli remains immortal and Childe dies and lives and dies and lives for hundreds of lifetimes, but always finds his way back to his geo archon. It’s so lovely but also unbearably sad.

Tartaglia’s Favorite Professor by GreyLiliy

The famed hitman Tartaglia of the Fatui Syndicate spends his days as the charming college student Childe. The two lives remain as separate as possible in order to maintain a flawless cover to keep the authorities off his back and to better serve the Tsaritsa.

However, new intel about a rival syndicate intersects his two lives in a way he could never have predicted.

Ships: Zhongli/Childe

Notes: Mafia AU meet College AU. Childe is somehow both a horny AF college student and murderous hitman. Zhongli gives off major DILF vibes. GreyLily somehow makes this work while also avoiding cringe. Highly recommended!

like a handprint on my heart by fallingintodivinity

“Strictly off-the-record,” Jean says, with a small smile, “I’m really happy to see you and Captain Kaeya getting along again, Master Diluc.”

“We’re not – we’re not getting along,” Diluc tells her, indignant. “We’re working together. Unwillingly, I might add.”

“Yes – oh, yes, of course.”

Diluc stares at Jean suspiciously. “Are you laughing at me?”

Jean clears her throat primly. “I would never.”

Ships: Diluc/Kaeya

Notes: Super, super cute! Sort of reads like a first date fic except genshin impact style? Writing style is very refreshing!

[ackermanshoe]

Do not tell me if I'm wrong but here's

rivamika moments we haven't talked about enough- pt 1

Before I start you dont have to agree with me this is just what my thoughts are and how I perceived these moments when I first saw them.

Ok time to start nitpicking.

Levi when they came to the squad in the scorching heat : looking reasonably mad as usual.

And this, this is his face right after Mikasa had said her input about Marley not understanding them as people.

Excuse me? I'm not sure if he's looking at her but you can't ignore the fact that his face had this major change from the look of annoyence to a look of exhaustion? Pity? How should I say the mix of both with a pinch of love? Adoration? You get the idea right 💆‍♀️

Okay, moving on...

Okay my marking game ain't too strong but you get the picture yes?

The "out on a walk, women on tow.." why isn't this line talked about enough?? ( Is it just me or does this line seem high-key disrespectful??)

So after this random as man refered to the "women" next to him, you can see his face turn to Mikasa's side- ( 😭) he is turned to the man is now mentioning going shopping and that man is right next to Mikasa. Knowing the ugly nature of civilians this gives me a sense that isayama was probably attempting a cliche "harrassment scene". That, but very subtly. And because of the fact that Levi was specifically drawn leaning toward Mikasa's side rather than Sasha's side, it makes me very suspicious of what isayama was trying to portray here. As a shipper I'd like to see this image as Levi being aware of these men's not so pure undertone while speaking about women and specifically a certain woman, and hence Levi's protective instinct kicking in. And since I refuse to hold anything back here, I'd say even though it was Sasha who made the "Eek!"

Noise, it was Mikasa that he subconsciously looked out for.

🥴🥴 no body is allowed to disagree with me on this ☺️☺️

Because I have thought about this for a long time, since I read this chapter and thought how different the uprising arc was in the manga than the anime. And these specific details make the biggest difference to how we see them develop ( or at least to me ).

And to further add fuel to my last theory about Mikasa possibly reminding Levi of his mother, this scene is oddly put in. This starving woman with her child obviously reminded Levi of his tragic childhood and his mother. But do you see how closely this panel and mikasa's panel is put in? It's right above the other. One where not so obvious implication of Levi being protective over Mikasa is shown and then one where Levi being reminded of his mother is implied. I don't think it's a coincidence ppl 😌🖖

And if I must refer back to the fact that both Levi and Mikasa is reaching for the same kind of tranquility in life then I must say, Levi also very clearly cares about family. Or children at least, he had the toughest life as a child seeing his mother rot right in front of him, he does not want a repeat of that, he wants a family where he can give the love his younger self was deprived off. And it's the same for Mikasa as if it wasn't clear enough that she longs for a family, seeing how hers were taken away from her of course she would want to live a life with children who do not have to see the same fate. Basically what I'm saying is that "rivamika are perfect for each other and I don't fucking get why they aren't married already like what the fuck" but more politely :)

Anyways I'm gonna end this here, I was not happy with how I worded my analysis of Levi's mother and Mikasa like I can't believe people read that 😢 I didn't do my thoughts justice.

( thank you everyone for reading once again, I feel like everyone is active here posting content when it's night for me so I become really bored during the day it's fine I guess it becomes a routine to check the rivamika tag every 5 minutes 🤡 )

[johnconstantinesdick]

Okay *cracks knuckles, accidentally dislocates fingers* @agentscamander-romanoff and @steel-phoenix took the bait and enabled me by asking me to elaborate on my Children of the Watch origins theory. Which means I am about to go ABSOLUTELY feral.

