#i always wonder if anyone here even remembers me

[moomuzan]

⋆·˚ ༘ * 𝖆𝖑𝖜𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ they are insanely obsessed with you

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ yandere!bsd men! dazai , fyodor , chuuya

It started small, almost imperceptible. The people who once filled your life—the casual friends, the familiar faces—began to drift away. A canceled plan here, an unanswered text there. At first, you brushed it off as coincidence, the natural ebb and flow of relationships. But then, one by one, the spaces in your life grew emptier, and the only constant that remained was him.

Dazai’s touch in your life was invisible to you but deliberate to him, every thread meticulously pulled to tighten the cocoon he was weaving around you. He told himself it was for love—for your protection. He convinced himself that each person he removed, each tie he severed, was another weight lifted from your fragile existence.

This man made it so easy, so seamless. A quiet word to Kunikida about how overworked you seemed lately, how you needed less responsibility and more time to rest. A subtle comment to Atsushi about giving you space because “too many people leaning on her might overwhelm her.” Even Yosano found herself discouraged from dragging you into her office for her usual banter, all because Dazai planted doubts in her mind about your health, your fragility.

When he intercepted the letter from an old friend of yours, he told himself it was love, tucking it into his desk drawer instead of giving it to you. He told himself it was love when he manipulated missions so that you were always with him, never with anyone else, where he could watch over you, shield you.

Every step he took, every string he pulled, was justified in his mind. “The world is cruel,” he would tell himself, pacing the confines of his apartment, his hands trembling with the intensity of his convictions. “But I can keep her safe. I can keep her happy. Isn’t that love?”

And when doubts crept in—when the hollow echo of your laughter, now rarer and more subdued, made him pause—he buried them deep. You needed him. You might not see it yet, but you did. The thought reassured him, soothed him, even as he sat alone in the dark, the weight of his actions pressing heavily on his chest.

Of course, he never questioned the morality of it since morality had never been part of his equation. The lines between right and wrong blurred the moment he decided he couldn’t lose you, couldn’t bear the thought of anyone or anything stealing you away.

Every time he looked at you, he reassured himself while his gaze lingered far too long, drinking in the sight of you like a man drowning. He told himself it was love when he watched you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your breath calming the storm in his chest, it was love when he saw the way you smiled at him, even if that smile didn’t reach your eyes like it used to. It must have been.

Still, there were moments—fleeting, fragile moments—when his mask cracked. Late at night, as he sat in his chair with a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand, he would wonder if this was love or obsession. He would remember Oda’s words, that love should be selfless, freeing, not this suffocating, consuming thing. But then he would think of you in the arms of someone else, laughing with someone else, and the thought alone was enough to make his blood turn cold. “It’s love,” he would whisper to himself, his voice hollow, his fingers curling tightly around the glass. “It has to be.”

„You are sick,” you whispered when you finally confronted him, the room drawing shadows heavier than the ones in his soul, though the words lacked the venom you intended. “This isn’t love. It’s control. It’s—it’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” He tilted his head, his expression a mixture of amusement and heartbreak, as though the very notion pained him. “Tell me, does the bird hate its cage when it keeps it from predators? Does it curse the one who feeds it, protects it, cherishes it?”

Like a pang of doubt that rippled through your resolve, the analogy struck something deep within you. He stepped closer still, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“I’m doing this for you,” he said, and there was something almost mournful in his tone, as though he regretted your inability to see things his way. “You’re too precious to be left at the mercy of the world. I won’t let it destroy you. I won’t let anyone destroy you. Even if it means you hate me for it.”

Although you wanted to fight back, to scream, to push him away, the weight of his words pressed against you, leaving you vulnerable and unsure. He had always been good with words—too good—and now they tangled in your mind like webs, trapping you in the complexity of his logic.

Yet the longer you stood there, the more the fight drained out of you. Maybe it was the exhaustion of always doubting, always questioning. Or maybe it was the quiet, insidious truth that a part of you didn’t want to leave him. He had taken so much from you, but he had also filled the void in ways you couldn’t explain, couldn’t deny.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours, and what you saw there wasn’t triumph—it was devotion. Twisted, unrelenting, suffocating devotion.

“I love you,” he said simply, and the words felt like both a confession and a death sentence.

You exhaled shakily, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

Sad, almost wistful, he smiled as though he had anticipated your answer. “You will,” he said. “In time, you’ll see that I’m the only one who truly cares for you. And when you do, I’ll be here. Always.”

And though every fiber of your being told you to run, you stayed. Because the truth was, as terrifying as his love was, the thought of being without it scared you even more.

Deeply so, this break had shattered something inside Chuuya. It wasn’t just the loss of a partner, a comrade—no, it was something deeper, more primal. The day Dazai left was the day the world tilted, the day his mind fractured in ways even he couldn’t have predicted. It wasn’t just about losing Dazai—it was about the fear of losing someone else, losing anyone else. That gnawing, desperate hunger to keep you close, to shield you from everything, to keep you from slipping through his fingers like Dazai had.

Naturally, he did what he had to do.

Once a space of normality, your room, was now a carefully constructed fortress. The curtains were always drawn, a soft, dim light casting everything in a sickly shade. He would stand outside your door for hours, listening for any sound, any sign that you were still there, still within his grasp. He had the ability to make his presence felt even when he wasn’t physically near you—his shadow stretching across your life, always lurking. Always watching.

When you woke in the mornings, he was there. When you went to sleep at night, he was still there, seated in the corner of your room, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze never leaving you.

The mafia executive wasn’t cruel. No, not at first. His charm, his words, they were as sweet as they were deadly. “I’m only doing this for us,” he would say, his voice warm, almost affectionate. He’d smile, but it never reached his eyes. “No one will hurt you. Not like they hurt me.”

He’d coax you into talking, into laughing, into behaving. His hands were gentle at first, trailing across your skin, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear. He’d tell you how beautiful you were, how precious you were, how lucky he was to have you all to himself. But every compliment, every touch, had an underlying current of control, an unspoken warning that you could never escape.

The world outside was no longer yours to navigate. No, Chuuya had made sure of that. You rarely left his quarters now—only when he deemed it necessary. Even then, he would accompany you, his eyes always watching. His influence reached deep into the Mafia, cutting off connections before they even had a chance to form. If you met with someone outside of his approval, they were gone. If anyone, anyone, even thought of stepping too close to you, they found themselves dealt with in ways you never saw coming.

With you no longer being free to come and go as you pleased, your missions were reduced, controlled, and carefully managed. No one would dare take you away from him. They knew what would happen if they did. Chuuya had made his message clear—you were his.

And yet, when you complied, when you didn’t resist, when you behaved, he was charming, attentive, a lover in every sense of the word. He’d lavish you with gifts, with praise, with everything you wanted and needed, until you almost forgot the trap that had closed around you. The sweetness of his attention almost made you believe that perhaps, just perhaps, this was the way things were meant to be. That maybe the way he looked at you—like a rare, priceless gem—was the way love was supposed to feel.

Yet when you didn’t behave—when you pushed, even slightly, when you questioned him or tried to leave—that’s when the change came. The door would slam shut behind you, his smile would vanish and he charming words would turn into cold, clipped sentences.

“Don’t make me remind you who’s in charge here.” His voice would be low, but there was no kindness left in it. Only an edge, sharp and unforgiving. When you would try to retreat, to hide from him, he would follow you—always.

“I’m not letting you leave,” he’d whisper in the dark, his breath warm against your neck, a cruel contrast to the steel in his tone. “Not again. I can’t lose you too.”

And then, there was that shift—like something snapping—in the way he moved, in the way he held you. He would pull you to him with such force that it almost hurt, his hands trembling, but only in that moment, when he feared losing you. His kisses would be hungry, demanding, as if trying to make up for everything he had already lost. His hands would grip your arms, your wrists, too tightly, as if afraid that you might disappear right in front of him.

“You’ll never leave me,” he would say, as much a promise as a threat. “I can’t lose you like I lost him. You understand that, don’t you?”

And in those moments, you could see it—the desperation behind his eyes. The way his usual smug demeanor broke down into something raw, something fragile. His need for control was no longer subtle—it was desperate, suffocating. Every time you tried to move away, to regain the smallest piece of freedom, he would pull you closer, until your world was nothing but him.

“Please,” you whispered once, “Chuuya, this isn’t love. It’s obsession.”

An empty smile formed on his lips. “Isn’t it the same thing, in the end? You and me… I can’t let you go. Not again. You’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. No one can take you from me, not ever again.”

And when you didn’t respond, when the hopelessness in your eyes spoke louder than words, he would close the distance, his hands gentle again—though his eyes remained cold, unyielding.

The charm was back, for now. But the coldness, the possessiveness, lingered beneath the surface, always. Because Chuuya had seen what happened when you slipped away from him before, and he would never make that mistake again.

You were his now, and he was never going to let you forget it.

It began so slowly, you didn’t notice at first. People started to slip from your life, fading like mist, until one day, you looked around and realized the room felt quieter than it ever had before. Your friends, the ones who had once made you laugh, once filled your life with noise and warmth, were no longer around. Their texts became less frequent, the calls abandoned, the invitations to dinner or even simple catch-ups slowly turning into hollow echoes of what they once were.

At first, you reasoned with yourself. People get busy. Life shifts. Maybe they just didn’t need you anymore, just as you had begun to doubt the sincerity of some relationships in your own life. But as time passed, you began to notice one constant that remained, like a shadow that stretched across your world—Fyodor Dostoevsky: The man who was always there, always watching, always waiting. The more others drifted away, the closer he became, until it felt almost like a necessity. He would always ask how you were, but the words felt laced with something more, as if he already knew, already understood. Perhaps that’s why, despite the growing isolation, you didn’t push him away. Because, in truth, he was the only one who seemed to see you, the only one who seemed to understand what you were feeling, even when you didn’t know yourself.

Yet when the silence grew louder, the empty spaces between texts grew wider, Fyodor’s presence was a gentle murmur, his soft gaze reassuring in its subtle way. He didn’t say much, but he was always there, sitting across from you, those dark eyes watching, studying you like a puzzle he had already solved. His proximity became an anchor, even if you weren’t sure why you needed it.

“You are the only one who understands me,” you’d hear him whisper sometimes, his voice so soft it felt like an incantation, a fragile truth you never quite dared to speak.

While you told yourself that you understood, too, you saw his world, too. You recognized his loneliness. His isolation. His need to control everything, to manipulate the chaos that surrounded him, to shape reality the way he wanted. You understood because, in some twisted way, his isolation mirrored yours. You, too, had been abandoned by those who once mattered. You, too, had felt the creeping emptiness, the quiet desolation that threatened to swallow you whole.

But what did it mean when Fyodor told you, “You are the only one who understands me”? Was it love? Was it genuine, or just another manipulation, another carefully spun thread designed to pull you deeper into his world, a world that you felt, over time, was slowly becoming your own?