Apologies to anyone for having incorrect Star Wars lore, I’ve barely consumed canon content and I don’t intend to start now. Also sorry if anyone has already said this! I’ve never seen this particular theory/interpretation and it’s made me go a bit insane.

Warnings: discussion of child abuse, cults, and the aftermath of genocide. I don’t go super in depth on any of it but it’s there. Also, I typed this in the notes app of my phone and autocorrect hasn’t quite submitted to some of these names.

SO. I’m going to break this up into sections. 1. Exploring canon 2. Extrapolations/Connecting the red string 3. What does this MEAN??? 4. Complaining about Bo-Katan.

First off, though, here’s my thesis: Children of the Watch is a “splinter group” made up of the children that Death Watch stole, indoctrinated, and abused. They’re also not a cult (Death Watch is though lmao).

1. Exploring Canon:

Okay, so. Canonically, Death Watch has abducted, tortured, and brainwashed children. Arla Fett is an example of that, having been abducted at the age of 14 after her parents were killed and she was subsequently brainwashed into becoming an assassin for Death Watch. She didn’t even hesitate when she found out her brother was alive! That’s how strong the conditioning was! She was so fucked up from it that she spent YEARS in a mental facility, and she outright begged a Jedi to wipe her memories in exchange for a favor. DEATH WATCH DID THAT. And you CANNOT tell me she was the only one they’ve done this to. PLENTY of fic writers have extrapolated off of this and mentioned it, but it’s important to me that everyone know this shit is absolutely rooted in canon.

Another Death Watch Child Abuse Fun Fact: Dred Priest and Isabet Reau, two of the trainers of the clones, canonically had Death Watch leanings and tried to instill Death Watch beliefs in the clones by FORCING THEM TO FIGHT EACH OTHER IN SECRET BATTLE CIRCLES THAT ENDED UP KILLING SOME OF THE CLONES. THEY WERE CHILDREN AT THE TIME, IF IT WASN’T CLEAR. WHAT THE FUCK. If THAT’S not an example of Death Watch abusing the kids under their care then I don’t know what is. It’s suuper not a stretch for me to think that this wasn’t an unheard of thing in more official Death Watch circles.

Also canonically, Bo-Katan has referred to Din’s covert as “Children of the Watch”, and Din, despite obviously being an important and respected member of his community, doesn’t recognize the name, which implies to me that it’s not a name the covert chose for themselves. Rather, a moniker that was given to them after they splintered off of Death Watch. Since this isn’t an opinion and it’s more just… information, I’ll trust Bo-Katan on this one.

We also know for sure that Din’s covert IS connected to Death Watch in some way, seeing as the flashback sequence very clearly shows Mandalorians in blue and gray beskar’gam, the colors of Death Watch. HOWEVER… the Armorer, who seems to hold a high position of authority in the covert, wears gold and copper beskar’gam. Din wears unpainted (v2) or mismatched colored (v1) beskar’gam (I do grant that his paint color counts less towards this because he’s pretty much one of the only people interacting with the outside world and so colors associated with Death Watch are probably a no go no matter what). Paz Vizsla’s armor is a very dark blue with yellow and cyan details and, oh my fucking god I didn’t even know this but he has a fucking MYTHOSAUR SYMBOL ON ONE OF HIS PAULDRONS. THE FUCK???? THAT’S LITERALLY THE SYMBOL OF THE TRUE MANDALORIANS IM. Ok. Okay. I needed a minute. Like I KNOW that the mythosaur skull is Mandalorian symbol in general but I think it just hits different when a Vizsla is wearing it, you know? Especially because the placement is the same as Jaster Mereel’s???? Literal founder of the True Mandalorian movement????? Excuse me???????

Let’s uh. Let’s get back to armor. I can address that… later. So. Anyway. Armor is super important, and it’s uhhh very telling that the covert doesn’t emulate the Death Watch colorscheme strictly. Like, yeah, there’s gray and light blue in there, if you go through some wiki pages, but they’re not the only colors they use, and the Armorer doesn’t even have either of those colors! And she’s the biggest authority we’ve seen! Very fucking interesting!! Bo-Katan still has her armor painted in Death Watch colors! And yet she’s derisive of Din’s covert! Verrry interesting!

We also know that Din’s covert emphasizes children VERY much, more than Death Watch ever would have, imo. It’s expected for the adult members to provide for the foundlings (and it’s VERY interesting that the kids are seemingly all referred to as foundlings iirc. More on that later.), and even though Paz disagrees with Din working with the empire, he and the other members of the covert immediately and with no hesitation come to Din’s aid for this child that Din hasn’t even claimed as his own—it’s amazing! And I will note that Bo-Katan and her warriors do the same upon their initial meeting with Din—Koska dives into danger with no hesitation as soon as Din says the child is still in danger. We see that this solidarity does come at a price for Bo-Katan, though, while the Armorer sees protecting a foundling as a duty that is completely worth all the trouble it brought.