He never had to make grand declarations. He really didn’t need to. His quiet, constant presence was enough. Each time you looked at him, you could see the way he measured every moment, every glance, the way he waited for you to take the first step. He made you feel special, in a way that was both intoxicating and suffocating. When he touched you—just a brush of his fingers against yours, a fleeting, lingering gaze—you didn’t pull away. How could you? You wanted to be close to him. But the closer you got, the more you wondered if this was how it was always meant to be: your life, your entire existence, distilled into this quiet, almost oppressive bond between the two of you.

Though few, his words were always chosen with care. “The world is a cruel place,” he would murmur, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he leaned in closer, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “But I would never abandon you like the others have. I know you better than they ever could.” His smile was slight, almost imperceptible, but there was something in it—something dark—that made your heart skip.

As you stopped questioning him, the isolation, the growing distance from everyone else, felt inevitable, like the natural progression of your life. With each subtle shift, you found that the empty spaces filled with him, and his smile, cold and calculated, became all you had. When your phone rang now, it was always Fyodor. When someone else tried to reach out, you would hesitate, knowing it was only him who could make you feel understood, make you feel like you mattered.

And yet, there were nights—long, lonely nights—when you would wonder. You would sit in the dim light of your apartment, staring at the reflection in the window, and ask yourself if this was really what you wanted.

But those doubts never lasted long. Fyodor was always there, always beside you, his presence so unyielding that even when you wanted to scream, you couldn’t, you shouldn’t.

“You don’t need them,” he would say, his voice soft as he stood behind you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Not when you have me.”

There was comfort in those words. There was safety. Protection. And the longer you stayed, the more the world outside seemed distant, irrelevant. No one else could give you this, no one else could fill the silence like he could.

“You’re the only one who truly understands me,” he repeated one night, his words low, heavy, as his hands slipped around your waist, pulling you into him. There was something cold in the way he said it, but it wasn’t unkind. It wasn’t harsh.

Wanting to argue, wanting to tell him that he was wrong, that this wasn’t how love worked, you hesitated because, in that moment, you realized with a terrible clarity that you, too, didn’t know what love was anymore. All you knew was him. All you knew was this dark, quiet world he had created, a world where you were his and no one else’s.

Deep down, unraveling in that place you didn’t want to acknowledge, you understood. He was right. No one else understood you the way he did. No one else saw the loneliness in you, the one that he so carefully nurtured. You were his. And he was yours.

There was no escape anymore. Only him. Only his presence.

And so, with a quiet surrender, you accepted it. Because, after all, you told yourself, he was the only one who understood you.

hello a/n i went partially insane with chuuyas part … hehe ??

[starryeyedstray]

it's christmas eve and it's been ages since hank has gifted anyone anything, but hank decides connor deserves at least one present for his very first christmas. here's the ao3 link if you prefer reading there <3

Connor opens the box and inside is a black tie embossed with a triangle tessellation pattern. It's simple but would match his jacket perfectly. He studies the tie closely and his LED switches from blue to yellow. 

“I’ve, uh, saw that you must have lost your tie at some point. And you always seem a bit frustrated when you try to straighten it and it’s not there. So I, uh, figured a tie might be good,” Hank rambles because Connor is just staring at the tie in silence and his LED is yellow and spinning and Hank thinks maybe Connor hates it. He’s never been a good gift giver and it’s been years since he’s given one so maybe this was all a mistake. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it.” 

Connor’s head snaps up. “No, I like it. It’s just…” And he stares down at it thinking again. 

“What is it? C’mon, you won’t hurt my feelings if you say you don’t like it.” 

“No, it’s just ever since the night I infiltrated Cyberlife Tower, I haven’t worn a tie. I wasn’t adhering to Cyberlife’s dress code they programmed into me. It felt like I was making my own choice. But you’re right, Hank. I find myself reaching up to fix my tie even when it’s not there. And I wonder if maybe I’m still stuck in my programming. Like I can’t escape Cyberlife’s design.” 

Hank watches Connor stare at the tie a bit longer his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Hank narrows his eyes as he contemplates what Connor said. “You think you’re still stuck in Cyberlife’s programming because you want to wear a tie.” 

“Correct.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Connor,” Hank says with a bit of exasperation. “It’s just a tie! It doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t have to be a fucking symbol of non-deviancy or whatever; it can just be a tie. Just because Cyberlife told you to wear a tie and you happen to like wearing one, doesn’t mean you’re not alive. You can wear the tie because you like it not because Cyberlife told you too.” 

“But what if I only like it because Cyberlife programmed me that way?” 

“Then fucking throw it away. Or wear it for special occasions. Or never wear a tie again if you really think that will give you peace of mind. I don’t know. You don’t have to overthink every little thing you do, kid. It’s okay to stick to what’s comfortable especially when you’re facing a lot of new things. The fact that you want to wear a tie says enough about your deviancy. You’ve said it yourself before, machines don’t want things.” 

Connor stares at Hank as he internalizes his words. He did like wearing ties and appearing professional and tidy. He knows Cyberlife programmed him that way, but maybe Hank’s right and that’s okay. Maybe he didn’t have to change everything about himself right away. Maybe that didn’t mean he was any less alive. 

One side of Connor’s mouth twitches up into that half smile he always does because he hasn’t really learned how to smile fully and genuinely quite yet. His LED is blue again. Hank can’t help but grin as Connor removes the tie from its box. “Thank you, Hank. I really like it.” 

Connor lifts his collar up and wraps the tie around his neck, but Hank stands. “Come here, I’ll tie it for you.” 

“I know how to tie a tie, Hank.” 

“Just let me do it for you,” Hank insists walking to Connor’s side of the table. 

Connor obliges and stands so Hank doesn’t have to crouch down. Hank couldn’t remember the last time he had tied a tie, but he remembers his dad showing him how to tie a full Windsor knot and he does the same wordlessly. Connor watches Hank, and there’s a softness to his weathered face. A ghost of a smile on his lips. Connor wonders if Hank is thinking of Cole and how he never got to teach him how to tie a tie. It makes Connor wish he didn’t know how so Hank could teach him.  

Hank finishes and pats both hands on Connor’s shoulders. “All done, son.” And then Hank freezes because he realizes that he just called Connor son and he doesn’t know how to take it back and he’s not sure he wants to. 

But Connor pretends like he doesn’t notice though now he’s certain that Hank is thinking of Cole. “Thanks, Hank.” He straightens the tie not because Hank tied it crooked, but because it’s a habit and Connor finds something comforting in the action. He smooths the tie against his chest saying, “Now, I just need to buy myself a new tie clip.” 

“Hang on, I think I have one you can use,” Hank states and he almost ends the sentence with “son,” but stops himself as he quickly goes into his bedroom.  

Connor looks down at his new tie and he wonders what it would be like to be Hank’s son. But he pushes that thought away because he doesn’t want to be a replacement. Plus, androids didn’t have families.

Or at least, he didn’t think it was possible, but his thoughts drift to Kara and Markus. Kara acts like a mother to Alice, and Markus considers Carl his father. Did that mean that they were family? Could a family transcend beyond the bonds of humans and extend to deviants? Perhaps, androids didn’t have families, but maybe deviants could. 

Maybe Connor could.

happy holidays everyone~! this little piece is for the island winter wonderland event ran by @island-of-misfit-deviants which is the dbh discord server i'm in. we're all very welcoming so feel free to join us!!!!

[sepdet]

Killing Time Excerpts #3 (p18-27)

(from a rare 1st edition Star Trek novel by Della van Hise that was yanked, censored and republished to remove excess Kirk/Spock vibes)

Context: The crew's been having nightmares. Kirk received a top secret transmission from Starfleet he had to decode by hand.

Scene: Kirk changes into something more gay comfortable and invites Spock on a stroll in the gardens. Spock: Is it humid in here

Kirk stared at the tri-level chessboard without really seeing it, and absently moved the white queen one level higher.

Eyebrow arching, Spock leaned back. "A most unwise move, Captain," he observed, easily detecting Kirk's uncharacteristic lack of concentration. Without trying, the Vulcan had won his third consecutive game.

Kirk shook his head with a sigh, remembering the slip of paper in the top drawer, the dreams. "Distracted, I guess," he ventured, meeting his first officer's eyes and forcing an unfelt smile.

He inhaled deeply, then leaned back in the chair and folded his hands neatly behind his head, stretching. "I don't mean to keep whipping a dead horse, Spock," he began, "but... from what I've found out— about the dreams— it's starting to give me the willies."

The Vulcan stared mutely at his captain. "What would it profit to administer punishment to a deceased lifeform, Captain?" he wondered, attempting to lighten the heavy mood which had settled on Kirk during the course of the day. "And precisely what are the... willies?"

Kirk's smile broadened. "The creeps, Mister

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Spock," he clarified. "The crawls. The shivers. The boogey-man blues."

The eyebrow slowly lowered. "Of course, Captain," Spock replied, as if the entire matter was suddenly explained.

With a shrug, Kirk rose from the chair, moving into the living area of his quarters. He looked at the dresser for a moment, then impulsively yanked open a drawer and seized a plaid flannel shirt. After hastily removing the gold command tunic and tossing it across the room into the laundry disposal, he slipped into the civilian attire and began buttoning the shirt. He had to put command temporarily aside, and the braid on his sleeve was a constant reminder that that was never easy to do.

"C'mon, Spock," he urged, walking toward the door and tipping the white chess king over onto its side. "Let's take a walk. Maybe I just need some distance from everything."

The Vulcan's head tilted in curiosity. The ship's patrol was so utterly routine that he wasn't particularly surprised to see Kirk's nature asserting itself. The captain was the type of man who was always on the move, always seeking new adventures--and usually involved in dangerous excitement. In a moment of admitted illogic, Spock questioned the mentality of Command for sending the Enterprise to patrol the Neutral Zone in the first place. Surely, he thought, it would have been more reasonable to assign such a mission to a Scout class vessel. The Enterprise was, after all, the most efficient ship in the Fleet; and the Vulcan couldn't help wondering if the reasoning behind their current patrol was more complicated than anyone had been led to believe.

And there was the matter of the manually coded transmission. But he rose from the chair and followed his friend. Kirk would tell him— when and if the time was right. But as he passed by the chessboard, he reached out and impulsively righted the white king.

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"What's the matter, Spock?" Kirk asked, face suddenly alight with mischief as he stood waiting by the now open door. "Afraid I'll have you court-martialed for insubordination because you beat me in another game of chess?"

The Vulcan merely shook his head as he fell in step alongside his captain, and they ventured into the corridor. "Hardly," he replied. "I merely thought it inappropriate to abandon the match so early in the evening. Your unorthodox approach to chess will doubtlessly assert itself later and you will discover some method of defeating me with an illogical and unpredictable move." He squared broad shoulders, innocently looking straight ahead as they approached the lift. "I am merely offering you that opportunity, Captain."

Kirk grinned. "In other words, Spock," he surmised, "you're generously giving me one final chance to humiliate myself."k

"Captain!" Spock replied indignantly.

Kirk suppressed a laugh as they reached the lift. He thumbed the button, waiting for the doors to open. "You know, Spock," he mused. "Sometimes I wonder about you. Sometimes I think you're the ship's resident guardian angel— and other times I'm convinced you're the devil in disguise."

The Vulcan stared straight ahead, face expressionless. "Folklore is sometimes based in fact, Captain," he replied enigmatically.

—•—

For a long time, they simply walked, visiting areas of the ship which were normally removed from the world of command. Finally as if by intuition, Kirk stopped in front of a large door, looked at it as if deciding whether or not to enter, then finally depressed the lock mechanism and urged the Vulcan along with a quick nod of his head. Spock followed, somewhat reticently.

"C'mon," Kirk prompted with a grin. "Stop acting like a cat who's afraid of getting his feet wet."

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Spock remained stubbornly standing outside the door. "Captain," he protested, "it is a biological fact that Vulcans are sensitive to high humidity. The gardens—"

But before he could complete the sentence, Kirk seized him by one arm and dragged him forward with a laugh. "Live a little, Spock," he suggested. "And that's an order."

The Vulcan sighed, and slowly followed Kirk into the room. For a reason he couldn't pinpoint, Spock felt uneasy— as if this area of the ship was suddenly alien, dangerous. He lifted both brows at the illogical consideration, and took a moment to look around. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet the feeling persisted— as if ghostly eyes followed them. He swept the thought away. Illogical. Unacceptable behavior— particularly for a Vulcan. Reality seemed unstable. The brows rose higher, and though Kirk seemed oblivious to the sudden ethereal change, Spock couldn't deny its existence. Somehow, he felt himself altered, alien even to his own mind. But he continued following, nonetheless. Kirk's instincts were always good, he told himself.

Once inside the lush green gardens, Kirk felt some of the uneasiness leave him. He thought for a brief instant that he detected a hesitation in Spock, but when he turned to glance over his shoulder, it was to see the Vulcan standing close at his side. He dismissed the sensation, passing it off to mundane distractions and tedium as his eyes settled on the "world" before him.

The maze paths which ran throughout this Earthlike area of the ship gave the illusion of five miles of hiking trails in a natural environment. Kirk attempted to divorce himself from the fact that it was merely an impression--carefully designed by the builders of the Enterprise to promote a feeling of "home." The room itself was approximately a hundred yards deep and seventy-five yards wide, almost overgrown with thousands sof plants—flowers and small trees from a

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thousand different worlds. It was always spring here, the air fresh and clean. Even the air-conditioning vents had been designed to provide the illusion of a gentle breeze; and the domed ceiling spoke of a clear blue Terran sky, complete with clouds and occasional rainbows. When ship's night began to fall, a pseudo-sunset adorned the high ceiling, its purples, pinks and oranges all but obliterating the reality that one was still aboard a starship at least five light-years from the nearest Class M planet.

Forcing himself to ignore his own tensions, Kirk slipped into the Earth fantasy as he began walking along the central maze path—which would, he recalled, eventually lead to the deepest portion of the garden. As he looked up to see the Vulcan at his side, he couldn't help noticing that the gardens were having their effect even on Spock. The first officer seemed so much more relaxed and at peace here—even if somewhat distracted, Kirk noticed. For a moment, the human could almost envision his second in command swinging from a tree limb as he'd done once before—but not without the influence of spores to erase the normal Vulcan restraints. It was a soothing image, despite the fact that it was impossible. For an instant, Kirk wondered what would eventually become of his friend—of the two of them, where they would be in another twenty years. For himself, he suspected he'd still find some way of manipulating the stars,chasing adventure through the dark regions of time and space. But for Spock... His mind traveled back in time—to Vulcan. To a day when Spock had been prepared to marry... and disaster had resulted. Unbonded now, the Vulcan was walking a tightrope between life and death; for without the deep mental rapport necessary to establish a bonding, Spock would die in the blood fever of pon farr.

Despite the heat of the gardens, Kirk shivered, walking a little faster toward the central portion of the room. Surely, he told himself, Spock wouldn't die. Surely, he told himself, there would be someone with

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whom the Vulcan could bond, someone who could walk the path with him, balance him, love him.

For a long time, Kirk considered that. He wondered if the Vulcan knew what he was thinking, decided that it didn't matter. He would have said it aloud—had said it aloud countless times. He smiled to himself. No secrets, he'd once told Spock. And the Vulcan had agreed. He closed his eyes, and attempted to put the frightening thought of the future in the back of his mind. It would take care of itself—somehow.

At last reaching the central portion of the gardens, Kirk took a moment to study his surroundings. Six large trees which vaguely resembled weeping willows grew in a circle approximately thirty yards in diameter. Branches like arms hung to the ground, sweeping against the grassy floor of the gardens.

Entering the circle of trees, Kirk took a deep breath of fresh air, and moved to one of the old stone benches which had begun to sport a healthy growth of mildew. He sat down slowly, then leaned back until he felt the cold moisture of the stone seep through his shirt and onto his shoulder blades. It was good in a way he couldn't describe—good in the same way a memory of childhood was good. It brought back recollections of sneaking off to the park on a warm May afternoon when he should have been in school. He closed his eyes, enjoying the fantasy, the memories... the illusions which existed only in the past. But when he opened his eyes again, it was to see Spock still standing, looking down at him questioningly. There was concern—and possibly Vulcan worry—written in the black eyes. Kirk held the penetrating gaze for a moment, then managed a smile when he saw the Vulcan soften. "Live a little, Spock," he said again, indicating a nearby bench with a nod of his head. "Didn't you ever go out and roll in the grass when you were a kid?"

The arched brow spoke volumes for the Vulcan's childhood. "No ..." Kirk decided. "I guess not." He rolled

23

into a sitting position, feeling the nervousness and depression return despite the momentary external facade. He knew the Vulcan could see through his masks. "Sit down," he said more seriously. "I need a wailing wall, Spock."

The Vulcan might have considered responding in the customary, teasing way, but the idea left him as he observed the unusual tension in the familiar hazel eyes. Perhaps Kirk had felt the difference, the ghostly quality of their surroundings. He settled for a neutral approach. "This mission should not last much longer, Jim," he ventured, feeling suddenly inadequate to deal with Kirk's frustrations as he searched for something positive to say. "We are scheduled for shore leave in less than a month." He paused as if hearing the clipped tone of his own voice; perhaps teasing with this human was the only solution. "And I believe Altair has always been one of your favorites, has it not?"

The Vulcan studied the paper carefully, committing its sparse contents to memory.

KIRK: YOUR CURRENT MISSION EXTENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTIFICATION. THREE EAGLES LANDING ON THE BORDER MIGHT NEED FLIGHT INFORMATION. A TIMELY CONSIDERATION FOR ENTERPRISE—EAGLES FLY BY NIGHT.

Spock looked up, handed the paper back to Kirk. "Romulan activity," he surmised.

Kirk nodded. "Romulan activity, Mister Spock." Then, with a frustrated shake of his head, he rose and began to pace back and forth in the confines of the

24

circle of trees. "From the sounds of that transmission, the upper echelons are getting more than a little worried," he continued. "But no one seems to be able to pinpoint what the Romulans are up to this time." He shrugged. "Command suspects it has something to do with an attempt to invade Federation planets bordering the Neutral Zone, but..." He stopped pacing long enough to rub his forehead as he sensed the prelude to another headache. "But that's nothing new," he realized, resuming the nervous pacing. "Besides, that's what battle cruisers were designed for. Starships are supposed to be for exploration and contact; battle cruisers were built to deal with invasions and attacks." He managed a smile, an uneasy laugh. "General rumor also has it that three additional starships are being sent to this sector as a precautionary measure. And if that doesn't mean somebody's got their rocks in a grinder, then I don't know what to think." He took a deep breath. "But as usual with Command, they aren't being very generous with their information."

Spock was silent for a long moment. "And you stated that Starfleet has no precise knowledge of what the Romulans are planning?"

Kirk shrugged, threw up his hands, then forced himself to sit by the Vulcan's side. "All they know is that the Romulan Fleet appears to be converging near the border of the Zone. Our intelligence forces inside the Empire got wind of something concerning a time travel experiment which has been going on over there for quite a while; but according to Admiral Komack's last general transmission, we lost contact with the agents before they could relay the specifics." He grimaced. "I don't think we have to ask what happened to them."

Spock glanced away, confirming Kirk's suspicions; but the Vulcan changed the subject. "Do you believe the dreams could have something to do with events inside the Romulan Empire?" he asked.

Kirk felt something stir in his stomach

"Since certain Romulans are telepathic," Spock

25

continued, "do you believe it possible that your dreams could have resulted from a temporary psychic link to someone inside the Empire?"

Kirk's brows narrowed thoughtfully. A possibility, sure. But random speculation—rom Spock? "I dunno," he admitted. "Maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my old age." He laughed gently, trying to chase away the cold, black thing which seemed to be lingering at his shoulder. It had his own eyes, his features, his mind. But it felt alien.

As if sensing the thought, the Vulcan reached out tentatively, placing one hand on his captain's shoulder. Kirk was the only person on board to whom Spock could open up, and he valued that freedom. "If there are answers, we will find them, Jim," he ventured, eyeing Kirk more closely. "But ... I believe it can wait until morning. You appear somewhat... fatigued?"

Kirk sighed and reached out to cover the Vulcan's hand with his own. Men like Spock weren't standard issue. "Thanks, Spock," he murmured. "I don't know what the hell I'd do without you." He stood slowly, and turned to go.

The Vulcan rose to follow his captain, taking a moment to appreciate the easy rapport which was always there between them. "No doubt you would win at chess, Captain," he suggested as they began walking back toward the entrance of the gardens.

Kirk laughed, then turned to glance at the "sky" when he noticed that nightfall had begun. Muted colors melted into the domed sky, and he allowed himself the luxury of inhaling the cool fresh air into his lungs and holding it there.

"It's almost like being home, Spock," he said. "No Romulans except in Dad's exaggerated space-gtales; no nightmares other than algebra..." He gave in to the fantasy for just a moment, then, recognizing the lethal danger of homesickness and melancholy, opened his eyes once again. "You know," he continued, "my

26

father used to tell me that childhood itself was the only home a man could ever have." He laughed— somewhat nervously—nd continued to look at the domed ceiling. For the briefest instant, he could almost envision cloudy dragons and white-fluffed unicorns.

Spock's eyes closed for just a moment. "Your father was, no doubt, a remarkable man, Captain," he replied after a long silence. His own father had rarely spoken of such matters— and never of the stars. He started to speak again, but stopped abruptly when Kirk shook his head with a smile.

"Don't worry, Spock," the human replied. "I don't expect an answer." He took one last look at the dome; it was almost "night" now, and soon the stars would be visible through the transparent ceiling. He turned toward the door, determined to leave the melancholy behind. "I don't regret any of it," he said. "And who knows? Maybe we'll be laughing about this whole thing in some Altairian cafe in another month." He turned to look at the impassive expression on his friend's face as the double doors opened into the main corridor of the ship. "Well, at least I'll be laughing," he corrected.