Fascinating also that Boba was 100% on board to help out Din to save Grogu past what Din or anyone else would have expected of him, while Bo-Katan had to be bribed into coming by the promise of Moff Gideon and the darksaber. And she thinks she’s somehow more Mandalorian than him.

And NOW, going way back in time to the beginnings of the True Mandalorian movement, we know that Jaster Mereel originally authored his Supercommando Codex by looking back through history to the Canons of Honor and the Resol’nare, and he took those ideals and ideas and he modernized them to create a set of moral guidelines to follow. And people loved that shit! Death Watch had to infiltrate the True Mandalorians and then trick the Jedi into slaughtering them just to get rid of them, because Jaster’s charisma and his sexy sexy morals were too strong. (God. I fucking LOVE Jaster Mereel if you couldn’t tell.) Anyway, there’s precedent for Mandalorians looking back to their history to bring forth old ideas, repurposed to a modern context. We also know that, canonically, Din’s covert follow the “old ways” of not sharing names and of never taking their helmets off in front of others.

Moving on.

2. Extrapolations/Connecting the red string:

So if we extrapolate from the fact that Death Watch are, uh, super fucking abusive towards the kids that they stole/their own kids, then we’re left with… this group of kids, who have been mistreated and indoctrinated for a LONG TIME, and possibly don’t have that great an understanding of non-toxic Mandalorian culture. And if they’ve been abducted or rescued, whatever, they might not fit back in with the places they were taken from, or they may not have a place to go back to, or they may not even remember where they’re from originally. It’s some prime angst material! Good stuff.

And if we pull the implication from the names that “Children of the Watch” is a splinter group off of Death Watch, it really does make you think… huh, you know what? These two things may be one in the same. Maybe.

And, like, we know that Jaster Mereel and Din’s covert both looked to Mandalorian history to find pillars for their community’s morals. Jaster did so in the middle of a lot of political turmoil, as a way to say “Hey, we can still be Mandalorians in the ways that matter, but being Mandalorian doesn’t mean being a morally bankrupt conqueror. We can have honor and still wear armor and fight and uphold the Resol’nare.”

And I think Din’s covert did so when they were struggling with unlearning the toxic ideals that had been shoved onto them by Death Watch. I think they had to figure out their own way of being Mandalorian or else they would have crumpled under the pressure. And so they looked back to the old ways and picked out the more extreme interpretation of Cin Vhetin (clean slate) which says that, once you swear the Resol’nare and become a Mandalorian, your past doesn’t matter, it’s what you do now that does. You don’t take off your helmet, and you don’t let others know your name, because those things don’t matter to who you are and what you do. (There’s also the issue of the helmet and name rule being an important defense tactic to protect the covert, seeing as how Mandalorians post-Empire are the survivors of genocide. There’s already a fantastic post on it here)

Related, another Mandalorian saying is “Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la.”, meaning “Nobody cares who your parent was, only the parent you’ll be,” which IMO fits in very nicely with how I’m interpreting Din’s covert. It’s all about your actions and future mattering more than your past. I think that when the covert was splitting off and being built, this would be a huge component of them healing. Because the way they were treated and indoctrinated by Death Watch doesn’t have to affect their future actions. They don’t have to perpetuate the cycle of abuse, they can build a covert and a community around caring for foundlings.

Now, onto the foundlings! I find it very interesting that, whenever the covert’s younglings are mentioned, it’s always as foundlings. I think this implies that there’s a focus on saving and raising children more than there is on sharing blood with them, and I think that the covert would be more inclined towards communal raising than typical family units, if only to keep everyone in check and to protect the children from ever being treated as they were. I also find it VERY interesting that there’s a lot of emphasis put on returning children to their own kind. I don’t think Death Watch would have employed that practice, and I think that’s another example of the covert wanting to make their community a better place for children. I think it’s likely a lot of them didn’t get that choice, and they had to leave their cultures and people behind. And so they want to give that choice to their children.

I think it’s also amazing that, like. They keep finding and raising children instead of deciding they’re too damaged or whatever to have kids. Because it doesn’t matter if they have baggage or trauma when a child needs them. That’s FANTASTIC. I’m losing my MIND. It really doesn’t matter who their parents were to them, just the kind of parents they will be. It’s all about breaking that cycle and deciding to be better and I LOVE THAT.