An eyebrow climbed under sleek black bangs as they stepped into the hall and resumed the correct routine. The masks of captain and first officer fell into place.

"I would not be adverse to spending some time on Altair, Captain," Spock said unexpectedly. "I am told that the museums and library facilities are excellent."

Kirk laughed as he drew up to a halt in front of the turbolift doors. "I didn't know Altair had museums and libraries, Mister Spock!"

Kirk shook his head, then felt the angry butterflies warring in his stomach again. "Altair..." he mused. He looked closely at the Vulcan, then impulsively reached into the pocket of the plaid shirt to withdraw the crumpled piece of paper he'd hidden there earlier. He unfolded it, handing it to the Vulcan. "The transcript," he explained. "All leaves have been indefinitely postponed."

[slimybeth69]

Touch: Part 5

Rating: explicit (smut, language)

Summary: So... it's after you and Din talk...

tags: Angst, slight dub-con (I never know bc I would always fuck Din?), being mad as fuck at Din, how could he?, Din/Mando being a dumb stupid idiot, reader also being a dumb stupid idiot. Idiots in LOVE, mutual pining, then normal smut things (without spoilers to the chapter, sorry) SPOILERS TO The Book of Boba Fett and The Mandalorian.

a/n: I've said it before and I'll say it again. If you read this on ao3, no you fucking didn't. It's still unbeta'd, but proofread!! I did that this time!! I also am re-working the story slightly because I CAN.

a/n pt2: I don't know shit about Star Wars/ The Mandalorian. I did however spend an un-Makerly amount of time learning for all of us. If you're not well versed in the lore or the history of Star Wars/ The Mandalorian-- that's okay! This is Star Wars/ Mando for Beginners. (Also stating this as a warning for anyone well versed in the universe and the lore-- shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. DON'T COME FOR ME)

<- Previous Chapter Series Masterlist

The Jedi Code was taught to you. Engraved in your mind.

Harmony, serenity, peace and knowledge. The force. The lightside.

All the bad things; chaos, emotion, passion, ignorance, death.

The darkside. You learned to not fear the darkside, but instead to embrace the force.

Even though you didn’t have the maker forsaken force inside of you! Not even a litte bit! None of 'the force' had found its way into you!

Luke Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano trained you as if you did!

Why!?

They spent so much time building you from the ground up! They made sure you had muscles and could run for long distances. The pair trained you how to fight with your hands!

Your hands know how to use a lightsaber! That's not an easy feat, and it takes a long time to learn that skill.

Oh, how long? A really long time!

Two years!

Two long years without any sign of that man in the tin can outfit! He's never called, he's never come to visit!

Two. Fucking. Years.

Sometimes you hated Din for leaving you here but you very quickly remember that you asked for this. 

Wanted this more than anything.

Foolish!

You wanted so badly to make sure the child was cared for; the child was older than you are!

Much, much older! Not even a baby at all, but a toddler where he comes from. A very special toddler. A force sensitive toddler.

Coming here was a mistake! The only thing you do here is clean up the messes Grogu- that's the child's Maker forsaken name. He has a name!

Grogu makes messes, so you clean them, and get hit with sticks as some sick and twisted form of 'training'! It feels like a joke when they told you to 'block your face and important organs' and then started to pummel you with the hardest, most fast moving sticks you've ever seen!

Not having any amount of the force inside of you really makes training with Jedi's incredibly difficult! Grogu seemed to be having a blast training with Skywalker.

They trained differently, so unfortunately the two of you didn't see each other much, and when you did, your time with him was cut short.

The two of you grew up here a little, together while separated.

Luke and Ahsoka claimed that you babied him and it would impeed his training, so they kept you apart as much as they seemed humane. You became so very depressed without the child and Din.

All alone even though you were surrounded by so many people.

The nights that you got to spend with Grogu were usually spent laying under the stars outside the Jedi temple, speaking fondly of Din.

Mostly for the child's sake, because you only wonder if he had completely forgotten about you.

The answer to that question came when Luke came to Grogu with a gift. 

“A gift?” You say with a curled lip.

Have you not just spent all of your time here; learning the way of the Jedi? That was an attachment and you– in your two years becoming a mock Jedi– were weary. The darkside. The emotion. The attachments.

This was scary.

Luke held the gift in his hands while he spoke. You're subtlety looking for your gift but... you don't see one. Only one parcel.

Oh.

“This gift would be the end of both of your Jedi training, should he keep it. Attachments may not be had, by anyone.” Luke looks between the both of you as you stand before him.

Why is he looking at you!? You might stay at this temple and learn all the ways of the Jedi and become the most powerful non-force sensitive Jedi the galaxy has ever seen!

“You both have come so far, you have so much potential. Both of you.” Luke’s eyes fall on you. “I’ve been surprised before, but this was a pleasant one. Watching you both learn so much. I hope he both makes the choice that’s best for you.” Luke looks to Grogu and hands him the package wrapped in brown paper.

“Why couldn’t I stay if he wanted to leave?” You ask Luke. 

“You come with the child. You leave with the child.” Luke explains simply. 

Maker-- alright. You can’t argue with that. You don't have much to offer besides cleaning up the kid's messes. They're probably tired of watching you perfect the lightsaber.

You're actually pretty good.

Grogu glances up at you just as you look down at him. You kneel on one knee so you can be closer to him, and watch as his six little clawed fingers struggle with the twine wrapped around it, but he uses the Force.

“Cheater.” You whisper to him.

The gift is beskar. A piece of... Mandlaorian armor for Grogu. 

“ Mando said he can’t put it on until he sees you–” 

“M-Mando’s here?” You interrupt accidentally. Your heart begins to pound in your chest at the thought that you might actually be able to see him right now.

Luke gives you a knowing look, as if you should know better, and shakes his head from side to side.

“Ahsoka sent him away. It would interfere with your training. If you wish to stay here and train, continue to learn the Jedi way. You both have come far, but it’s nowhere near close to done. Accepting this would end that training.”

It’s a warning.

The energy in the room is so intense. You can feel electricity in the air almost. Grogu is still standing beside you, looking down at his own piece of beskar.

What’s he going to do?

Luke reaches into his robe.

Everyone here has all these hidden pockets for things in their clothes. You have a couple hidden pockets now too . For things you may need to hide and pull out in moments just like this one day. You hope. It’s so cool when they do that.

Luke hands Grogu a lightsaber. Grogu’s own lightsaber. 

“You have a choice, young padawan.” His gravelly voice rakes across your brain. 

It's so quiet for so long. 

Grogu touches the lightsaber softly. Admiring it. He did the same thing with the armor. 

So long you waited. Understandably, this was a hard choice.

Grogo picks the armor.

Grogu and yourself are on a ship to a hangar where Din is waiting for a response. Your knees are complete mudslides right now. They are not supporting you and they have two years of Jedi training behind them. They’re strong. 

The nerves got to them, though--ate away all the tendons you ever had and dissolved the muscle down to nothing.

Din had been on your mind every single day for two years, and he didn't even ask if YOU wanted to come back. Only Grogu! You feel like a fool sitting next to the tiny green toddler.

Where are you supposed to go when Din tells you that he doesn't need your services anymore!?

The ramp of the ship drops down and there is a cloud of dust. And then there he is. Standing at the base of the ramp, like he had been waiting for you two. Or apparently just Grogu. Since he’s the one who got the gift.

It’s fine. You’re fine. No attachments. Perfect. You’re basically a Jedi. 

Grogu, who is so much faster, so, so much faster than you ever remember him being, flings himself at Din, and attaches himself around his neck.

You watch in amusement, wishing you could do the same thing but you’re partially a Jedi now, so you keep your composure and walk down the ramp slowly. Your mouth is so dry, you don't even attempt to swallow because you know it'll just end in you choking.

Din hugs the child tightly. Their embrace is so sweet. So kind. It makes you smile so hard your cheeks hurt.

It makes your heart pang as well.

They hug for a long time before Grogu looks back at you, pulling away from Din’s neck. Grogu extends a curved hand to you. You suddenly feel a gentle pressure around your waist, and are being dragged forward, against your will, feet stumbling beneath you. 

You point your finger at Grogu. “Hey!” You shout. The pressure around your waist stops and you’re set back down on your feet carefully. “I told you to knock that off!"

This is Grogu’s new, fun game. Picking you up and putting you where he wants you. He hasn’t stopped doing it since he learned how.

Dropped you a couple times in the beginning. 

Din chuckles from under the helmet. “I see your relationship has changed quite a bit.” His flat rasp is the same as you remember it.  "He's the one carrying you around now,"

“It’s basically still the same. I have to yell at him for doing things he shouldn’t.” You scowl at Grogu, who hides himself behind Din's helmet.

“It’s nice to see you," Din's modulated voice is even and quiet. As if he doesn't want to say it at all.

That’s it. No hug. Nothing. Not even a handshake.

You could hit him. For several seconds you think about doing it.

Now your fist– with two years of Jedi training– and it might actually hurt him. It might hurt him a lot, and you’d feel good about it. So good.

"It's nice to see you, too."

The anger is pumping in your veins as he leads you through the hanger behind him. You look at all the ships, and look for the Crest but you don’t see it anywhere. Eventually Din stops in front of a ship much larger than the Crest. Bigger guns on it too. 

Din just stands there and looks at you with his stupid helmet shining in the bright light of the hangar. You don’t know what to do. He dropped you off on Ossus where the Jedi temple was, and didn't give you a hug. Not a pat on the shoulders. Literally nothing.

"Keep the kid out of trouble. You'll hear from me soon."

That's all Din had said before he and Grogu went to say their goodbyes!

"It's a new ship." Din points to the giant hunk of metal he’s standing in front of. His beskar looks exactly the same. Maybe a new scrape or two. A ding here or there but you’re not even looking. Not even paying attention to him. Trying not to. 

“Okay...” You resort to using your favorite word.

Why, Maker? Why can’t the man in the helmet speak? Is his helmet on mute? Always so fucking quiet. Until you don’t want him to be, then he won’t shut up.

Din leads you inside. Shows you the sleeping quarters. There are two beds. One for each of you.

There is a separate room for the child.

The dining room is nice and everything else is so nice. So much nicer than the Razor Crest. Even the cockpit you have no idea how to use. 

You look all around the hull like it's very interesting. This is so awkward. Not what you expected when you were on your way here. It's not like you expected a welcome back party. Maybe a hug. Something. 

"What happened to the Crest?" You ask, trying to avoid looking at him.

"It was destroyed."

The sleeping quarters are different from the Razor Crest. The beds are close together, but separated and welded to the floor so there is no way to move them closer together.

The mats that are nestled into the metal frames are thicker and much more plush than the one you had slept on for so long before you were banished away to the Jedi temple.

It’s fine. You’re fine. No emotion. No attachments. It’s all fine. 

The small bag that holds your very few belongings stays packed in case he doesn't plan on you staying very long. He could very well be headed right back to Cantonica to drop you back off at the Canto Bight Casino!

The three of you eat dinner in silence.

Din says not one word to you and you don't try and strike up the conversations like you used to. Things feel so different now, like the two of you are complete strangers all over again.