3. What does this MEAN???:

Well. What this means is that Din’s covert has a very clear set of motivations and structure when it comes to how their covert is run. It’s not a cult; in fact it is specifically a group created by cult survivors who are determined to not do to others what was done to them. The rules may seem weird and strict at first glance, but they have a clear purpose and rationale, and no one is trying to amass power. They’re just… trying to do better, and be better.

(This also means that I’m 99% sure that, with the assistance of time travel, at least half of the covert would be SUPER INTO Jaster Mereel. I like to imagine that Paz had, like, a poster of him on his little sewer bedroom wall. I fully believe he painted that mythosaur skull on his pauldron in honor of a good man who was killed by Paz’s own relatives for standing by his morals and daring to try to reform and rally Mandalorians. I also think it would be funny if, like, Din doesn’t know shit about ANYTHING to do with modern history, but Boba mentions that his grandfather is Jaster Mereel and Din is like “OH I KNOW THAT GUY! Yeah he’s cool, he’s the historical crush of like, my entire covert.” And Boba is like. What.)

It also means that it can be up in the air about whether Din was found by Death Watch before his covert splintered off, or if his covert was still just wearing Death Watch colors when he was found. Fun thing to play around with, but right now I don’t want a solid timeline.

Hmm just thought I should add: while the Armorer does seem to have a position of authority, I don’t think the covert can be structured politically with clans and houses like other Mandalorian groups. Like, clan just means family in this context, and is less a part of hierarchy, and I don’t think they would even recognize houses within the covert? Like they MIGHT decide to call themselves part of House Djarin now that Din is Mand’alor, but before that they weren’t like. House Vizsla with Paz as the leader just because they used to be Death Watch. I don’t vibe with that. This isn’t really super relevant, I just wanted to add it.

4. Complaining about Bo-Katan:

Anyway Bo-Katan is absolutely full of shit and it’s doubly disgusting that she’s standing there in Death Watch armor, seemingly still allied to this fucking cult of imperialism and conquest, and she accuses Din of being in a regressive cult, and she implies that the way he engages with the Resol’nare is wrong and like. Repressed or something. God I hate Bo-Katan. But I love to hate her. She’s horrible but I want her to be included in the list of Din’s friends but not the list of people he’d trust his kid with. I have contradictory Bo-Katan feelings, whatever. The most important thing is that all of her opinions are horrible, like, all the time. And we shouldn’t trust her when she says Din’s part of a cult. Literally why does anyone take that at face value. If we’re taking her word as the authority on Mandalorian issues then I guess Boba and Jango aren’t Mandalorian!!! Seriously.

TLDR; Din’s covert (aka “Children of the Watch”) is made up of survivors of childhood abuse, torture, and brainwashing at the hands of Death Watch, and they’re dedicated to making sure their children don’t go through the same thing. They’re not a cult, but Death Watch sure was! Jaster Mereel is the love of my very aromantic life and Bo-Katan’s opinions can’t be trusted. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[thosewickedlovelies]

AND THEY WERE WALLMATES: Banana Bread (part 1)

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Rating: probably T for mature themes (implications of sexy times and violence). It will go up later ;)

Summary: You share an apartment wall with Javier Peña, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get to know him. You didn’t think your baking would be the catalyst (read: Javi is jealous that Connie gets all the extras).

Tags: Mention of blood; super vague description of wound care; alcohol; TW for Javi: you have FEELINGS bby

Word count: 2,791

A/N: I guess technically this starts at the beginning of season 1, but I don’t plan on referencing the events of the show, so imagine they’re working on things less intense than trying to catch Escobar. I found Javier really tricky to write for, so I hope this reads okay! I’m so excited about the future chapters I have outlined for this lol pls get hype.

Masterlist

---

You had only been living in your new place for about a month when you got new neighbors. You were glad for the company- the four-apartment building was fairly new, and didn’t feel very lived-in. You did your best to add some personal flair to your apartment, but it still had the effect of reminding you of your own newness to this place, your lack of any deep personal connections.

Your other neighbor didn’t exactly help with that. Javier Peña had lived here for awhile before you moved in, but that was all you knew about him; you didn’t speak much beyond your neighborly greetings and his insinuating smiles. He never hides his lingering glances, but nor does he make any other moves- you sense he’s a safe type, all bark and no bite (without consent). So you always amusedly but politely ignore the invitation implicit in your exchanges. They don’t seem to have a lot of depth anyway, as if he’s just trying for the sake of trying. Granted, he probably never has to do much more than that- you’re very aware of how attractive your neighbor is on the surface. You just prefer to feel a connection slightly deeper than surface level before going home with someone.

You learn more about him from Connie, who tells you that he works at the embassy with her husband, Steve. In “janitorial services.” You raise a bemused eyebrow at that, but respect your neighbors’ privacy and don’t ask further questions. You help Connie get a job at a hospital a few blocks away from the one you’re a nurse at and promise to help her practice Spanish.

The building feels more lively now, and you’re happy to have a confidant upstairs, especially one who’s more privy to the life of your enigmatic hall-mate. You don’t know if it’s the neighborly care you feel for your new friend or if there’s some other unconscious change, but you begin to keep an ear out for Javier. You do share an apartment wall, although you don’t glean much through it. Some standard kitchen rummaging, television noise, the occasional bedroom guest (whose enterprises you try not to listen to, but damn if the man doesn’t have a perfect voice for after-dark activities). The most noticeable thing about him is the odd hours he keeps: sometimes in tandem with Steve’s schedule and sometimes not, you can never predict when he’ll be in or out.

--

Little do you know, you’re not the only one paying attention. Javier has spent many an evening alone with only whiskey and the television for company, but now there are other things to stimulate his senses. The smell of your baking filtering through the wall, even lingering in the hallway the next morning. The sound of you singing to the radio while clattering about the kitchen. Sometimes he turns the tv down to listen and imagines there being no wall between your two homes. What would his life be like with someone to infuse that kind of sweetness and light into it?

He doesn’t mean you specifically, necessarily. If, once or twice, your face jumps to mind while he’s taking care of himself in bed, he thinks nothing of it. You’re his beautiful neighbor- it’s a fantasy begging to be played out.

But damn if he hasn’t been tempted to make it a reality. He gets to taste your baking sometimes when you leave extras with Connie, and one day she catches his brow creased in a frown, distracted halfway through a slice of walnut banana bread.

“Javi,” Connie repeats, trying to get his attention.

“Yeah.” Javier snaps out of it, looking up.

“You’ve been staring at that piece of banana bread for a full two minutes. Is it gonna do a trick?”

He decides to lean into it, see what Connie’s reaction might be. “Only if the trick is getting me out of my pants. I don’t know a man alive who could resist the shit she makes.” He scoops another forkful into his mouth to prove his point, letting the rich, nutty flavor remind him of other places. Homes. Real homes, made of people, not the solitary kind he lives in now.

She rolls her eyes at his crudeness, but agrees. “You’re right about that. I don’t know where she gets the energy to do this after hospital shifts.”

Javier hides his next thought with another forkful of bread and a noncommittal noise. Wonder if she’d have as much energy for it if she had a man to tire her out. It was automatic, a question he couldn’t help debating with himself. Surely no one who spent that much time in the kitchen could have energy to spare on…other pursuits.

Connie is regarding him shrewdly. He avoids her gaze, focusing on finishing his plate in large mouthfuls to avoid the questions he can feel brewing. But he’s not quick enough. “Has she always brought you extras too?” she asks. Too casually, idling with her fork.

“No,” Javier says dismissively, and it’s not quite a scoff. “She wasn’t here long before you showed up. We’re not as close as you two.” Understatement. Did he sound sour about the fact?

Before Connie can ask any more questions he rises from his seat. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Tell Steve what I said.” With a nod of farewell, he turns and strides out the door.

--

One night you’re awoken with a start from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch. Heart pounding, you sit up, listening intently. You’d never felt unsafe here, but you’re aware of the potential dangers. What had woken you?

You hear a swear from the hall, and your muscles relax as you recognize Javier’s low voice. There’s a beat of silence, then a scraping, clinking sound. He must have dropped his keys. But then he grunts, and concern sweeps over you. You’re a nurse- you recognize the sound of a man stifling his pain.

There are long delays before each new noise that indicates an action. The doorknob twists as he grunts again, but it’s a moment before the key turns in the lock. It seems to take an age for him to get through the door; his motions sound clumsy before he closes it. Safe in the privacy of his home, so he thinks, he lets out a longer sigh, the pain and exhaustion now obvious in the sound. But you can hear his fumbling through the wall, and you worry your lip between your teeth. It is your place to go see if he’s alright?

Finally you decide that it is. You’re his neighbor and a healthcare professional, and it is your professional opinion that he sounded in-pain enough to warrant a check-up. Plus, you heard him that way before he got inside, you reason. So it’s not as if you were just being snoopy through the wall.

Just in case, though, you grab some muffins you made earlier as a backup excuse (once again mentally thanking whoever left the cookbook in your apartment). 11:30 isn’t too late for a friendly drop-by, right?

You knock softly on his door. “Javier? It’s me.” Nervous energy taps in your fingers. You’re never even been on his side of the hallway before.

There’s a shuffling sound, and the door unlatches. A narrow gap opens, into which Javier plants himself, and you immediately zero in on where he keeps one leg wedged behind the door. He leans into the elbow propped against the doorjamb above his head, while his other hand already holds a glass of what you can smell is whiskey. He looks like he would rather be anywhere but here at this moment. “Neighbor,” he greets dryly, a neutral expression on his face.