Grogu has changed in ways that are hard to describe. He's still a baby in your eyes even though he's older than you and Din.

The two of you play together on the floor while Din or maybe you should call him Mando again, since you barely know this man after two whole years, does something in the cockpit.

Grogu warbles and you watch all the new, fun things he can do with the Force that aren’t moving you unwillingly. It's the first real fun the two of you are able to have since being dropped off at the temple. You missed being able to play with him. You still snuggle him at the protests of Luke and Ahsoka-- how could you not when he climbs into your lap and cuddles into your arms.

Like he knew you couldn’t resist. 

Grogu can put himself to sleep now which is incredible, and that means you have time to do whatever you want.

So you’re in your bed with your nice new sheets. They’re soft. Like the ones on the Crest.

It’s dark here, too.

Maker, what in the stars?

The sun shields in this ship are no joke! There's no light at all. If you have to go to the bathroom, it’s just blind wishing that you don’t break you toes, or bump into a wall and potentially crack your skull. 

It feels like you were completely forgotten about in those two years and now, in the dark silence of your shared sleeping quarters you just want to cry...

An emotion!? After two years of strict Jedi code training---

There is a ten thousand degree warmth on your upper arm in the void, and it scares you half out of the bed. Your tops of your feet and knees are on the cool metal of the ships floor, and you're leaning against the side of the bed-frame like you are praying to Maker.

“I was going to see if you were sleeping," Din's rasping sounds-- happy to talk to you?

You're unsure. Nothing else about the way he's spoken to you, or treated you at all makes you think he wants to talk to you.

"That's not how you find out if someone's asleep!" You bark at him angrily.

"You're awake though.” A flat, unimpressed response to your outburst.

Maker, if you had your own helmet with night vision, you’d use all your new fun Jedi fighting tricks on him. You sure would, because who is he!? Who does he think he is!?

After two years he can come back and just throttle you awake in the dark like before? Nope. Not this time. 

“You’re lucky I can’t see you right now.” You say over the pounding heart in your chest. “So lucky-- What do you care if I'm awake in the night?! Let me sleep!” You’re so cold with him, mirroring him perfectly minus the emotion. “I’m tired.” You lie to him. 

In the usual Din fashion, he remains quiet. He still had his hand on your arm, and it's not like you really made an attempt to pull it away because it’s hot like you remember.. Burning you, he's so warm.

Din is also so fucking quiet! Maker! Is he okay?

“Tired?” Din’s voice rasps in the dark. "Then why aren't you sleeping?"

You realize the metal man has no grip on you whatsoever. He was just touching you very, very gently, and you easily could have pulled away at any moment.

So you you tug your arm away and you climb back into bed and face the opposite direction from him. "I was trying to sleep when you come over here-- shaking me in the darkness!"

“You…” Din trails off in the dark. “Still don't know the meaning of shake?” He questions you like a dumb idiot. 

"Get away from me!" You almost shout it. "Just leave me alone!" You humph, and pull the sheets over your shoulder.

"Are you... mad at me?"

“Are you kidding me!?” You whisper at him. “I don’t know how you could leave me out there for two years, and I get nothing!?” You sit up in your bed now and talk blindly in the dark. “Nothing. No visit. No calls. Nothing.” You cross your arms over your chest. "No gift!"

Din stays silent- which was predicted- so you carry on.

“But you get Grogu a gift, which was very sweet. Very cute armor, he is going to look very cute it in.” You think of the child dressed in the armor and it's kind of amusing and slightly distracting.

“Are you done?” Din’s stupid modulated voice rings out in the dark after a minute of you imagining an armored Grogu.

It's so dark and you still don't really know where he is, so with your accusing index finger pointing in the direction he could be in, you almost shout, “No! I’m not done!”

You are in fact, not done.

“They treated me like I had the Force in me. Do you know how hard that is when you don’t have the fucking force in you!?” You exclaim in exasperation, still pointing at him.

You start to speak again into the blinding darkness when a warm hand very gingerly moves your accusatory pointing finger eight inches to your right. 

“I figured I should at least be getting pointed at, if you’re going scold me,” Din rasps.

You die inside and wonder how dumb you look in the dark. “Why did you even bring me back? Hm? Why not just send me right back to the casino? Or is that where we’re going next? Gonna just drop me off? You even gonna land first or just let me duck and roll?” You huff, officially done with your rant. 

“Are you don-” Din starts, but you cut him off. 

“Yes!" You snap at him, and then you huff one more time for good measure. You're so angry with him.

So much for all your Jedi no emotion training. 

“I have a gift for you.” Din says flatly through the modulator. 

Oh.

“Well it’s so dark in here, so how would I know that?” You snip at him, not sure you’re fully ready to forgive him. You roll your eyes now. 

“Would you still like it? Or are you too upset with me?” Din’s modulated rasp asks you, sounding annoyed.

Why does he have a right to be annoyed? He could have given you that gift the minute you step foot of that return ship that brought you back to him.

Why wait until the darkness!? Why!?

“Yes, I would.” You hold your cupped hand out into the dark and feel something cold and hard fall into it. “It would be nice if I could –” 

The brightest beam of light you’ve ever encountered shines directly into your eyes. It’s blinding.

You jump again, out of bed because what the fuck is that!?

Is this an attack!?

What even is that light? Where is it coming from?

Thankfully, you wrapped your hand around the thing Din dropped into your hand so you didn't fling it into the abyss to never be seen again before you ever even got to look at it!

“Why are you on the floor?” Din asks, as you hold your free hand to your chest. You blink up at him, having to shield your eyes. 

“Are you the light right now!?” You question him squinting your eyes in its brightness. "Are you the one blinding me!?"

“Yes." Din dims the light tremendously somehow from within his helmet and now, it’s easier on the eyes. Like a candle flame. "Was it to bright?"

“It was too bright! I don’t think I’ll ever see again.” You snip softly, resting on the floor and putting your elbows on the bed. 

You inspect the small pink crystal in your hand. It takes you a couple seconds to realize what it is.

“Is this a kyber crystal?” You look up at Din who is knelt down on the other side of your bed.

He nods in the now pale light that's much easier on the eyes. “I got it on my travels. I thought that if you knew how to use a lightsaber, I’d get one for you. Put this crystal in it.” 

Maker. What is happening? 

“You thought of me?” You didn’t mean to say it. Part of you is still mad. 

“Everyday .” Din’s awe and amazement voice is back. “Di- Did you not think about me?” Just as quickly as that sweet familiar tone had shown up, it's gone just as fast. Din can' believe that you didn't think of him during your time apart.

“I did.” You say quietly. “I thought you had forgotten me. Without the visits or calls or gift.” You do feel silly now because this really is a sweet gift.

The sweetest gift. More sweet than the notebook and the credits and anything else he's ever given you. The small pink crystal in your hand means so much to you. The fact that he got it for you, was thinking about you while you were gone. The fact that the meaning behind the gift is so big. You own lightsaber if you wanted one. Din would get one for you. Said it himself. Your heart is racing in your chest.

“Never . I’ve been waiting to see you. Been thinking of you. Looking at your doodles every night.” He turns the light off and takes the crystal from your still outstretched hand. 

“Hey! That’s mine.” You reach for it but he leaves you kneeling next to your bed like you are praying to Maker in the dark again.

“I’m going to give it back.” Din raps . “Do you want to get back in bed or are you content on the floor?” 

You’re blinking into the dark. Wondering how dumb you look now on the floor blinking into the void. You scramble up without assistance and crawl into bed, facing the same direction as before. Away from Din. 

Secretly, you’re hoping he’s sans beskar and crawls into bed beside you and lets you hold him like he did the nights before you left. With your arm around his waist, stealing his radiating heat from him while he sleeps. You’d mill kisses softly across his shoulders and you’d listen to him sigh and make sleep sounds in the darkness.

But that doesn’t happen. It’s so quiet. It’s so still for so long. You wonder if he’s crawled in his own bed and is fast asleep. What could this all mean? The gift? The cold welcome back after two years? Everything you did before you left? What did it mean and did you accidentally fall for a potential half man- half droid that’s never going to show you his face? 

The dark is still, so quiet and unmoving. You feel like you’re alone in the room. 

“C-can I touch? Or are you still too upset with me?” Din asks quietly, the rasp of his modulator is gone. His sweet deep voice is right in your ear. It doesn’t startle you because you’ve been waiting to hear him speak for so long. 

“No.” You snap. “You couldn’t come touch me for two years! I would have let you then, any time you came to visit, I would have but you-”

His lips on yours stop you. You almost try and push him off, but Maker. I

t feels so good. His warm, soft lips on yours after all this time. You both open your mouths slightly, and as tentatively as Din touched you for the first time two years ago, his tongue slips past your lips and into your mouth just as slowly.

It’s gone as soon as it appeared. 

“I tried.” He whispers against your open mouth. “I got turned away every time. So many times I tried to see you.” He’s speaking fast, like he’s trying to explain himself to you before you beat him off of you with something hard you’ve found in the dark. “ So many times, little one." 

The words melt over your tongue as he speaks them, almost as if they were your words.

Ahsoka and Luke never told you he came to visit. Not one time. 

“I tried. I never forgot about you. Too perfect. Too beautiful to forget..." ” His bare hands cup your face as you speak. “Never forget you. Everyday I look at your doodles. I look at you, and miss you."

You're breathing in the words he's speaking into your parted lip. He kisses you again softly. You feel the bed shift next to you and he’s crawling beside you.

“Do you dislike me again?”

Maker, Din somehow got warmer. He’s running a fever all the time and his body feels like the embers in the fire pit at the end of the night. 

“Again?” You whisper as he pulls your face down to the pillows with his. 

“You didn’t care for me much before the doodles.” Din kisses your lips again, gently as his hand slips from your cheek. “I didn’t think you’d let me.” You can feel his warm breath on your chin as he speaks. 

“Let you what?” 

“Touch. Watch. The first time.” His real unmodulated voice whispers to you. “I've missed touching. Watching."

A warmth hovers over your middle, you reach for it. Tt’s Din’s hand, hovering above your stomach, under the blankets, but over your clothes. 

“Touch me.” It almost doesn’t come out of your mouth because it’s so dry. But you croak it out and swallow hard as the word leaves your lips because you hope he does. You hope this isn't like the first night all over again where he makes you do it alone.

Din obliges and lets his hand drop, you feel the heat spreading out along your nightgown starting from where his hand rests on your lower stomach. It makes you inhale sharply. It’s such a familiar touch and you missed it so much. 

Din sighs and drags his hands gently and slowly up your stomach, the fabric bunching at his wrist as he does it.

He's lifting your nightgown. 

“Din,” You whisper as his palm cups one of your fleshy tits over the nightgown.

His rough, calloused hands were so gently, touching you so sweetly until your hand rests on his, you make him squeeze you. You make him because you need to know this is real and these soft gentle touches feel like a dream.

Din grips you now. He can feel your desperation in your hand on his. Squeezing and pulling and tugging at your flesh. 