“Uhh.” You’ve never been this close to him before, and his appearance catches you off-guard. His usually combed hair is messy, waves tangling over his forehead, and he’s sweaty, the open collar of his shirt damp and the exposed skin gleaming with moisture.

Javier raises an eyebrow expectantly, taking a sip of his drink. His glances down at the plate in your hands, and it prompts you to speak.

“Hi, Javier. Uh, sorry, I know it’s late, but I thought I’d bring you some of these-“ you lift the dish “-before they come with me to work tomorrow. They’re banana bread muffins.” Your voice falters with your confidence. Your eyes can’t help but flicker over his face and chest, taking in the smear of dust on his jaw, the redness of the knuckles wrapped around his glass. Mostly you’re trying not to look at the leg he’s definitely hiding, which you can tell he’s keeping his weight off of.

--

Javier stares at you, not buying it for a second. His lips purse for lack of a cigarette to wrap around. He shifts the weight he has on his arm- damn, his leg hurts- and wonders what could have possibly prompted you to start bringing him baked goods now of all moments. “Why aren’t you bring those to Connie’s?” Like usual.

“Um, well-“ He sees your gaze finally drop to the leg he’s kept out of view, and too late remembers who got Connie the hospital job.

“I heard you drop your keys, and it sounded like you were in pain,” you confess. “I’m a nurse, Javier. I can help if you need it.” Though apologetic, your tone is firm, face sincere as you offer him aid. Him, your grumpy neighbor who does nothing but leer at you.

Well, he isn’t that proud. Javier sighs, and opens the door further. Your eyes widen as you see the long slice in his pant leg, blood still damp around the wound beneath. “Shit, Javier, what happened? It doesn’t matter, shit, sit down.” You surge forward without waiting for permission, tucking yourself under the arm of his uninjured side and steering him toward a dining room chair. Where he’d been about to sit down down and tend to the cut himself. He supposes your apartments mirror each other, but your familiar reaction to the layout still surprises him.

“Whoa, hey, watch the whiskey,” he exclaims, flailing out the arm holding the glass, taken aback by your sudden manhandling. With one hand still occupied by the muffins, you direct him solely with an around his waist and your shoulder propped under his armpit. He couldn’t have resisted if he tried. If it weren’t for the fiery pain in his leg, your hold would have him feeling a very different kind of heat.

You give him a look that says you won’t be fooled by his blustering as you deposit him onto the chair and the plate on the table. “May I?” you ask, kneeling, hands hovering above his wound.

“Oh, now you’re asking permission?” He scoffs in disbelief but waves a hand in consent, leaning back in the seat.

You scoff right back at him. “Look, I see blood, I make the macho men sit, okay? Why didn’t you go to a hospital with this?”

Javier studies you as you carefully lift the denim to peer at the cut on his thigh. He takes a sip of whiskey to buy time (as well as dull the stinging pain). You’ve put on a robe over what looks like pajamas, but you seem too alert to have just dragged yourself from bed. And yet...was that a pillow mark on your cheek? Just there, arcing from your temple to your jaw…

“Javier?" you're looking up at him, a touch of confusion on your face.

“Did I wake you up?” he hears himself asking.

Her gaze drops again. “No,” you answer. “Well, yes, but I fell asleep on the couch, so it was a good thing.”

Ah, that explained the pillow mark.

Finally you stand. Your hands rest on your hips, heedless of your fingertips smudged red with his blood. “It doesn’t actually look too bad. I have enough supplies here to fix you up. You stay here, take off your pants if you can manage it by yourself, and I’ll be right back.” And with that you whisk away, robe swishing through his front door.

Javier remains where he is, a bit stunned by this turn of events, your sudden insertion into his life. He shakes his head. Maybe whiskey and blood loss shouldn’t go together. He tosses back the rest of his glass anyway in order to wrangle off his jeans.

By the time you return, he feels more composed, if rather uncomfortably vulnerable, sitting in just his boxers with a bloody slice across his thigh. He watches silently as you arrange various medical supplies on the table and pull up a chair across from him. You perch on the edge of it and look at him before doing anything else. “Are you gonna tell me how you got this?”

He’s not about to tell you it was a fluke accident during one of Carillo's interrogations. Somehow, while his back was turned, the guy got free and tried to escape, swinging a knife wildly as he hurled past Javier. The cut was long, ugly, but shallow. He’d live. He couldn’t say the same for the man who delivered it.

--

Javier considers his answer. “Can’t,” he says. “It’s better if you don’t know.” His gaze skitters away as he speaks.

He works for the government with a poker face like that? “Janitorial work, huh?” you say dryly. Sighing, you reach for the antiseptic. “At least tell me what made it. So I can treat it properly.” You look at him steadily.

Javier looks back for a long moment. “A knife,” he says at last.