“Fuck.” He moans softly into your shoulder where his head was resting. The fiery goodness from his forehead felt like it was melting you. “Perfect. Beautiful.” He says the word like he doesn’t want to. Like he’s been forcing them back but they’re breaking free from his vocal chords.

You can almost feel his heartbeat. Or maybe it’s yours.

You don’t know. 

It’s just obvious that this is what you want and you need him. Badly. However he’s willing to give himself to you or however he wants to take you, you don’t care. You’ve been waiting and thinking about this for two years. Your body reacts to his touch like you were built for him. Your pussy is leaking and throbbing already and he’s only touched you once. 

There's a new warmth, a wetness to these sensations now. Din’s wrapped his mouth around your clothed nipple and is sucking. Biting gently over the nightgown you have on. It sends shivers down your spine.

Words come flowing out of your mouth before you can even stop them. “I've waited so long for this.” You whimper quietly.

Your hips are rolling against the bed below you because everything just feel so good, everything is just so overwhelmingly pleasurable. Din’s hands and mouth on you, the heat he's passing along through his touch. 

“Touch. I wanna hear you moan.” He murmurs against your breast. He’s still biting and sucking it through the fabric like he’s too impatient to take off the nightgown. He just can’t wait any longer. 

“I need you to touch me.” You whine quietly. “Please.” You’re begging him. “Please, Din, I need to fee-” But he doesn’t make you beg long, his free hand slides between your legs and he sighs loudly against you. 

“”Fuck. Fuck. You're s-so wet. So fucking perfect.” Din bites your nipple a little harder now, but then he pulls way. “Let me lick. P-Please. I just wanted to watch but now I need to taste you.” He’s moving down between your legs as he talks to you. Then he stops.

“Okay. Okay. Please. Do it, please.” You’re already spreading your legs but he’s getting off the bed again. “Nononononono.” You whine, reaching blindly for him in the dark. You’re on the verge of tears. “Please don’t leave me again.” 

It’s so quiet. It’s like time stopped. 

“Din?” You whisper. “Did you leave?” 

“Where would I go?” He answers but he’s further away from you now. "It's my ship."

“Well you’re obviously not here– where you were!” You exclaim quietly. You hear him chuckle in the dark. 

“Come to my bed. I want to do something. New.” 

Oh Maker what could that mean? A new stun gun? Some weird thing he found in his travels?

Does he want to make you the lightsaber and put the focus crystal inside you? That’s where you draw the line.

“What does that mean?” You ask nervously, clutching the sheets to your chest as you stare into the void. “New?” 

“Come here. You said I could lick, yes? Let me.” Din’s voice in the dark makes you drop the blankets your clutching and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Come, little one. Let me lick you. Let me taste you.” His voice guides you to him and you start to crawl into his bed but he stops you. “Leg.” He says into the dark.

“Leg?” You ask, confused. Din reaches for you in the dark and taps your upper thigh. 

“Leg.” He says like he’s teaching you body parts. “Swing it up here over my head.” 

“What!?” You exclaim. “You want me to do what?!” 

“I want you to sit on my face.” Din’s smiling in the dark and you can hear it in his voice. 

“And you’re going to taste me like that?” You’re exasperated. You’ve never even heard of this. What does that mean, sit on his face. “I’m going to smother you!” 

“Then I’ll die a happy man. Get up here.” Now he’s impatient. Din’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

You swing one leg over his head and straddle him, pressing both hands to the wall in front of you. The ship's metal is so cold on your clammy hands. You can feel him breathing against your inner thighs as you sit on your knees above him.

“ This is perfect.” Din whispers. You can only whimper quietly because you’re so nervous, you feel so exposed up here. “You want me to lick…” He leans up and gives the very top of your slit a quick teasing lick. “Here? Yes?” 

Your knees buckle because Din’s tongue is just as soft and just as warm as you remember and you do want him to lick there. You can’t find words for how badly you want him. All you can do is let out a breathy sound of consent. 

“Beautiful.” Din wraps his hands under your thighs and pulls you down onto his mouth, his tongue is ready. Eager. Waiting for you to be on him, for him to be inside your folds. “Just as I remember.” He whispers into your pussy, tasting that flavor he memorized before you left and thought of it often. “I touched myself, thinking of you. To your doodles. To your flavor.” Din takes the flat of his tongue and licks you from your opening all the way to your clit, slowly, he presses up against you so you feel him. 

He wants you to know he missed you. 

“ Maker, yes. ” It’s moaned softly as Din presses the flat of his tongue against your slit and lets you ride his mouth. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced. Why were you so scared? Being on top of him, this way, you were in control up here. “ Oh Din, yes.” You’re not holding back tonight. 

You’ve been waiting to do this. Dreaming about it at night and waking up in the morning having to give yourself some sort of pleasure. You slide one hand down into his thick, coarse hair, just enjoying the feeling of it between your fingers again. You hear Din moan from between your legs and his tongue moves against you faster. 

Your fingers tighten in Din’s hair as he holds you around the legs, you’re pinned down onto him. His tongue is lapping and exploring your folds. Licking at all the spots he remembers make you squirm. He memorized every inch of you before he left and he’s been thinking about you, keeping it fresh in his head for this moment so he can make you whimper and quiver like he used to.

Din is panting underneath you, he’s working for what you’re about to give him. His tongue was drifting between those big lazy circles that had you whimpering and begging him for more and tight fast spinning around your clit. That’s when his hands found your hips and started to move you on his face, his tongue flat, stroking your clit with each movement of your hips. 

“Please don’t stop.” Pushing yourself off the wall you’ve been leaning against, you hover over him now, rocking your hips on your own. You found a rhythm with Din’s help. He holds your hips tighter now–not messing with the rocking of your hips–feeling you roll yourself along his mouth. As he does that he pulls you down harder on his tongue. Your free hand finds his hair and you grip it tightly now in both fists and grind down against his flat, strong muscle. “ Oh fuck yes . Din, I’m so close.” You’re whimpering for him.

Din moans loudly from underneath you, his hands now moving to your ass. He gropes and spreads your cheeks. 

“M-moan again.” You stutter, your hips grinding harder and faster. The vibrations from Din’s moans will be enough. 

Din obliges happily and moans loudly again, over and over as your head falls back, hips never stopping their rocking motion on his tongue. 

“Oh, fuck–ing yes. Din, oh Maker!” You cry out. You don’t care if The Razor Crest is gone, you have those memories inside your head forever. You don’t have to hold back nearly as much here. You can let him know how fucking good he makes you feel. Your body is quivering as you grind against him. You can feel the prickles of his facial hair on your inner thighs and lips as you ride him.

Being on Din’s face like this was heaven. You can hear him noisily licking and sucking at the new wave of juices that are dripping from your entrance. As the warm ball of fiery goodness spreads through you, you start to shudder and tremble on top of him, his tongue never stops moving against your clit and then dipping inside of your hole to taste you as you leak out. Din laps at you until there’s nothing left. Sucking your lips into his mouth at the end to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He leaves you trembling above him for so long he has to tap your thigh again for you to swing It over his head. 

"Sorry." You pant. "That was good. I'd do that again." You go to stand off his bed and you feel him wrap his arms around your waist. 

"Don't go. Share the bed." He whispers up to you. "I waited for so long." 

"I waited too!" You exclaim as all of your anger and fear of being forgotten about returns. "I waited for just as long as you did! You sure didn't act like you missed me or waited for me. Not until the lights went off at least." You're storming to your own bed now. You move quickly, not wanting him to hear or see the tears in your eyes.

You've been keeping this in for a long time. Letting it bottle up until you can't keep it in anymore. And the fact that he confessed all those nice things just to be able to touch you.

Din doesn't say anything in the dark, letting you try and find you way back in the void. It makes you sadder that he isn't trying to comfort you. The tears come, quietly, thank Maker, as you get into your own bed and wrap yourself in the covers. It isn't until you let out a little weeping sound that you hear him shuffle and then your bed shifts under his weight. Din's pressing himself into you gently, wrapping his arm around your waist. 

"If you had reached for me, you could have felt my heart from under my beskar." He whispers in your ear. "I did miss you. I did wait for you." A small kiss along your jaw, "You didn't seem like you were happy to see me today." He sounds disappointed. "I thought you had forgotten about me. Maybe someone with a face and who didn't leave made you forget about me." Another small kiss in the same place. "I sat in the dark for so long, wondering if you were thinking of me. I had to come find out. I did't mean to scare you. Don't cry, little one. Please?" He's kissing your face gently. 

"I don't think anyone could ever make me forget about you." You whisper into the void.

tag list: @thereaperisabitch @pedrospookie @furiousmushroom @creepycorbeaux

I'm still so uncomfortable tagging people in my stories, so like I said, please tell me to fuck off if you want me to stop. My feelings won't be hurt (yes they will), and it's completely fine (I'm a big girl and can handle it).

[afrsconp]

A little holiday gift for the Tumblr Nisaac ghosties, with extra thanks to @yourstrulyray, whose post partly inspired the ending.

Thanks everyone for being so welcoming to a latecomer like me. <3

Written for the prompt: Your fave ship had some troubles and broke up but they're getting back together during the holidays.

(Which is obviously a Nisaac prompt if ever there was one.)

He finds Nigel on the little stone bench outside, where they’d first decided to try just being friends. And by anyone's measure, they’ve succeeded–more than a year has gone by since, and it's been one of the best of Isaac's afterlife that he can recall.

It wasn't until they started spending time together again that Isaac really understood why he'd been so out of sorts before. Not just lingering upset over the failure of their nuptials, but just the simple fact that he missed Nigel. Missed walking with him, conversing with him, even arguing with him. Isaac hadn't realised how much time they'd come to spend together once they started dating, nor how much he'd come to rely on Nigel's advice, or wit, or comfort whenever he needed it.

And Nigel never failed to provide it. Never fails, Isaac corrects himself now, as Nigel is as thoughtful and considerate a friend as he was a romantic partner. Isaac hopes he's done as much for Nigel, but in truth, he's really not so sure.

“Isaac,” Nigel says in greeting, when he sees Isaac coming towards him.

The noise of the Christmas party is muffled out here, but they can still hear the laughter and the music spilling out of the windows, still feel the warmth of the happiness and joy of their friends–living and ghost alike–inside the house proper. Isaac isn't really a sentimental man but the thought makes him smile, as does the sight of a man that's occupied a great deal of his thoughts for the better part of 300 years now.

“Nigel,” he greets in return, and sits beside him on the bench. Nigel's uniform suits the surroundings, the red of his coat a festive flash of colour amidst the grey stone of the house and the pristine white of newly fallen snow. He looks like something out of a postcard, or a picture book, or a–

A dream, Isaac thinks. A dream he's held for a very, very long time.

“I was wondering where you'd gone,” Isaac adds. His voice is soft; for some reason, it doesn't feel right to speak too loudly out here.

“I just needed a moment,” Nigel replies. His voice, too, is quieter than it usually is.

“For?”