You nod, and rip open a packet of gauze. He sucks air through his teeth as the antiseptic sears the wound clean, but otherwise doesn’t speak while you work. Which is fine. You notice he’s drained his glass, and you empathize. Frankly you wish you had a drink yourself right now.

Once you’ve cleaned the cut it’s easier to see the damage. Which is minimal, thankfully. Most of the blood was probably from him moving around when it happened. You explain what you’re doing as you seal the wound closed. Only when you’re almost finished does he speak.

“Why don’t you ever bake me anything?”

It’s so unexpected that your hands still. You stare at him in astonishment, waiting for him to elaborate.

“What I mean is…christ,” Javier mutters. The unflattering fluorescent light overhead highlights the dark circles under his eyes as he scrubs a hand over his face. “You always leave extras of stuff at Steve and Connie’s. Never here.” With me.

You resume your work on his thigh, surprised to feel a tinge of guilt. “You didn’t seem like a baked goods kind of guy,” you reply, hoping you don’t sound too defensive. It was true, after all. Though you never got a sense of threat from Javier, neither did he seem the type who would appreciate domestic gestures of friendship.

He didn’t look offended, however. I’ll try anything once,” he says, the ghost of a familiar smirk suggesting he’s feeling better. But then he leans forward, all traces of smirk vanishing. “And your lemon drizzle cake was incredible.” Javier looks at you seriously. His face is too close for your level of acquaintanceship, but you don’t move away.

Surprised, you assess him anew, wondering if you’re catching a glimpse of the man beneath all the masculine posturing. He’s nicer-looking this way, you muse. His face softer, brown eyes wide and sincere. You hide just how pleased you are at this insight (which you’re sure he has no idea he’s giving you) beyond allowing yourself a small smile.

“Well, maybe next time I’ll bring you some.”

--

Javier can’t quite find another quippy response, so he just gives a small nod, finding it hard to draw back even after you break his gaze. He tries not to fidget as you place a final strip of tape over the gauze bandage.

“There,” you declare, your work complete. “That should hold you for tonight.” You stand and gather up your supplies, giving him care instructions as you go. “Got it?” You seem much more relaxed than when you first arrived, confidence in your work squaring your shoulders. It’s…compelling, much more so than your usual reserved smiles in the hall.

“Yes ma’am.” Javier nods, not having heard a word. “…Thank you,” he adds, begrudgingly grateful.

You smile wryly at him. “Goodnight, Javier.”

You’ve nearly reached the door when he speaks again. “Javi.”

“Hm?” Pausing, you turn back to him.

He clears his throat. “You…you can call me Javi.”

Your smile is much warmer this time, brightening your eyes, and Javier feels his heart pound. “Goodnight, Javi.”

[wei-yiing]

Ohhoho a drabble you say? How about something with cloud recesses summer school time but a matchmaker takes advantage of all the eligible bachelors in one spot and ensuing wangxian? (Stay well, friend!)

[ anon i saw this and sat on it for three days and i could only produce this awful drabble :') i'm still posting it because i love you. :"") ]

"Sect Leader Lan, you don't have any daughters, do you?"

Jin Guangshan's voice dances in the air as he quietly sips his tea, eyes lidded as he maintains his gaze with Lan Qiren.

"No." He grumbles as he restrains the urge to rub his temple. It would be unbecoming to fidget in front of their honoured guest, but Jin Guangshan is making it awfully difficult not to. "No, there are no female cultivators or next of kin within the Cloud Recesses."

"Well then, I'm sure we can figure something out." The man opposite places his teacup down with a smile. The sparks amidst snow covering the fabric of his clothing is somewhat garish to the eyes. Then again, the entirety of Lanling Jin always announce their presence with the loudness of their appearance. "I'm sure the various sect leaders have daughters that would suit your nephews' taste. And with their good looks and well behaved manner, whichever fair maiden we find should count her stars."

Masking a sigh as a contemplative exhale, Lan Qiren brings his own cup of tea to his lips. As much as wishes that were the case, he knows the situation may not be so easy-flowing with his younger nephew. Lan Wangji has been blessed with an attractive face, and he is Lan Qiren's best student, always devoted and adherent to his strict upbringing; but he's lacking in the charming softness that his brother possesses, and as such, has not quite mastered the nuances of courting a lady. In fact, Lan Wangji never even seems to try. Which, in all honesty, Lan Qiren takes no issue with. He would much rather this than the alternative of Lan Wangji frolicking around with women by his side, or worse, some wretched vixen ruining his good name altogether.

He grips the tea cup tighter.

Alas, Lan Wangji's sub-par social skills result in every attraction towards him being purely superficial, and Lan Qiren does not wish for that, either. Lan Xichen will easily find a sweet, mild woman who will accept every facet of him, but where in the world will they find someone who is willing to look past Lan Wangji's cold demeanor? Where in the world will they find someone that Lan Wangji, the ever-disinterested and studious boy that he is, will take a liking to?

Taking advantage of the congregation of disciples from multiple sects all over the land, Jin Guangshan had travelled to speak on this matter to Lan Qiren personally, putting forth his proposal of a mass-arranged marriage agreement between the five major sects to strengthen their bonds. It's a novel concept, with most sects usually choosing to continue their lineage within the clan. But somehow, Jin Guangshan being Jin Guangshan, he had swayed most of their fellow sect leaders already, and decided that while the disciples are familiarising themselves with one other, it would be a good opportunity for families to mingle and arrangements to be written.

His guest seems to have picked up on his silence as a sign of musing. "Ah, Sect Leader Lan, don't worry. We have so many unorthodox children here, but I assure you, they will all definitely find a match. Is it Second Young Master Lan you are concerned about?"

It seems even Jin Guangshan is aware of the situation. "Yes, somewhat. He is a very particular person."

"Indeed." Jin Guangshan openly sighs, his lips upturned. He takes a second to survey his surroundings, listening to the gentle sound of water cascading in the distance. The air is cool, and peaceful. As the Cloud Recesses should always be. He looks back to the table and opens his mouth. "That hot-headed Young Master from Yunmeng Jiang."

"Young Master Jiang?"

"No, the other one. The dogged and flippant one. He seems to get along with Second Young Master Lan, from what I've heard. Perhaps a political marriage would be good for relations between Yunmeng Jiang and Gusu Lan?"

Lan Qiren stares with a furrow in his brow, before the implication sets in and he abruptly slams his teacup down. "You don't mean."

"Young Master Wei Ying, was it?"

-

"Shi-jie deserves so much better than that pompous, smug... brat. He's a brat. There, I said it."

"Wei-xiong, don't be so loud." Nie Huaisang hides his mouth behind his fan as he walks alongside him. "You've already gotten in trouble for fighting with Jin-xiong once. Don't let anyone hear you again."

"He's right. Wei Wuxian, you can't do anything about it now." On the other side of him, Jiang Cheng huffs in annoyance. "They're betrothed. And at least shi-jie seems to like him. Usually in a political marriage, neither person has any strong feelings on the matter."

"But why does she like him in the first place? He's so... ugh. I just don't understand political marriages."

"Heh. Is that so?" An arrogant voice cuts through the air behind him, and he freezes, as do Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng. Nie Huaisang's fan stops fluttering.

Not you, not now...

"Jin Zixuan."

"Wei Wuxian."

Nie Huaisang leans over, whispering into Wei Wuxian's ear behind his fan. "At least address him formally, Wei-xiong!"

He whispers back, though he makes little effort to conceal it. "Why should I bother when he didn't?"

"You were saying something about political marriages? Very timely."

Jiang Cheng inhales intently next to him, but says nothing, knowing Wei Wuxian already has the arrows of his words drawn. "Are you going to tell me more about your arrangement? I don't want to hear about your opinions regarding your betrothal to my shi-jie, Young Master Jin."

"You're far too presumptuous, Young Master Wei. I was going to tell you nothing of the sort. Well, Sect Leader Lan had intended to tell you himself, but I believe he's having a stroke somewhere, and my father told me to come fetch you."

Nie Huaisang snaps his fan shut. His voice is trembling, though less out of concern and more out of entertainment. "E-Excuse me?"

Jin Zixuan crosses his arms, smirking. "Sect Leader Lan is fine, don't worry. He's just processing the arrangement put forward for you, Young Master Wei. I believe Sect Leader Jiang shall be arriving soon to officiate it."

"Wait, huh?" Jiang Cheng sputters before Wei Wuxian has a chance to. "What arrangement?"

Wei Wuxian had been sincerely hoping he wouldn't be swept up in the tumultuous matchmaking scheme that has infested the Cloud Recesses. From the sounds of it, it seems his fate has been decided for him already. Oh, well, as long as the young maiden doesn't mind his love for fine wine and won't ask too much of him in the way of house chores, he's sure it won't end too badly. He'll be a better husband than Jin Zixuan ever could, that's for sure. "Who's the lucky soul that I'm engaging?"

"Unlucky soul, more like." All three of them stare at Jin Zixuan with wide eyes, waiting for his answer. He snorts, looking off to the side. "Oh, what a coincidence, there he is."

Wei Wuxian violently turns his head to see what Jin Zixuan is seeing. Over on he other side of the courtyard, Lan Wangji is standing before his older brother, and staring back at Wei Wuxian with an unreadable expression on his face. "What? But that's just..."

Jin Zixuan's haughty smile grows wider as he looks Wei Wuxian in the eyes. "You're being engaged to Lan Wangji."