Nigel is silent for some time, looking into the darkness beyond the yard and towards the woods in the distance. Isaac can't see his face clearly; not only is it dark but he's also in profile, keeping his eyes from Isaac's view. It makes it difficult to guess what he's thinking as his eyes have always been the most expressive thing about him. Often even more so than his words, which is saying a lot considering how eloquent the man can be.

“To get my thoughts in order,” Nigel says eventually. He turns then, and gifts Isaac with a small smile of his own. “I'm sorry,” he adds. “I don't mean to bring the mood down. This time of year just tends to draw the melancholy out of me.”

Isaac sits back a little, surprised. “It does?” he asks. “You seemed quite happy when we–”

Too late, he remembers what happened the last–and only–Christmas they spent together. The mistletoe, the liaison, the long-awaited kiss in the shed. Nigel must know what thoughts cut off Isaac's words and he smiles again, but now that Isaac can see his eyes it's obvious that the expression isn't genuine. Indeed, if anything, it just makes Nigel look even more sad.

“I'm sorry,” Nigel repeats. “It's just… old memories, that's all. I promise you, Isaac, I value your friendship a great deal, and I'm very glad to have it.”

Isaac knows him well enough now to know that he's being sincere, but he can also tell that there are things Nigel is holding back, too. Kept locked away and secret behind his sad eyes and carefully worded answers; kept silent and unspoken for as long as Isaac refuses to hear them.

And there's the catch, really; there's the rub. Isaac does hear them, and perhaps always has. It's just taken a lot longer than any man should need to endure for Isaac to really understand what they mean. And by some miracle that Isaac is sure he doesn't deserve, Nigel did–and does–endure it, and likely always will.

“As I'm glad to have yours,” Isaac tells him, and gets another, sweeter smile in response. It warms Isaac down to his bones, and gives him the courage to do what he'd come out here to do in the first place.

He doesn't really know why it feels so much harder now than it did before; surely the second time should be easier, since he's already had something of a practice run. But the weight of everything that’s happened between them hangs heavy in the air, and the full knowledge of what he's admitting to, and accepting, is almost overwhelming.

I like you, he'd said the first time. A vague and somewhat childish statement, for a vague and somewhat childish feeling, made by a version of himself who, despite an existence that spanned centuries, was likewise rather childish and vague himself. Please don't make me say it again, he’d added, when Nigel looked equal parts confused and hopeful, unsure of what Isaac really meant.

But Isaac is not that man anymore, and neither is Nigel. Childish and vague are the opposite of what he wants this second time to be. Second and last, if he does this correctly. If he's right about the nature of the secrets Nigel keeps so close to his chest.

“Nigel,” he starts. He stares at his hands, unsure if he can look Nigel in the eye for this.

“Yes, Isaac?”

Isaac opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. His jaw works but his throat does not, closing up and choking off the words he'd planned so carefully to say. Nigel just looks at him, however, and doesn't rush him; patient in a way he wasn't before, when Isaac’s denials prompted him to walk away.

You're not that man anymore, Isaac reminds himself. And neither is he.

“I love you,” Isaac says. It's a simple statement, simply said, but what it conveys for both of them is immense.

Nigel stares blankly for a moment, before the words sink in and his eyes go wide. He looks more shocked than when Isaac proposed, and his voice is faint when he stutters, “W-what?”

“I love you, Nigel,” Isaac repeats. He takes a steadying breath, then says the rest of what he prepared to say. “I think perhaps I always have; I just didn’t really know it until now. Perhaps I wasn't ready to. But… after everything I've done, and how much I hurt you, I'll understand if you no longer feel the same wa–”

He's abruptly cut off when Nigel's lips crash into his, Nigel's hands cradling his face like he's holding something precious, palms shaking against Isaac's cheeks. Isaac kisses back, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to–and he doesn't want to, not now and not ever.

And that, really is the heart of the matter. Because for them, forever is not just a trite little phrase, to be uttered in the heat of the moment or woven into vows that only last a single lifetime. For them, it's a real and true commitment, with real and true consequences that both of them understand all too well.

And now, it's a promise made and accepted. Because when Nigel pulls back and meets Isaac's gaze, every secret he'd kept hidden away is revealed in full in those wide green eyes, as arresting now as when Isaac first saw them through a spyglass more than 250 years ago. More arresting, really, because now they look at Isaac with clear joy and love spilling from them unhindered, and Isaac can only hope his own eyes mirror even a fraction of the same emotion, because he certainly feels it, in every single part of himself. In his chest, tight with happiness; in his stomach, fluttering with relief; in his heart, swelled to bursting with–

“I love you, too, Isaac,” Nigel says. He strokes Isaac’s cheek and stares at him with something like wonder on his face. “Always.”

Isaac leans in and kisses him again, soft and gentle, taking his time. He doesn't need to say anything more; the look on Nigel's face confirms that he understands what Isaac is offering him now, as well as Nigel's own answer to it. But if this really is the last time he’ll do this–with Nigel, or with anyone–Isaac wants to make it count.

"Always, Nigel,” Isaac confirms. Promises. Vows. “And forever, too.”

[elpida]

Erin appeared just as she did in real life, subtle little hints were being given though. She'd stepped inside that room with a blanket pulled around her body, she felt.. vulnerable, wherever she was right now. Vulnerable enough that she was seeking comfort in familiar halls, in rooms that had memories.. in places that she might once have felt safe. "It held good memories too.." she answered softly, moving so that even in her dream, her hand ran across the railings, her hair blowing in the wind lightly. "It held so many good memories, before the one bad." She was reminiscent, she had been for years.

Silence. What happened to you, and how was she meant to tell him or even begin to explain all that the ministry did to keep her as their puppet? She was their perfect picture of a good witch, pliable, pulled on puppet strings. There was a part of her that was fretting, worrying that even in her dreams they were watching her, that they'd know exactly what she was doing and it had her hands trembling, fingers fidgeting together in that trait she could never seem to outgrow. Erin just... couldn't answer it, she lowered her head, her gaze. Manacles, Tommy. she was thinking it, her mind raced with a million ways to tell him just how much they pained her each time they appeared around her wrist and subconsciously.. rather than her fingers fidgeting, her fingers moved and started to rub around her wrists where she could remember the feel of them pulling her delicate skin.

He'd have burned them all if he ever heard the way she cried, the way she pleaded with them to free her of the manacles, that she'd do whatever they wanted. Your magic slowly draining from you, pulling from your very being.. to be taunted with that was cruel, it left something missing from Erin, something she wasn't sure would ever come back. It left her with this cold feeling she never felt left her, always loitering like goosebumps across her skin. "I can't." it was truthful, at the very least... because she couldn't tell anyone. They'd sworn her to it, she could think it, over and over but she couldn't say the words... it didn't change the fear of it happening again. "Tommy? If I could, I would." she explained, and she hope he understood her enough and what she was trying to tell him.

They're going to find you here Erin, that warning kept lingering her mind. For a brief moment she sort of arched her head, stretching her neck like the thought, the warning there was bothering her and she wanted to shake it away. A weaker person would've caved with the stress of what they'd done, the situation of it... but her years with Tommy had taught her to withstand a lot more than she'd ever realized and part of her wondered... if he'd done it on purpose, hardening her mind with harmless invasions, little words in her head, a way to toughen the walls from the inside out. She found a lot of ease in that way of thinking.

"Not of you." she turned from looking out to a horizon she mi8ssed dearly. "Never of you." but of something. She wasn't denying that she was scared of something. "Will anyone else be able to find me here like you can?" she couldn't say it but.. she was smart enough to ask questions, to hint what her fear edged on. "Do you ever see Dumbeldore? I see him regularly." Of course she did, the man kept an eye on her, forever the favored hufflepuff even when she left school. "I visit him as much as I can, I enjoy it.. being back on the school grounds. I think he'd like to see you too you know?"

He had seen it. Heard it, the cluttering noises her little act left behind and just like that she vanished in the crowd, even if he always looked after her in secret. She wanted to leave. There was something in the air that made him realize it when they spoke. Something was different and even if he knew that he wrecked the most part of his memories with his magic, he would always recognize his Erin Flores and this time it was hard to find her behind the pain her eyes told him about. She would be safe, that’s what he told himself when she disappeared and he could only be so certain cause he left a new piece of his magic mirror within the emerald. Tommy could be sure cause he would see and with that he could calmly raise his glass to his lips when she left, muttering an “let’s do this” before he emptied the whisky and started the negotiations.

-

It could have been a lie. Could have been a trick to fuck him over, but something inside of him let him hope. Let him pray that what she said was spoken from her heart and with no bad intentions. Tommy could always leave, nothing would capture him when he wanted to leave something he decided to enter and still he knew that Erin was gifted with white magic he barely understood, but she would never use that against him and had proven that before.

It was her voice that called him. A longing inside of her that reached his mind and made him interrupt the paper work he was about to sign. Nights were sleepless anyways, so why shouldn’t he follow her call if he could only have her one moment more? Just one moment. One second. One look he could implement in his memory he fractured too much to remember clearly. It was worth it, was it not?

Tommy leaned his back against his desk like in the past when they met in Hogwarts after all these years. Distant. Detached. Motionless was his appearance while he smoked and waited for her to enter and just like back then she did through the double winged doors he created in her dream that led her straight back into his room. Slowly his eyes wandered up to look at her, spotting his necklace still on her skin but nothing changed in his expression. Blindly he stubbed out the cigarette in the nearby ashtray and let his hands rest with open arms on the edges of the desk where his fingers fiddled with the wood below.

“I’m here.” he said firmly, trying to keep his strong facade that wouldn’t crumble even in the nearness of her. If he could just focus on the control he had over this world he created in her mind, he would be able to stay focused and not fall back into old weaknesses. It should be easy even though he felt his heart skipping a beat as he realized how familiar this situation was for them. So many looks, so many words, so many kisses. All of them locked in the back of his memory, leaving him behind with a lingering sensation that was hard to bear. “What is it you seek from me? Why meet here where you once shut me out, eh?” It was so much easier in here to feel what she felt, to see what she saw and crave what she craved. A fact that made it risky to come but also allowed him to notice details that would be hidden in their reality. “What happened to you? You wouldn’t seek me out if you wouldn’t have a good reason, we both know that. So tell me.” And his gaze wandered down to her fingers that fiddled before and still seemed to be nervous. “Are you scared of me, Erin?”

[honeymilkuwu]

hello besties we're so back

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo learns something about himself 🏳️‍⚧️

Based roughly on this old post.

Bonus:

[Leo is taking the fact that he was born biologically female simultaneously very well and also not so well but overall he’s mostly coping with the fact that it was Draxum that just essentially gave him the turtle equivalent of ‘The Talk’.]

[silkjade]

i haven’t been here much recently, and i’m sorry i’ve only been negative on the off chance i’ve been online, but let me just say one last piece before the end of this month, so that maybe the next might be better….

[suddencolds]

.~

[mihai-florescu]

how long have u been running this blog (i love ur txts RAHHHHH thanks for spilling wtv is on ur brain)

Aw thank you! Ive had the same blog since 2014 when i was in middle school ^_^

[eclarinet]

same soup... different day

[cigarette-room]

(pretty long thread rip)

I should be studying for tomorrow but instead I am restless and overthinking and thinking to myself about how there is so much wrong in approaching love from the perspective of trying to be liked and trying to be loved and trying to be good and trying to stick people to yourself with duct tape made of gifts and nice jokes and sweet words because well, it's not only tiring but they will leave in the end anyway, and loving and being loved is supposed to be rest and peace and a sound mind and the more you try the less you achieve any of that! Except I'm my mother's and father's child so I still do it anyway and hang around and try again and cling until it's dead because otherwise it all really hurts but it hurts anyway so

Just dgaf. And if you do then pretend you don't until you convince yourself and restrain your hands so they can't reach out to anyone once they turn their back on you and just. Let people live with their own decisions. I want so hard to be loved that I am making myself disposable like a used rag and for what? It's all gonna be good one day with or without anyone else

[vaguely-humanoid-form]

sometimes looking back at the past hurts more than you thought it would

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Mama, I’m in love with a criminal

Tags: Sukuna x fem!Reader, no curse au, dead dove, violence described including murder, dark romance, use of y/n, descriptions of mental illness.

Synopsis: Sukuna’s talking to his therapist in jail about you. He’s incarcerated because of you, and his obsession is concerning.

An: Yeah idk i thought of this while I was driving to work one morning.

Session one. | Session two.

His large frame laid lazily over the couch, clad in an orange jumpsuit. He had his feet propped up on one side, and his head was propped up on the other side in a far too casual manner. His naturally pink hair pushed up near the front, messily so.

He was still cuffed and shackled, but the therapist was still afraid of him. To the therapist’s credit, he had read the warrant that went into viscous detail of Sukuna’s crimes.

Normally, the therapist wouldn’t read the inmates warrants due to situations like these. He liked going into sessions with an open mind, but he had gotten warnings about Sukuna… how the man can fly into a blind rage like a switch on the wall.

He was brutal, unforgivable, inhumane.

Simple counseling wasn’t going to “fix” a broken human like Sukuna. The therapist knew this, but the state mandated that Sukuna undergo weekly counseling sessions per his sentence.

Sukuna could taste the therapist’s fear, and he let out an earnest laugh. “You don’t even want to try to fix me, do you?” He asked tauntingly with a lopsided grin. “I don’t blame you. Don’t feel bad~”

The therapist swallowed the lump in his throat, and he adjusted in his seat. “I can’t fix anyone… Counseling isn’t about fixing.. It’s about moving forward and learning how to live.”

“Bullshit.” Sukuna spits with shrug. “Counseling is about focusing on the past and letting shit hang you up for far too long. I guarantee you that you’re going to ask me about how I got here, is that right?”

The therapist is shaking like a leaf at this point. “Our past can help us navigate to a better future.” He murmured out weakly.

Sukuna roars in laughter, causing the therapist to nearly jump out of his seat. The pink-haired felon doubles over as he laughs hysterically. “You’re a funny guy. Fine. You really want to know how I got here? I’ll tell you.”

After a deep breath and wiping away a fake tear, Sukuna goes on, “You know, teachers always believe that pairing the troubled kids up with the good kids will inspire them to act right. That shit never works.”

“I think that’s when my ‘type’ developed. My bitch of a second-grade teacher assigned me to sit next to this frail meek girl after I got in trouble one too many times for terrorizing the other kids. She was a real stick in the mud.” Sukuna laughs fondly, a rare genuine smile on his face.

“Y/n?” The therapist asks, remembering your name from the warrants.

Sukuna’s red eyes snap over to the therapist with an almost predatory gaze. His hands visibly curl into fists. “Say her name again, and I’ll splatter your blood all over this room. The officers won’t be able to pry me from you, deeming you to be a lost cause.”

The therapist freezes as the breath hitches in his throat. His eyes dart toward his panic button, knowing he should probably press it now, but he’s frozen in fear.

“We’ll call her mouse.” Sukuna goes on as if he didn’t just threaten the poor guy’s life in brutal detail.

“Mouse was a real challenge. I for some reason made it my mission to get her to talk to me, but she always stayed silent — only answering me with simple head gestures.” He laughs again, lying his head back further as he’s replaying the memories in his mind. He can remember you vividly and how you looked back then. He yearns for that feeling again. The feeling of seeing you for the first time.

“I can’t exactly tell you when the challenge started to border obsession, but she slowly slithered her way into my brain. Even when I wasn’t in school, I thought about her. I wondered what she sounded like, wondered why she wouldn’t talk to me, wondered why she looked at me like that.”

The therapist furrows his eyebrows. Even though he doesn’t feel safe in this session, and he doesn’t trust Sukuna at all, he has a hunger for knowledge, and he loves solving things that have to do with the human psyche.

“Looked at you like what?” The therapist dared to ask.

Sukuna stayed silent for a moment, and he tapped his finger against the back of his hand. His face hardened as he found the words he was looking for. “She looked at me like she had no preconceived notion of me. Her eyes… were so big and round. Even though she didn’t talk to me, it was like she accepting of my presence.”

The shackles jingled as Sukuna rubbed his face in a stressed gesture. Remembering you was like a double edged sword. He loved thinking about you, but he hated being reminded that he was without you.

The therapist eased in his chair. There was actual emotions underneath all those tattoos, thick skin, and muscle. The media had portrayed Sukuna as a complete narcissistic sociopath, but this was proof that diagnosis was false.

“I bothered the shit out of her for years, continually getting myself paired up with her.” Sukuna grinned, shifting the conversation back in a direction that he was more comfortable with, “I remember those asshole kids always called me her shadow because I followed her everywhere. Jokes on them.”

The therapist shivered as be remembered a chilling detail from the warrants. Each time a victim was found, a message was written in the victim’s blood.

-ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ

His victim’s - their deaths were like an homage to you.

“Were the kids ever… assholes to mouse?”

Sukuna’s jaw visibly tightened. He loathed this therapist’s questions… thinking he knew everything just because you and Sukuna were misunderstood kids.

“They called her weird for not talking.” Sukuna recalled as he bit his inner cheek. His eyes glared to the wall in front of him. “Now look at who can’t talk.”

Sukuna’s first victim. He didn’t start out with murder. He started out with stapling your bullies mouth shut for taunting you. Everything was for you. Everything.

He held a kid down to the teacher’s in third grade, grabbing a stapler, and he pressed it down one by one into the kids lips, binding them together. The kid couldn’t scream or cry for help, or else he’d risk ripping the flesh on his lips.

The teachers found the kid and immediately knew the only kid sadistic enough to go through with such an act was none other than Sukuna.

“Did mouse witness you do that?” The therapist asked, genuinely intrigued by Sukuna’s narrative. For being a ruthless criminal, he was a wonderful historian.

“No. Why would I scare her like that?” Sukuna’s voice was tense as he eyed the therapist carefully, as if he was waiting for him to say the wrong thing.

The therapist clicks his tongue in surprise, and he looks like a deer in headlights. “Scare? No.. no, I thought you’d maybe just show off what you did for her.”

“I’m not the type to show off.” Sukuna answers flatly, and the therapist wonders if that’s the first time Sukuna’s lied during this session. He knows that Sukuna likes to show off. The warrants prove it.

“Anyways, I wore her down over the years. She didn’t speak to me until we were in sixth grade.” An eerie smile curls on Sukuna’s lip. “I can still remember her first word to me and how she said it…”

The therapist leaned in, curiosity getting best of him.

Sukuna smirks, knowing he has the therapist interested now. “Her first word to me was a plea. A word to show her undeniable want. Her first word to me was please.”

Bang! Bang Bang!

The therapist literally flinches out of his chair from the heavy knocks at the door.

“Ryomen! Your time is up!” The officer yelled on the other side of the door.

“Pity. I was beginning to have fun.” Sukuna remarked as he stood up from the couch. The shackles jingled as he walked toward the door, and the door buzzed, letting him out. “See you next week, doc.”

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: hybrid au, bullying, harassment

♡ GN reader

A sudden evolutionary change befalls the entire human race, turning everyone into hybrids…

And as your bully comes to terms with how much bulkier he's become, along with his new sharp teeth, stronger jaw, and round furry ears, as well as the little tassel he'd grown for a tail, he's also picturing you—his cute little classmate. 

At first, he caught himself thinking about what you'd look like if you were part bear like him, but then, when mulling over the fact that everyone had altered into some type of animal that seemed to complement characteristics they had already, he began wondering what animal characteristics best suited you, and what your bullyable body now looked like.

If he were to guess before seeing you, he'd think your meek nature must have gifted you with an animal equally as pathetic—like a little mouse.

But no, not exactly, though not far off either. 

There you are, in the classroom before anyone else, bright and early like always, as if you want him to catch you alone.

“Well, well, well… look what we have here,” he announces himself, placing one heavy foot before the other as he saunters over to your desk.

You jump up from your chair in a flurry, spooked by his voice. "Oh–hey," you greet, timidly like usual, maybe even more so, as you take in his new size, eyes widening as you do.

"Tch-" he scoffs, sharp eyes looking down at you, thinking you must have shrunk a whole head before remembering how his growth was probably half to blame. "Of course, the most useless person in the world turns into the most useless animal ever."

Your button nose wriggles, but you don’t dare negate his statement. "And you're a—" you start, but almost instantly regret it as obvious an observation as it is, "Bear."

He sneers, "Guess what they say about bunnies being dumb is true after all."

Your buck teeth peek forth as you bite into your lip, bowing your head. "Was there something you wanted?"

With his hands in his front pockets, he stands there for a moment—in silence that only seemed to increase in deadliness the longer it lasted, before stating his demand, "Show me your tail."

You look up at him at that. "W-why?"

He unpockets his paw and plants it on your desk, leaning in close. A grin spread on his lips—fangs and all. "'Cause I wanna see it. So turn around."

You shake your head pitifully. "N-no, that's embarrassing."

But he doesn’t care much about your refusal, only sighing heavily before grabbing your arm and pulling you forward until your chest met the solid surface of the desk, bent over it oh-so-prettily and ready for inspection.

"Come on, dont be difficult," he growls through a smirk, watching you wiggle a bit until settling down, all too quickly yielding under his mighty grip—a display that makes him lick his teeth before slolwy lifting your shirt, pulling it up your back, watching as the little tuft of fur waiting beneath it springs out of hiding for him to see.

He simpers at the sight, then eagerly goes to feel it. 

You whimper at his handling, but he ignores you. Feeling up the softness between his fingers. "Tch–so fluffy… no different from a stuffed animal."

His eyes pan to your face, looking at it cower, squished against the desk with knitted brows and eyes squeezed shut. You’re really just gonna lie there and let him do this, aren’t yah?

"Lop ears are a sign of domestication, y'know?" he says then, picking one of the floppy things up, giving it a rub that makes your whimpers turn into whines. 

"Yeah… if it wasn't clear enough before…” he chuckles. “You're as submissive as they come.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks, Shinso ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Kyotani, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ DS – Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist