#i just feel like it can be dangerous to draw up these profiles

[egyptianking]

I said this after the last euros I think and it's like 1am so excuse my thoughts being a bit all over the place but I do feel like the stats thrown around another domestic violence are very well meaning in trying to open up people's eyes to the prevalence of domestic violence, starting that conversation and also signposting to helplines and resources BUT I do feel like it's kinda?? Unhelpful in some way in that it really reinforces that a domestic abuser is the stereotypical bigoted, drunken working class football fan coming home from the match or the pub...when on reality domestic abusers take all sorts of forms? They're from every walk of life, every class, racial and religious group, part of the country. They watch football, rugby cricket, they do theatre they do..idk? Tap dancing.

I'm not saying we shouldn't share those stats I just think we need to move away from the idea that 1) football causes domestic abuse (abusers cause domestic abuse.) 2) domestic abuse is some sort of English specific thing 3) you can tell who domestic abusers are bc they fit the stereotypical bald, sunburnt, stella-drinking ingerland til I die description.

Keep sharing resources and keep the conversation going, absolutely!! But idk these are just my thoughts..

Phone numbers for anyone who may need them or to share:

[6gumi]

jealous little angel.

synopsis ﹒” oh mr. sunday 、you really need to work on your jealousy ! it was just a prank ! ”

pairings﹒sunday x f!reader

cw﹒ nsfw MDNI. jealous s3x 、rough ! sunday :< 、some possessive themes / tendencies 、usage of petnames ( angel-face、dove、etc ! ) 、wall s3x 、semi-public s3x 、slight breeding kink if yew squint ! ^-^ 、he rips your stockings . . hehe 、we luv possessive sunday !

note﹒hai hai ! ! decided to write for sunday . . . ooh he’s so dreamie . . . he’s such a red flag but i luv him . . . x.x hehe here’s a special taggie for a special someone ! @cubffections | reblogs are highly appreciated. if you would like to talk to me, send in rqs or thirsts, feel free to send me an ask ! — rubi ♡

this party was going to drive him to the edge. sunday can't contain his excitement as he examined his surroundings . . . the anticipation of seeing his beloved made his heart race. he knows you’re waiting for him, dressed in something that's bound to drive him wild. It's maddening, the way you tease him, playing with his emotions. he steps forward, closing the huge door softly behind him. the scent of you permeates the air, and he can't help but inhale deeply, relishing the familiar comfort it brings. sunday knew you were off talking to a few ipc members here and there, so he took his sweet time trying to find you, savouring every step.

rounding the corner, he spots you in profile, your body bathed in the soft glow of the hallway light. the sight of you in that red lace nightgown, the way your breasts sway with each step, is enough to make his cock ache. it’s an irresistible sight, and sunday moves toward you with predatory intent. but wait . . . why were you speaking with someone else? sunday’s smile faded . . . lost in the immediate shuffle of emotions as he examined the man that was way too close to you for comfort, that dopey smile on that man’s face wasn’t fooling anyone . . and he was aware of that. his vibrant gaze slowly faded away, clouding the atmosphere with nothing but tension. he clenched his fists as hard as he could, enough for his nails to draw blood to his delicate skin.

sunday really couldn’t stand it.

he couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else. even so, he knew very well you were doing this on purpose just to tease him . . . seeing you having such a great time with someone else triggered a primal protective instinct within him. the way you touched that man’s shoulder . . . those pretty doe eyes of yours staring into someone else’s eyes other than his . . . the way your breasts squeezed together when you crossed your arms, fuck. he couldn't ignore the need to discipline you when you behaved like this, and he knew he had to put you in your place.

with a smooth, fluid motion, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you away from the party, away from your new little friend you made and any distractions. “huh . . . ? sunday?—“

“not another word from you, my love.” sunday tried to act firm . . yet he couldn’t stop his heart from skipping more beats than one at the sight of your cleavage in that god-forbidden revealing dress, the memory of how they felt in his hands coming back to him in a rush. sunday swallows thickly, his gaze locked on your exposed cleavage. he can almost smell your arousal now, faint but undeniable. "what were you thinking? were you trying to seduce that fool?“ he was moving closer. He can't resist the temptation, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek . . . his thumb pressing against your lower lip.

"you know I can't resist you, and you know i can’t stand it when you’re all dolled up talking to someone else but me. have you learnt nothing from the punishments i’ve given you? is that it?” a devilish glint sparkles in his eyes, promising an evening full of sin and pleasure. who knew such an angel like him would have eyes this dangerous. sunday leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. "you belong to me . . ." he whispers, taking in the scent of your fragrance, “. . . or have you forgotten that?”

you couldn’t help but shiver against his body, you wanted this as much as he did and he could tell, he knew very well you did. “baby . . . i just wanted to play a little prank on you, ‘s nothing serious . . . promise!” sunday kept his mouth shut as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, tugging you flush against his body. his lips find the nape of your neck, where he plants a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. "it is serious when there’s another man involved," he growls, his voice deep and rough with need. “ . . . and you know i don’t share, darling.”

with a hand, he reaches down and eases your pretty lil’ dress up, exposing your ass. his gloved fingers dig into the soft flesh, tracing the curve before giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. "bad, bad girl.” he murmurs, already envisioning the way you’ll shred under his touch. “what am i gonna do with a bad girl like you . .” sunday examines your facial expression, giving your cheek a gentle slap, inserting his thumb inside your mouth. “should i tie your arms around your back? shove my cock inside this slutty mouth of yours . . . or fill you up with my cum? or maybe . . . i should fuck you in-front of everyone else, let them know that you’re mine and mine alone . . do you want that, my love?”

sunday’s lips curve into a wicked smile, and he nods, his hand still firmly gripping your ass. "i wish i can hide you away from the world, angel-face . . . you need to be taught some more.” he warns, his voice thick with lust. “guess those punishments didn’t work on you . . . how pitiful.”

sunday kept your body pinned against the wall, the grip on your ass never wavering, the feel of his beloved pressed against him driving him wild. he knew you both had to be careful . . his little wings would flutter at the loud sound of music from below, there were still people around . . and getting caught was not something he would want. once you both were in the clear, he doesn't waste any time. with one swift movement, he lifts you even further up against the wall, your legs parting to reveal the wetness between them. sunday’s sinful eyes devour the sight, and he can't help the predatory smile that spreads across his face. "such a naughty girl, wet for me already,"

"now, what do you say we do something about that wetness of yours?" he asks, his voice low and suggestive, the air thick with the promise of pleasure and sinfulness. “ . . ‘s not fair i’m gettin’ punished for a prank . .” you murmured, legs trembling under his hold. sunday chuckles darkly, giving your ass a hard slap, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“now, now, baby . . no need to act all innocent," he teases, his hand never leaving your hip . . gently pinning you with his body even more. “i like how feisty you can get, angel face . . . but there's a time and a place for everything, right?" he purrs, his eyes dark with lust. “you won’t be acting all innocent once i fuck you dumb on my cock.” your husband traces his fingers down your chest, pausing to tease your nipples through the lace of the dress. his mouth finds yours, his lips soft as he explores your mouth with his tongue, taking his time to savor the taste of your lips he yearned for all day. when he pulls away, he's breathing heavily. the young male tsked, shaking his head as he reached your chin again, “you know how i feel about disobedience, correct?”

"tonight i’m going to show you who you belong to," he murmurs, reaching for the hem of the dress. with a swift yank, he pulls it over your head, revealing your body in all its glory. “the man you will belong to until the end of time.” sunday’s eyes drink in the sight of your black stockings, licking his lips. "you’re not getting away from me anytime soon, my love, i hope you and your pretty little head realize that.” he asks, his voice thick with desire as he starts to tug the stockings down.

“you’re not escaping me, angel-face.” he growls, his hand gripping the delicate fabric of the pair stockings you wore . . . with a swift and violent motion, he tears them down your legs, the sound of the material tearing filling the empty hall. he relents, pulling back just enough to grip your inner thigh, his grip firm but not oppressive. . . admiring the rip he caused with your stockings, giving him easier access to those pretty panties you wore.

sunday’s eyes gleam with a deranged excitement, gripping your hips, positioning himself at the entrance of your pussy . . giving it one painful slap. "you’ll thank me for this someday," he growls before gently sliding himself inside your wet heat, the friction sending shivers down his spine. “you’ll thank me for claiming you, my dove. you will.”

“a-ah . . sunday . . !” the young halovian’s lips curve into a wicked grin as you gasp, the surprise at the sudden invasion of his cock into your pussy more than apparent. he’s not gentle, not this time. sunday needs to claim you, to make sure you knew who owns you in this moment and forever. his thrusts were harsher than usual, tongue lolling out as you were slowly losing your mind already when his cock filled you completely. “you’re mine, angel. you’ll always be mine," he growls, the possessiveness in his tone thick. he pounds into you with desperation to get his message across your head, the rhythm erratic, as if he's trying to claw his way into your soul . . fingers nearly turning white as they dug into the flesh of your hips, pulling them back to meet each thrust of his cock.

his own heat was rising, the scent of sweat snd sex filling the air around you. with how loud you were moaning, he was almost certain someone would catch you both. “let the heat pass through you, and i’ll mark you. i’ll claim you, my love.” he was going to breed you, to leave no doubt that you were his. his thrusts became more erratic, more urgent, as he fights to push aside the thoughts that threaten to consume him. the single thought of his seed filling you only intensifies his need to dominate, to control . . to keep you all to himself.

"nobody will take you away from me. nobody.” sunday grinds his hips against you, his cock sliding against your tight entrance. sunday already came inside you multiple times the previous times you both had intercourse, but it's not enough. he wants your body to be filled with his seed. his fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts forward, filling your cunny with his throbbing dick. sunday’s eyes roll back as he relishes in the feeling of your tight pussy wrapped around him once more . . only raising his urge fill you up even more. “s—so tight, so perfect. i wish i could fill you up every day . . let everyone know you’re mine.” sweat drips down his forehead as he drives into you with a newfound fervor. each thrust is a powerful assertion, “easy now . . you don’t want us to get caught now, do you?" his voice is a low, gravelly growl, laced with desperation.

“sunday . . f-feels weird . . feels like i’m goin’ stupid . .” drool slipped away from your lips, a chuckle left sunday’s lips as he slowed down his thrusts . . giving you a moment to adjust to his size again, taking that moment to kiss and mark your neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin. “you were sent to me by the angels of this world,” he whispers, the possessiveness in his tone unmistakable. “you look so pretty pressed up against the wall like this . . . are you enjoying yourself?”

“fuck . . yes, yes!�� sunday’s eyes flare with delight at your whine, your need for him clear, and it makes him even more aggressive in his thrusts. sunday was close, so close. he leaned over your shoulder, his teeth finding their mark on the juncture between their delicate skin of neck and shoulders, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. “mine, mine, mine . . ." he whispered against your ear, burying himself deeper and deeper, caging your hands above your head, holding them there as he filled you completely, ensuring that when you cum, you cum for him and only him. he’s not going to let you go.

with one final, brutal push of his cock, the halovian came inside your aching cunny, flooding your walls with his seed. he held you tightly against his body, shifting gently further into the wall. his release was intense, seed spurting deep inside as some dripped down on the floor. he nestled close against your neck, breathing heavily, refusing to let go of you even after he emptied himself inside. “ . . . so tell me, angel face, did you learn your lesson?”

© 6GUMI 2024. modifying 、translating 、sharing my works on other platforms 、or considering them as yours is strictly prohibited.

[soulofapatrick]

Protect You - Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Summary: You come into work injured and Hotch accidentally outs your relationship

Words: 1.8K

Warnings: None really

Notes: I honestly don't know where this one came from but enjoy hehe

Y/N’s POV

As I step into the familiar confines of the BAU bullpen, a sigh of relief escapes my lips upon noticing it’s only Spencer present as the others always arrive later. Hotch and Rossi must be holed up in their offices, shielding them from witnessing the bruised left side of my face and the split lip that I’m trying to conceal with my hair, keeping my head down. I would try make-up but they’re profilers, we’re profilers, there’s no point hiding any of it as they’ll work it out. 

Every moment reminds me of the ache throbbing on my face, a constant reminder of the altercation that occurred early this morning. I try to mask the discomfort with a tight-lipped smile, but I know Spencer sees through it the moment his gaze flickers up from the file he’s absorbed in. His eyes widen in concern, and he’s on his feet so fast his chair clatters to the ground, abandoning his document to rush to my side. 

I appreciate his silent understanding, his quick grasp of the situation without needing an explanation. It's moments like these that remind me why the BAU feels like family.

“Hey,” Spencer’s voice is gentle, his concern palpable as he takes in my appearance, eyes flickering over the bruises, assessing whether I need medical or not, “What happened to you?” 

I offer a weak shrug, sliding onto my desk so Spencer can slide into my chair like we usually sit, waiting for Emily, JJ and Morgan to arrive, “Oh just a little accident.” I murmur, trying to downplay the severity of it, though the pain pulses with each word. Spencer raises his eyebrows, scoffing lightly, drawing a heavy sigh from me, I relent, knowing I can’t actually keep it from my best friend, “Jessica might have found me in Hotch’s bed this morning after he left to be here early,” I pause, letting that sink in first, the fact I was in our boss’ bed, “She… well, she punched me and I just left her… she’s still grieving and it’s been just over a year now…” 

Spencer's hand finds mine, a silent gesture of solidarity amidst the chaos. And in that moment, I'm grateful for his unwavering support, his quiet strength anchoring me to reality when everything feels like it's spiralling out of control, “Are you going to tell Hotch?” 

Before I can respond, the authoritative timbre of Hotch’s voice cuts through the air, drawing my gaze towards his office. Instinctively, I turn my head away, a futile attempt to shield him from the truth of what his ex-sister-in-law had down to me. But it’s too late. The damage is already written across my bruised face, a stark reminder of the violence that had erupted in the early hours of the morning. 

Hotch strides into the bullpen, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on me, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. "Tell me what?" His voice is clipped, demanding answers that I'm not ready to give. Spencer gets up from my chair and moves over to where the coffee station is, staying within hearing distance but giving us enough privacy. 

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of Hotch's gaze bearing down on me like a heavy burden. "It's nothing, Hotch," I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper as I keep my head bowed, unwilling to meet his gaze. But I can sense his skepticism, his unwavering determination to uncover the truth lurking beneath my hesitant words.

Before I can protest further, Hotch grips my chin with a gentle finger and thumb, forcing me to raise my face and meet his gaze. The shock that flashes across his features sends a shiver down my spine, his expression morphing from concern to horror, then to simmering anger barely contained beneath the surface. 

His voice is low, a dangerous undercurrent lacing his words as he practically growls, “Who did this to you?” 

I try to shake my head free from his grip but he won’t let me, cognac eyes full of anger as he searches my face. Every part of my wants to submit to him but I can’t ruin the last bit of Haley he has left by telling him and he finally sighs. He takes a risk and presses his forehead to mine, eyes closing and taking a deep breath before he’s letting me go and taking a step back just as the bullpen doors open. With one final lingering look he turns to the others and tells them to meet him in the meeting room in ten. 

As Spencer intercepts Hotch on his way back to his office, a sense of foreboding settles over the bullpen, amplifying the tension already thick in the air. I watch, heart sinking, as Spencer murmurs something to Hotch, the words lost in the charged atmosphere. Hotch's head snaps up, his entire demeanour shifting in an instant. Even from behind, I can sense the fury radiating off him, a palpable force that sends a shiver down my spine. Whatever Spencer said has stirred a tempest within Hotch, one that threatens to consume everything in its path.

Before I can comprehend the gravity of the situation, Derek's voice breaks through the tense silence, his concern evident in the way he addresses me. "Oh shittt, what happened to you, baby girl?" he asks, his usually jovial tone replaced by genuine worry. 

Spencer slumps back into my chair, his expression somber as Derek rounds the desk to his, drawing Emily and JJ's attention in the process. In moments like these, the boundaries between colleagues blur, replaced by the unspoken bonds of friendship and camaraderie that define us as a team. They crowd around me, their questions a chorus of concern as they inspect the bruises marring my skin. Despite their genuine care, I can feel the weight of their stares, the unspoken questions lingering in the air like a heavy fog. 

Just as I'm about to ask them to drop it, a voice cuts through the chaos, echoing from Hotch's office with a force that silences the entire bullpen. "HOW DARE YOU LAY A HAND ON HER?!" Hotch's voice booms, despite his door and blinds being shut, reverberating off the walls with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

A stunned silence settles over the bullpen, the air thick with tension as Hotch's voice echoes through the confines of his office, despite the closed door and drawn blinds. His words hang in the air like a heavy pall, commanding attention and demanding justice. The sudden yelling draws Rossi out of his office, his expression a mix of concern and confusion as he surveys the scene unfolding before him. It's rare to witness Hotch lose his composure, and even rarer to hear him raise his voice with such raw intensity. 

But, as the seconds tick by, the tension in the air becomes almost palpable, a tangible force that hangs heavy around us. We exchange uncertain glances, the weight of Hotch's anger casting a shadow over the once tranquil atmosphere of the bullpen. And then, just as quickly as it began, Hotch's voice rises again, the sound muffled by the closed door of his office. Despite the distance, his words carry with them a sense of finality, a declaration of his unwavering resolve, “I CAN DATE WHO I WANT, YOU DON’T GET TO DICTATE IF Y/N IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.” 

As Hotch's voice reverberates through the closed door of his office, his words cut through the heavy silence like a knife. The weight of his declaration hangs heavy in the air, leaving us all stunned into silence.

Derek's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his mouth slightly agape as he processes the implications of Hotch's words. Emily's eyes widen, a mixture of shock and admiration reflecting in her gaze as she exchanges a quick glance with JJ. Spencer, ever the observer, remains stoic, his expression unreadable as he absorbs the gravity of Hotch's statement. 

The realisation settles over us like a heavy blanket, each of us grappling with the implications of Hotch's unwavering resolve. In that moment, it's clear that he's not just defending my honour; he's asserting his autonomy, refusing to be swayed by the opinions or judgments of others. And as the echoes of his words fade into the background, we're left in a stunned silence, the weight of the moment pressing down upon us like a tangible force. For a brief moment, the chaos of the world outside fades away, replaced by the quiet intensity of the bullpen. 

But our reverie is short-lived as Hotch reemerges from his office, his face flushed with anger and frustration. His gaze sweeps over us, a silent command to gather ourselves and move forward. Without a word, he gestures towards the conference room, his authoritative presence brooking no argument. 

As the rest of the team practically rushes towards the conference room, driven by the urgency of the moment, I find myself lingering behind. The weight of everything that has transpired settles heavily upon my shoulders, anchoring me to the spot as I struggle to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. I remain perched on the edge of my desk, head bowed, my hands suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. The sound of familiar footsteps draws nearer, the rhythmic cadence echoing through the empty space of the bullpen. And then, like a beacon in the darkness, Hotch's shiny smart shoes appear in my line of sight, his presence casting a warm glow against the backdrop of uncertainty. 

He says my name softly, a gentle reminder that I'm not alone in this moment of vulnerability. I lift my gaze to meet his, finding solace in the depths of his unwavering gaze. There's a tenderness in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the tumultuous journey we've embarked upon together. 

In that moment, he looks at me like I've hung the stars, like I'm a goddess deserving of reverence and adoration. It's a gaze that speaks volumes, a silent confession of the depth of his feelings. And then, with a gentle touch, his hand reaches out to cup my unbruised cheek, his touch a balm against the ache of the morning's events. In the stillness of the bullpen, he draws me into a soft kiss, a silent promise of solidarity and unwavering support. In that fleeting moment, time stands still, the chaos of the world fading away as we find solace in each other's embrace. And as we pull away, the weight of the world feels a little lighter, buoyed by the strength of the bond that binds us together.

With a silent understanding, we rise from the tumult of the morning, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead. And as we make our way towards the conference room, hand in hand, I know that no matter what the future holds, we'll face it together, united by the unbreakable ties of love and loyalty.

Criminal Minds Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@guacam011y @rosaliedepp @kajjaka

[haoboutyou]

want it, got it | yoon jeonghan

suggestive, strangers to lovers | 1102 words | alcohol consumption

divider credit

The air is filled with the throbbing beat of the music, a hypnotic rhythm that reverberates through the room, drawing people to the dance floor like moths to a flame. Among the throng of dancers, you move with deliberate grace, your eyes locked on your target—a guy standing by the bar, casually sipping his drink.

You lean closer to your friend, one hand cupping your mouth while the other gestures towards the bar. Your drink sloshes dangerously in your hand, uncaring that drops of the liquor splash onto your hand instead. “Lia!” Your voice sounds hushed over the music. “You see that guy over there?”

“Who?” She yells. The DJ is being annoyingly loud today. She points her head towards the guy by the bar. “That guy?”

Said guy was running his hand through his long dark hair with one hand, the other occupied by a drink. The strobing lights above seem to highlight his delicate features even more as he turns away, showcasing more of his alluring side profile.

You nod, eyes never leaving him. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Lia stares at you incredulously. “Really? When did that start?”

“He doesn’t know that yet, though.”

She spits out the vodka she was drinking. Damn, what a waste of a good drink. “Oh my god!” She doesn’t hesitate to playfully slap your arm when you throw your head back laughing. “I thought you were serious!”

“I am! I’ll make him!”

You quickly down the rest of your drink, wincing at the burn forming in your throat. Just as you reopen your eyes, the man’s eyes locked contact with you. Your heart skips a beat when he winks at you– you’re almost sure the sudden flush on your cheeks was not because of the alcohol in your system.

“You’re insane!” Lia rolls her eyes, nudging your shoulder and giggling. “Use protection!”

You throw a drunken grin at your friend. Just like that, you blow your best friend a kiss with a cheeky wave goodbye. She watches as you skip across the dancefloor, moving to lean against the bar counter next to the alluring stranger. With a final, purposeful adjustment to your dress– a sleek, white number that shimmered in the club's lights– you made your way towards him.

"Is this seat taken?" you ask, your voice smooth and sultry, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

He turns to look at you, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of you. He smiles, a hint of intrigue in his gaze. "Not at all," he replies, his voice alluring. “L/n Y/n.”

“Yoon Jeonghan. Nice to meet you, Y/n”

"Wanna dance?"

He hesitates for only a moment before setting his drink down and taking your hand. Together, you move to the dance floor, the crowd closing in around you. The music seems to pulse through your bodies as you dance, your movements synchronized, the space between you both narrowing with each beat.

You let your hands trail all over his shoulders, your fingers tracing the contours of his collarbones as you move closer. You could feel the heat of his skin, the quickening of his breath. You look up at him, your eyes locking onto his for the second time that night.

"You're a good dancer," you murmur, your lips tantalizingly close to his.

"So are you," he replies, his voice deep with desire. He peeks around you, towards the direction you came from.

“So, what’s this? A bet?” He steps closer to you, his body pressing against yours. A sharp, citrus scent overwhelms you; a welcome change from the sweaty muskiness throughout the rest of the club.

“Saw you whispering with your friend just now. What do you need angel? My name? My number?” He leans into you, hovering by your neck. You can feel his warm breath against your skin heating you up.

“… Something else, perhaps?”

He sees your ears turn red and laughs, a melodic sound that contrasts against the blaring music. Pulling away a little, he lifts one of your hands towards his lips, pressing a soft kiss before he nuzzles against it.

Your hand feels tiny in his. It feels surprisingly delicate, you think. You let your hands linger for a while more before you pull him closer. Your head says ‘fuck it’, already consumed by drunken bravery, and your mouth opens before your brain even finishes processing your actions. Gesturing behind you, your eyes seem to glint with mischief. “I told my friend you’re my boyfriend, but she didn’t believe me.”

Watching you pout adorably despite your scandalous attire is doing things to him. Jeonghan sucks in a breath; he doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s been entranced by you ever since he noticed you across the club at the start of the night.

He tilts his head to the side, dark locks falling across his eyes. “Hmm? That sounds like a problem.” His arm snakes around your waist, nibbling on your ear. “We should fix that, right?”

Your arms wrap around his neck as you start peppering small kisses in between his clavicle and neck, letting out a giggle when you feel Jeonghan’s breath hitch. He sighs, hand relaxing on your waist when you start to nip on his lobe.

“Wai-” He sets his drink down. “Woah, hold on angel.” His thumb caresses your cheekbones, and you lean into his touch. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret– Are you sure?”

See, if you were sober, you wouldn’t dare to fathom going off with some stranger you met in a club. But, as you spot Lia shooting thumbs up from the corner of your eye– as cherry vodka runs through your veins, as Jeonghan stares at you with such seriousness– you’re none the wiser.

“Give me your phone.”

He watches you with mirth as you take his phone from him, sending a quick message to Lia’s number before returning the phone.

“There. Now my friend knows who to find if I go missing.”

He raises a brow at you, still amused by you. “If you go missing?”

“You could be a serial killer, for all I know.” you slide your hand down his chest, feeling him shake in laughter at your words. You hit him playfully at that. “Hey! Being a girl is dangerous, okay!”

“I get it, I get it!” he laughs again. “I promise I’m not a serial killer. I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, right?”

You look up at him through hooded eyes. “Then yes.”

“Yes– yeah. Okay.” A lazy grin graces his face. He gestures towards the exit. “Shall we, then?”

[headkiss]

I feel like I’m in withdrawal from ur Hotch stories!! I would love some sort of blurb w protective Hotch and BAU reader if ur taking requests for him!! Any scenario I honestly don’t even care I just love hurt/comfort w my guy

babe!!! not withdrawal!!!! thank u so much for requesting <3 i hope u like it | 0.7k fluff, teeny mention of blood

Hotch tries to stay calm on the job. He has to, really, to be as successful as he is. It’s hard with the things he sees, the things he hears. Even harder when you’re about to go and do something dangerous when he’s not there to help.

You’re the only one at the scene right now, and even though he’s trying to convince you not to, you’re about to go inside and catch the guy.

“We aren’t far,” he tells you.

“I know,” there’s a shout in the background, and his heart sinks ‘cause he knows what that means. “I gotta go in.”

Hotch utters your last name, concern, something like desperation buried under his firm tone.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, and then you’re hanging up.

“Garcia,” Hotch knows she’s on the other line, and he knows she’ll find him a shortcut without instruction because she’s great at her job and even better at knowing what people need.

“I’m on it,” she tells him, and then she’s rattling off turns to make through alleys to get to you quicker.

The unknown is the worst part, Hotch thinks. If he was there, at least he could be sure that you’re alright. He doesn’t doubt your skills, not for a second, but when it comes to you, he doesn’t seem to think so rationally. All he feels is the pounding in his chest that won’t slow until he knows you’re okay.

By the time he makes it, there are cop cars outside, flashes of blue and red paint the dark street where everyone’s parked. His tires screech to a stop, and he leaves the car parked and running when he gets out. There’s a cop pushing the guy into the car, another nodding at Hotch as he walks by.

And finally, finally there’s you, sitting in the back of an ambulance with a bandage on your forehead.

He all but runs over, his hands finding your jaw to tilt your face up towards him in a way that certainly isn’t professional but he isn’t really worried about that right now. “You’re okay?”

“I’m fine, don’t even need stitches,” you tell him.

“You’re bleeding.”

You sort of melt at his worry, at the almost unnoticeable shine in his eyes that you only see because you’re looking so closely. Hotch doesn’t have to say it with words, because it’s written all over him, the delicate hold he has on your jaw, the way his thumb draws a small pattern over your skin. Back and forth, back and forth. He cares about you.

“I’m fine, Hotch,” you say again, because he’s still looking at the bandage on your head with a furrow in his brows.

“You should have waited.” He doesn’t mean it, but he still says it. He knows this is the job, he knows it was the right call, but he should’ve been there.

“You would’ve done the same thing.”

“I know.”

His eyes still won’t meet yours, so you grab one of his wrists in your hand, squeezing it once, twice, three times.

“Aaron,” your voice saying his name is enough, Hotch’s eyes flick down and lock on yours, “I’m okay. No stitches, no concussion, just a little cut, alright?”

His fingers are still on your skin, calluses trailing down your neck until his hands are on your shoulders. There’s a trail of warmth that follows his touch, your eyes fluttering, your breath slowing.

He nods, “you’re okay.” It’s so quiet that he’s saying it to himself, even though you catch it. He repeats it, “you’re okay.”

Neither of you are thinking about the fact that you’re in public, that the team is probably watching you both and sharing looks with each other because they can see the feelings you and Hotch both have for each other clear as day. They are profilers, after all.

Hotch is only focused on you, and you’re focused on him and his hands and the sort of affection that’s rare from him, but speaks enough volumes to last a long, long time.

“I got the guy, didn’t I?” You say, trying to lighten the mood despite the circumstances.

“You did good,” he tells you, and the praise has something soaring in your chest.

You shrug, shoulders moving under his hands. “I learned from the best.”

And when you’re back on the plane, your head resting on Aaron’s shoulder where you’d fallen asleep, he doesn’t care one bit about the smirks he’s getting from the team.

He simply shakes his head at them, fighting a smile as he turns back to his paperwork.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 112 }

the question.

lies of p.

(p)inocchio x fem.reader

anonymous asked: you know that part from casper 1995, where casper and cat are dancing then he leans in and whispers "can i keep you?"

Iike omg imagine pino saying that?? I feel like it fits him so perfectly, an innocent little line cuz while it isn't the typical i love you etc, it just works for him :')

it was during those rare moments that you allowed your mind to wander, staring outside the windows of hotel krat as you kept yourself busy with your sketchbook on hand.

rain fell across the city of krat, painting it in somber hues of grey as your eyes continued to sketch the city. despite the tragedy that befell of krat, you still found it to be beautiful, and sketching it gave you a wonderful reprieve from your main muse.

from the corner of your eyes, you watch as the tall puppet with deep chestnut hair stood beside antonia, the kind lady of this hotel who allowed you to stay here along with the other guests. you were truly struck upon seeing someone so achingly beautiful, and that was when your fascination for the puppet spiraled into something you couldn't quite control.

you trail your eyes back to the pages of your sketchbook, flipping it back to reveal some sketches you had drawn of pinocchio. ever since the moment you laid eyes on him, you were inexplicably drawn to him. despite being a mere puppet, perhaps master geppetto's greatest creation yet, he appeared to be so much like a real boy. with chestnut hair that fell across his face, to the freckles that ran across the expanse of his skin like constellations, you could not keep your heart from pounding for pinocchio.

you were embarrassed to admit this, but pinocchio was your true muse. you adored sketching and drawing on your free time and saw it as a good hobby to pass the time with during these trying times, but you weren't expecting your fascination for pinocchio to go this far. each time the puppet would return back from his exploration through the dangers of krat, you would longingly sneak glances at him all while immortalizing his side profile within the pages of your sketchbook.

when pinocchio would notice you watching him, he would always meet your gaze. but you, feeling mortified at the thought of pinocchio ever seeing the details of your sketchbook, would always run away from him, not wishing to interact with him because god only knows how much your heart can handle.

he was simply too gorgeous for you.

it was silly, you knew that it was, since he was just a puppet. not only have you had a handful of interactions with him, but it seemed strange that your heart would pound at the mere sight of pinocchio. almost like you were... in love with him.

"is that...me?"

you could feel your blood turning into ice when a voice called out to you. it was a gentle voice, one that never spoke too often, yet the sound of it was enough to make a familiar warmth dust against your cheeks.

the secret you have been desperately trying to hide has just been found out by the person you kept running away from.

so caught up in your reveries, you look up to see pinocchio himself staring down at you. his sapphire blue eyes were a stark contrast to the stormy grey hues of the room, and you found yourself getting lost in them. it takes you several seconds to realize that he was still staring down at you and your sketch of him, which makes you panic even further.

"s-sorry! i don't m-mean to come off as strange or anything! i-it's just, you're achingly beautiful, p-pino, so that's why, i really really like sketching you! b-but i get shy so shy around you, that's why i'm always running away from you..."

your ramblings were not helping, and you were well aware of that. yet, you found that you just could not shut up, becoming even more flustered the longer pinocchio stared at you.

"i-i really am s-so sorry- ah?!"

you were abruptly interrupted upon feeling pinocchio's cold hand encircle your wrist, feeling him pulling you up into his arms with his strength alone. as your sketchbook fell against the marble floors of the hotel, you found yourself within his arms. your nose brushes against the cold skin of his cheek, and you look to your left to see pinocchio gazing at you. his blue gaze was unwavering as he held you in his arms, leading your hands around his waist before swaying with you across the hotel room.

you had to be dreaming, because there was no way you were dancing with pinocchio, the strange yet beautiful puppet who had stolen your heart.

you couldn't bring yourself to look at him directly, becoming even more flustered as you cleared your throat to ask, "w-where did you learn this?"

pinocchio twitches slightly, still keeping his hold on you before admitting, "lady antonia told me i should do this if i wanted to get closer to you."

"o-oh..." was all you could manage to say.

your heart was pounding wildly against your chest, your parted lips open in a dreamy sigh as you followed pinocchio's lead. being so close to him, you could see the painstaking details of his features, and you had an almost irrational desire to trace your lips against those endearing freckles, never stopping until you touched each and every one of them.

with a whisper of his name, you press a gentle kiss against his cheek, seeing pinocchio's eyes widen for the briefest of moments before sliding your eyes shut. as pinocchio continues to dance with you across the room, you press your head against his chest, hearing the gentle ticking of his mechanical heart. you were so happy that he was real, that he existed and was here with you now, dancing with you while setting your heart aflame with emotion.

"can i keep you?"

the gentle voice was heard once more, and you found yourself opening your eyes to meet with pinocchio's. he stopped dancing, remaining still as he continued to hold you in his arms. a gentle smile paints his rosy lips, and you found yourself falling for him all over again.

he was so achingly adorable that you couldn't help but tease him a bit, leaning in closer as your lips were a mere centimeters away from his when you tell him, "you may keep me as long as i get to keep you."

a.n. - they're in love, your honor 🥹 this is unedited, but i hope you readers don't mind this achingly soft story.

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[doumadono]

Requested by: @leven-and-ashley on my discord

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

Dabi first notices you in a crowded market. The contrast of your unique appearance against the mundane surroundings catches his attention. He observes you from a distance, intrigued by the way you navigate the world with confidence despite your distinctive albinism.

Intrigued, he discreetly follows you, observing from the shadows, his interest growing with each passing day. Dabi is drawn to the way you carry yourself despite standing out, a feeling he intimately understands.

He overhears snippets of your conversations, noting your insecurities about your appearance. Dabi finds himself silently empathizing with your struggles, seeing a reflection of his own societal challenges.

One day, as you navigate through a dark alley while getting back home from work, you notice a faint scent of smoke and an eerie, blueish glow nearby. Before you can react, a voice cuts through the shadows, "You look lost, sweetheart." It's Dabi, leaning against a wall, his blue flames flickering at the tips of his fingers.

Startled, you eye him cautiously, but Dabi's smirk and casual demeanor somehow put you at ease. "Couldn't help but notice you've got that unique look. I appreciate uniqueness."

The guy suggests walking you home, considering it's not safe to be alone in your neighborhood at this late hour. You agree, and during your casual chat, he brings up the challenges of looking unconventional. You're surprised a stranger would delve into such personal topics.

Dabi starts engaging in casual conversations, appearing randomly wherever you go. He subtly drops compliments, making you blush with his unexpected flattery. "You seem to be everywhere I am. Are you following me?" you ask openly. "Nah, it's just a coincidence. But who wouldn't want to be around someone as interesting as you?"

You're still blissfully unaware that you're dealing with a dangerous villain.

Discovering common interests, you find yourselves having longer conversations every time you fall on him while minding your businesses in the city.

Dabi opens up about his own struggles with societal expectations, creating a connection between your unique experiences. He expresses admiration for your resilience. "People judge us based on appearances, yeah? But I see you, and I appreciate what I see."

After encountering him once more, you release a sigh. "Hey, Dabi, chatting with you is cool and all, but… Maybe I'm crazy, but do you fancy grabbing coffee at my place? It'd a bit more relaxed for a chat," you propose.

He agrees, and shortly afterward, he takes a seat at the small table in your minimalistic kitchen while you prepare coffee.

As you sit and chat with him, he's captivated by your incredibly pale face, white hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Delicate freckles adorn the base of your nose and cheeks, and your pinkish irises draw him in. You're stunning, and he can't help but be entranced, unable to take his eyes off you.

"Are you okay, Dabi?" you ask, tilting your head to the side.

He nods, "Yeah, you're just really pretty," he compliments, "and I gotta be honest with you. I respect you, and you deserve the whole truth."

You frown and nod, awaiting his confession.

"Did you hear about the big fire in the convoy taking a villain to Tartarus?"

You nod.

"That was me, I caused the fire and helped him flee. I'm a villain too, and I work for the League of Villains."

You blink, your blood running cold. After a moment, you simply nod. "I had a feeling you might be something else. You never liked crowds in the city, always trying to keep a low profile. Just so you know, I'm not wealthy, and I don't have much, but you can have…"

He frowns. "I ain't here to steal from you or cause harm, Y/N. Just thought you should know who you're dealing with."

You nod slowly, "Even as a villain, you were one of the few who didn't bully me because of my looks," you tell him. "Thanks for not being scared or disgusted by me."

His scarred hand gently reaches out, caressing your cheek, causing another blush to tint your cheeks. "I've mentioned it before, haven't I? I find you beautiful," Dabi says, smirking shortly after. "And I appreciate you not being disgusted by my scars as well."

Since that day, you started seeing Dabi regularly. You even let him crash at your place whenever he needed to lay low or had enough of the League of Villains' shit. And you didn't regret it. With him, you felt like the most beautiful princess. He constantly reminded you that, despite your unique appearance, you were beautiful just the way you were.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Any recommendations for longer-than-one-shot games that feature player characters managing a tension between two (or more) of their characteristics?

I love a Lasers & Feelings hack, but they're definitely not geared for campaigns!

THEME: Character Tension!!!

Hello friend! I couldn’t think of many games that used the same kind of tension present in Lasers and Feelings, but Honey Heist hits a lot of the same key notes I think - that of pulling your characters closer and closer to one end or the other. So I looked for games that give you tools to alter your chances of success - at the cost of pulling you towards one sort of ending or another. These endings shouldn’t be something you can hit in only one game, but is likely to happen over the course of a short campaign.

Ares Ascendant, by Dan Brown.

Colonizing Mars is more than an exercise of grit and technology and science. It’s politics and economics, too. It’s forming a new social, political, and economic framework in which humanity can thrive, all within a hostile environment. Human achievement won’t be marked by getting to Mars. It will be marked by humanity’s ability to stay there. 

In Ares Ascendant, players assume the roles of Earth’s best and brightest, the group who will establish the first Martian colony. They won’t start entirely from scratch, as their transport ship is loaded with supplies, and unmanned vessels have been dropping equipment over the last several years. Despite the head start, however, the group will be responsible for getting things ready for more colonists. 

Ares Ascendant uses the PARAGON system, replacing the Glory/Pathos meters with a Renown/Fatigue dichotomy instead. Your characters are trying to develop the first Martian colony, which is both a high-profile and a taxing job. When you do the best out of your companions on an action, you gain Renown, which basically acts as a measure of how many people will remember what you contributed to the mission.

If you want to increase your chances of success on any given roll, you can spend a point of Fatigue to push yourself and add an extra dice from one of your character’s Domains. If you fill up your Fatigue track, you mark a point of Reputation. When you fill your Reputation track, your story is over, and your Renown will determine how well-known you are. All in all, how hard will you push yourself, and will you lose your chance at making history if you try too hard to succeed on your own?

Ash Island, by Brian Binh.

Ash Island is a roleplaying game of pain, darkness, despair, and hope for a GM and one or more players, set in a fog-shrouded New England town on a small island dominated by an evil force that manifests the characters' own inner demons to torment them. 

You take the role of anchorites, unfortunate souls bound to the dark spirit of the island by the unique suffering of their own personal sins or trauma. You answered the island's siren call and find yourself trapped in a ghost town full of dangerous monsters. Unarmed and alone, you must use your talents to explore, arm yourself, and find a way to escape. Of course, you can't just run away. There's something else you have to do first…

Ash Island is built on the Ruled by Night SRD, which uses two pools of resources called Shadow and Flame. I’m not entirely sure if these pools retain the same name in this hack, but the way they work should stay the same. You can accumulate Shadow through successfully stealthing from one point to another, while you accumulate Flame when you must resort to (loud and flashy) violence. A higher Flame pool requires you to spend more Shadow in order to have a success, and you can only reduce your Flame after you’ve taken care of another penalty called Suspicion. These two pools should pull your characters between a way out that is difficult but keeps you safe, or a way out that is easy but draws more and more danger your way.

Part-Time Gods, by Third Eye Games.

The gods of today are shadows of what the old gods possessed. Their power has been heavily diminished, and many choose to live a regular, mortal life, revealing themselves as gods only when absolutely necessary. They have a mortal life, a job (or career if they’re lucky), friends, family, and everything that comes with being human, and they work hard to protect these things from harm. On the other side of the coin, they also have a Dominion to command and oversee, a deific Territory to defend from intruders, secret societies to which they owe allegiances (called Theologies), and other gods in their pantheon to try to get along with. This becomes their life, the balancing of the mortal and the divine, the normal and the supernatural, the mundane and the strange.

Part-Time Gods Second Edition (PTG2E) is the latest iteration of an amazing setting about gods and the people, groups, and places in their lives that keep them tied to their humanity.

In Part-Time Gods, your character has to balance how much of their time they spend on their godly duties, and how much of their time they spend on their mundane jobs and relationships. When you create your character, you’ll take options that give you either more free time or more money, and both of these resources are needed to help manage your responsibilities. This game does a really good job of exemplifying the balancing act of your characters’ lives in it’s rules - although it also requires a bit of bookkeeping in order to keep track of all of your responsibilities. Out of all of the games listed here, I think PTG is the most suited for a very long campaign.

Cthulhu Deep Green, by Dissonance.

Building upon the groundwork set out in Cthulhu Dark by Graham Walmsley, Cthulhu Deep Green contains a modified rules set for playing as Agents of The Conspiracy: a shadowy government agency tasked with concealing evidence of the supernatural.

Cthulu Deep Green has a fairly simplistic ruleset, with one character resource called Stress that you will mark every time you roll. In CDG, you will often find yourself rolling with something called a Dark Dice, which will add to your Stress level if it is the highest-rolled result out of your entire pool. Adding a Dark Dice might be required if you want a chance to success, or to re-try for something better, but take too much and you’ll burn out. I’m not entirely sure how fast the Stress accumulation happens in this game - I think if your play group is roleplay heavy, you might be able to play this game over quite a few sessions before your characters get completely burned out.

Those of Us Who Know Better, by C.J.Linton.

Those of Us Who Know Better is a tabletop roleplaying game about transgender superheroes whose powers come at a price. Civilians by day, in community every other Thursday evening, and heroes by night, the players use their powers to problem solve and offer protection and support around town. These powers must be used sparingly, however, because every use of a superpower demands a specific and costly remuneration.

The tension that exists in this game lies in the consequences of using your powers. When you create your superhero, you choose a superpower and a consequence. You can use the superpower, but immediately after you must do something else, as well as take a (temporary) hit to one of your stat modifiers. As a result, your stats will increase and decrease as you play.

Games I've Talked About Before

Apocalypse Keys is all about fighting the Harbinger inside you; you have the potential to both save the world and end it - will your companions save you from your doom, or drag you closer to it?

The Empire Undying uses the same number-between-two-stats as Lasers and Feelings, but I think it's designed for a longer run-time than just a one-shot, and not just because you're using a larger number range (2-9 instead of 2-5).

[prince-steele]

for oc ask game ⭐️🌈🎉🖍

⭐️ Tell us about your favourite OCs!

AAAAA ok so recently I've been Obsessed with my open original species I made, SYNTHS! *infographic here

Here's some of my favourites, and some little character profiles ab them 😊

🧿 SHIMMER

Shimmer is interesting bc I actually have two canons for her! I originally made her as a demaverse OC but I also have an original story for her that I'm creating with @silkysong <3

🌈 Shimmer is bisexual and A Creature first and foremost. Gender is incredibly incedental to her and her pronouns are She/It.

DEMA STORYLINE

☆ Shimmer is a Bounty Hunter ("Compound Representitive") in Dema who works off the books to capture escapees and bring them home. Synths are not allowed to hold positions of power in Dema so she tries to clutch it wherever she can.

☆ Due to the suppression that her society forces upon her, she despises humans and sees the presence of humanity in her biology as a defect. She works with a shady doctor (owned by @polarized-disguise ) who does strange genetic experiments on her to try and suppress that human part of her.

☆ She's very isolated and closed off, and doesn't like to open her heart to anyone. She only cares for her brother, Skye, who is the only person she respects at the start of her story. Over the course of it, she meets Iona (owned by @silkysong ) who troublemakes her way into a begruding Shimmer's life.

ORIGINAL STORY

☆ Similar to above, Shimmer is a representative of a power station in a small town, of which has far too much influence and power over its citizens.

☆ She has intense romantic tension with Iona who she begrudgingly begins to befriend over the course of the story.

☆ Female Rage Incarnate <333

🩵 SKYE

I literally only have recent photos of him and Shimmer together MFMSKD do not separate!!!

🌈 Skye is pansexual!

♡ Skye is a club owner in Dema who puts up a front as an empty headed, vacuous party boy but he secretly hides depth under his charming veneer. He aids the banditos by arranging escapes and supply drops, and tries his best to inspire FREE WILL into others, and encourages them to make their own decisions, whatever they may be.

♡ He and his sister oppose intensely in ideology but love each other deeply because they're all each other have really had for so long. Both of them think what the other is doing is dangerous, but would support each other in an instant if things were dire.

♡ He's constantly haunted by the fact that, due to being a Synth, he will never truly be able to connect with other humans. He often feels lonely and like a ghost, putting up a front to try and get through life. Where this instilled a deep longing in him, it prevented his sister from forming empathy.

♡ He's just a sincerely kind person :) <3

🦭 AQUAMARINE

Pictured: Ultrababy of forever

🌈 Nonbiney creature. She/They

◇ Aquamarine is a young plucky turquoise synth that loves to play and draw.

◇ She was plucked out of her life - from school, from her home and all she knew - and placed in an Incarceration Compound... To guard and monitor an unstable Empty Synth, 199 (owned by @silkysong ). She, despite her diminutive size, is physically very strong and good at helping calm others emotions, which is why she was selected.

◇ She's exposed to horrors beyond her comprehension and is forced into a role of responsibility that she should never have been given, but despite it all she loves her job and 199 and would never trade him for anything. She's selectively mute and chooses to sign her words!

⚔️ BLADES

HORRIBLE vile stinky man. art by the lovely silkysong <3

🌈 He's into anyone he can use to further his nasty little agendas

♤ Blades is another Compound Representitive that works in Dema alongside Shimmer. He's soooooo sucks <3 He very rarely actually does his job, instead choosing to hole up in his living quarters and do absolutely nothing to help Shimmer. He only makes a move when he absolutely has to, or if he has something to gain by doing so.

♤ He actually does the exact opposite of his job, distributing banned material to the inmates of the compound in exchange for "favours" or high prices. He's selfish and opportunistic, and is allergic to any form of responsibility for anything.

♤ He essentially never truly formed connections with others due to isolation, and therefore doesn't really have a working concept of love or empathy for others. This leads him to do terrible, irredeemable things, and hurt people who could possibly save him from himself.

❤️‍🔥 AEFRID

One of my NPCs from my DNDema campaign! She's so awesomes...

🌈 Aefrid probably likes women but she hasn't really thought about it

♡ Aefrid is a young, elite vialist priest who works directly under the bishops in the main towers. She is part of a secret experiment which attempts to strip synths of their autonomy and steal their augmentations, in her case, pyromancy.

♡ She is immature and overconfident due to being told how amazing and elite she is her entire life, and she fully believed her own hype. However, when she was finally faced with conflict from a source outside her sect, she IMMEDIATELY had her ass handed to her, and was dismissed from the sect.

♡ She has a deep bond with her sister, Maeve (Staunch vialist but with a warriors spirit - I also love her but dont have her art yet), who always tried to keep her feet on the ground, however, these lessons never really permeated.

♡ When Maeve was defeated, Aefrid jumped to save her from death and was mortally injured herself. The party members decided to save her, to which Maeve, who is a warrior above all, pledged her debt to. Aefrid is Resentful and Furious that Maeve would EVER help them and doesn't understand why her life is valued this much. She's currently very begrudgingly being sent to Trench so she and Maeve aren't hunted down and Glorious Gone'd.

🐺 FENRIR & 🫎 ANTHELION

These two r actually the cutest... I love them so dearly. Or should I say deerly B)

🌈 Fen is bisexual and Anthelion likes Fenrir :3 Fen is He/Him and Anthelion is They/Them

☆ Fenrir is another vialist priest in the same sect as Aefrid and Maeve. He is, however, completely unimpressed by the role and only got there because he scored incredibly high in all of his aptitude tests. He feels immense pressure from his family, his city and the Bishops to persue his intelligence and somehow ended up in with the Elites.

☆ He's a reliable, intelligent person that deeply cares about others despite his flat affect. He often guards himself because he doesn't believe in the teachings of Vialism, however he's in an Elite Sect within the church where any known dissent would lead to immediate death so he just keeps up airs despite being resentful of the entire practice.

☆ He longs to be free and immerse himself in Trench. He almost escaped a few times but always had second thoughts and returned to the towers every time... Until he both realised the horrible things they wete doing to synths through his new friend (and crush) Anthelion, along with meeting again with his old schoolmate (and crush) 199, who helped inspire him to fight back and leave the sect.

♧ Anthelion is a tender loving person who has not had much exposure to the world, due to being a Generation 3 synth. They were created as a purposed synth to be used in the experiments by the sect, and their abilities are related to Decay and Rot. Their focus is on plants, where their abilities allow them (and Fenrir when they are interlinked thru psychokinesis) to cause plants to decay instantly, and bloom again from the nutrient rich soil. People often mistake their abilities for controlling Plants when they really control the rate of decay and bloom within those plants.

♧ They and Fenrir are deeply tied to one another, due to the fact they were the only ones who treated each other with kindness and understanding while both were trapped within the towers. They trust and rely on each other to protect one another, and have spent a lot of time in each others minds bc of the psychokinesis, so they know each other very well.

♧ Anthelion is neurologically disabled! They have a speech impediment and have slowed reactions, and they need some extra help sometimes to understand the intentions of others, especially when they are bad ones.

BONUS QUESTIONS

🎉 Which one has the most growth over the course of their story?

I feel like they all have similar amounts of growth, be it progression or regression, but I think I've worked on Shimmer the most out of all of them!

🖍 CAN PEOPLE DRAW YOUR OCS? <3

YEAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSS

(others ocs and art owned by @silkysong and @polarized-disguise )

[silent-sanctum]

✧ Polaris ✧ - Jotaro x Reader

PART 10: LOYALTY

— The previous parts of the fic can be found in the pinned post of my profile. Hope you enjoy! —

word count: 7.3k

After days of traveling, Egypt was finally beneath their feet and they made it despite the many inconveniences on the way, namely the vehicular accidents, Stand encounters, or both.

Including their most recent one involving the now-sunken submarine and a metal-shifting Stand. But none of that matters now when everyone in the Crusaders made it on to land, no longer needing to deal with the enemy user of High Priestess after her teeth got beat in thanks to Star Platinum’s rapid, hard-hitting fists.

A nearby town by the sea made it more convenient for them to stop by and get their bearings to prepare them for the remainder of their mission.

It was there that Polnareff and Kakyoin were able to gather more stuff needed for their trip, for Avdol to get into contact with the Speedwagon Foundation regarding “back-up” being ready to help the team out, for Mr. Joestar and Jotaro to find a rental service for a jeep capable of traversing the desert, and for you to communicate with some of the locals to learn about the typical weather conditions, nearby cities, unusual sightings, and possible pit stops that the guys might need to rest.

By the time the transport was good to go and the necessities packed in the trunk, there was nothing that could stop them from proceeding onward.

It was Polnareff’s turn to man the wheel with everyone else settling to sit on their spots. “Hold up everyone,” Mr. Joestar spoke up, hopping out of the jeep and rushing over to the nearby telephone booth. “I got to make a quick phone call to Suzy. Me falling conscious was not exactly reassuring for her poor heart.”

You followed after the old man with the intention of calling your uncle. Considering the number of stressful events that happened for the past weeks, hearing his voice could soothe the lingering feeling of homesickness at the back of your mind. Though as you got a few steps in to Mr. Joestar’s direction, a hand placed itself on your shoulder.

With one look over your shoulder, you found yourself unable to contain a smile as you stared up at Jotaro standing behind you, falling in line to use the booth. “Well well~ missing someone are we?”

No response as you’d expect, though the pointed stare and red-tipped ears were enough giveaways that he missed his doting mother.

“Hm?… Really? What for?…. Alright sweetie.” Mr. Joestar turned to his grandson with a hand muffling the receiver. “Suzy wants to talk to you.”

A quick glint of surprise flashed in the delinquent’s eyes, not expecting a talk with his grandmother. Though, they did converse for a brief moment as the old man’s replacement before the submarine lost all its connections. Maybe, that’s why his grandma wanted a form of closure from her grandson.

And you can tell that he saw his grandmother with complete respect. There’s that characteristic softening of his eyes when he listened to her talk, the way he never raised his voice once during the whole conversation, and just like whenever he responded to you after that night, there’s a faint pink to his ears as if he feels a bit bashful from the support of the elderly woman.

His gaze free from tension was always a nice sight.

Their talk didn’t last long, most likely just her checking up on her husband and grandchild. Jotaro placed the phone back into its holder on the booth but didn’t let go. There was contemplation in the way he just stood there, not wanting to move away. Did he want to call Holly?

It wouldn’t surprise you considering he actively chose to embark on this dangerous journey to save her life. It would only be normal if he began to worry about her worsening condition. “Do…” You started, letting his attention draw to you. “Do want to call someone else? I can ask Mr. Joestar if you’re too embarrassed to do it.”

You knew he wanted to say “yes” in the long pause in between you, but with a deep sigh, he tipped his hat over his face. “It’s fine.” She’s going to be fine. You assumed as much and you let it at that.

“If you say so. Though, it’s my turn to use the booth.”

Jotaro nodded and stepped aside, standing nearby even as Mr. Joestar had already retreated to the jeep with the others. You clawed through the depths of your mind for that string of numbers you saved months ago. It was told to be a small “cure for homesickness” as someone said.

Eventually, you managed to find the right number and the phone begun to ring. In a minute, a kind-hearted voice you haven’t heard for a while picked up:

“Hello?”

“H-Hi pops…”

“Oh Y/N! It’s been a while since you’ve called! How are you? Have you been adjusting well over there?”

You bit your lip, holding back the tears building up in your eyes. Just like how the delinquent had missed his mother, it just struck you that you had also missed your adopted family back in your hometown.

“There were a couple of crappy stuff that happened, but I’m doing good I guess,” you replied.

“That’s a relief sweetheart. How about… uhm… your nightly terrors? Are you holding up?”

You didn’t want to dump him with the fact you broke down that one time. You didn’t want to worry the poor man when all you wanted was to hear him for a bit. “They’re… a lot but nothing I can’t handle.”

“I know you told us that it’s not necessary and all, but that always remember that if you’re feeling lonely, your auntie and I are always available, alright?”

“Oh but I’m not alone. I made a couple of friends for the past few months here.”

“That’s great news! Have they been treating you right?”

“They’re nice and fun to be around. I’ve gotten close to them a lot…” Warmth sprung to your cheeks with the next words that came next. “Some closer than others.”

Out of the corner of your eye, the delinquent’s face ducked away with his hat serving as the only cover for his equally tinted cheeks. “I would love to meet your new friends when we visit. Don’t forget to remind me!”

You chuckled. “I will.”

“I believe it’s time for you to go.”

“Yeah…”

“We love you Y/N. You take care of yourself over there.”

An abrupt honk startled you from the call and with one more look back, you smiled as the Crusaders began to call for you and Jotaro with the latter not budging from his spot, patiently waiting for you to finish. “You can trust me on that, pops.”

---

You’ve made a lot of progress driving across the sandy landscape when the sound of whirling blades drew close to the group from above.

Looking upwards, a helicopter with the Foundation’s logo painted on its side greeted the Crusaders. This must be that back-up Mr. Joestar had been talking about.

“Wow would you look at that, they actually did send back-up so far deep into this trip,” Polnareff said, low-key dripping with snark. “Could’ve been earlier I’m just saying.”

“It’s better than nothing, I guess. You don’t have to whine about it,” Kakyoin answered back.

Regardless, Polnareff put the engine to a halt and with the jeep parked, everyone got out of the vehicle the same time the flying craft made its landing. “Why can’t we just board that thing and fly ourselves over to where we need to be, old man?” Jotaro asked through the gusts of sand blowing through their faces.

“As much of an appealing offer that is, we have to consider that there’s too much of us. We might end up being too heavy for the craft and besides,” you said back at him. “They’re not Stand users. It’s better not to place more risk onto others.”

“Just a bit of a warning,” Mr. Joestar spoke up. “The guy’s a bit of a handful. That’s why it took so long for him to get here.” At the mention, you side-eyed the Frenchman just to see him reel back from his whining from earlier.

Though Avdol seemed to know who exactly the old man was talking about at the aforementioned warning. “Are you really considering taking him with us? Won’t his presence just hold us back?”

“As Kakyoin said, it’s better than nothing. Just be careful around him.”

“You both saying that gives off the impression that our new pal over there is a demon spawn from hell,” you retorted. “A back-up is a back-up. No matter how annoying the guy is, we’re just going to have to suck it up and deal with it.”

“Easier said than done Y/N. I’ve met him before and he’s… a lot. Being the user of The Fool, might cause a lot of inconveniences.”

“Look, if he is as handful as you two have been saying so far, then I’ll make sure he complies with us, alright?” you sighed. “Nothing’s more irritating than seeing unnecessary rebellion when we got dire things to do.”

As much as your words sent some kind of reassurance to the two adults in the group, Polnareff snickered in the sidelines. “I don’t know about you, but The Fool sounds like a stupid name in my opinion.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at that. Don’t judge a book by its cover, Pol. “You should consider this a blessing that he’s on our side. You can’t beat him.” Avdol said for you.

And just like their heated argument from India, Polnareff didn’t take his response lightly. He marched over to the Egyptian, grabbed his robes, and said, “I suggest watching your mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

“Pol,” you said, curt. “What did I say about taking things personally?”

The Frenchman spluttered, letting go of Avdol to face you. “But you heard him! He assumed I was weak and-”

“What did I say, Polnareff?” you repeated, this time with enough grit and punctuation on each word to drive your point across your companion’s emotional skull. “Or do you want one of us to nearly die again because of your stubbornness?”

Flustered at this point, he let his pride dwindle a bit and stepped away from Avdol, mumbling incoherent words with crossed arms. In some way of easing him, you placed a hand behind his back in a silent way of saying “thanks.”

Just then, the door opened for the pilot to step down and greet the team with formality. “Mr. Joestar, good to see you.”

“Thank you for bringing him here. It must have been rough.”

“I assume none of you is the alleged Stand user?” you commented before Jotaro could make one. “You both seem fairly polite.”

“You’re right ma’am. He’s there in the back.” One of them walked to the passenger’s door to open it, revealing nobody but a dark blanket covering the seat.

“Hey now, quit joking around you two! What’s the deal? This guy’s short or something?” The Frenchman laughed, smacking the fabric, only to pull back with sticky saliva on his hands. “Ugh what is this goop?”

The pilot responded in a panic. “Hey! Stop that! The ride here was rough so he’s in a sour mood!”

“Pol, you better get back here right now.”

“What’s the big deal? I’m just asking where-” Before he could continue, the blanket rustled violently and something jumped out of the seat it occupied.

A Boston Terrier. A dog.

What the fuck?

“The dog is the-” Kakyoin started, equally surprised as the rest of you, except for Avdol and Mr. Joestar.

“Mhm. His name’s Iggy and he’s the user of The Fool,” he said even as the canine continued to wreak havoc on Polnareff’s silver up-do with relentless biting and scratching. “He’s got the habit of ripping hairs off of people’s heads and to be honest, I don’t know where he’s from. It was Avdol who found him in the streets of New York.”

“And the fella also has a tendency to-” Not that his sentence matters when in the middle of Iggy’s manic biting, he stopped to let out one loud fart straight onto Pol’s face. “Do that.”

You didn’t know if it was the stinky gas or just your general tiredness in dealing with a 24-year-old man like a child, but you merely watched as the said adult drew out Silver Chariot to attack a small, rabid creature. As you would’ve expected, Iggy returned the favor with his own Stand- an entity made entirely of sand, forming together to become a larger mechanical canine.

The fight didn’t last long though. One minute you saw Polnareff sending Chariot to stab Iggy’s Stand and in the next, he’s back writhing on the sandy ground with an aggravated, feral dog chewing his stylized hair into a bird’s nest.

“Have you brought his favorite treats?” You turned to Avdol asking the pilot who nodded, reaching into his pocket to bring out a box full of what appeared to be… gum?

The sound of the packets inside were enough to alert Iggy and spare the remaining hair left on his victim. “Of course. We wouldn’t be able to bring him here otherwise.” With the box now in Avdol’s hand, the dog leaped out of Pol’s body and rushed over to him, giddy and possibly greedy.

Knowing how Iggy works by now, you could tell he wasn’t only after the single stick of gum the Egyptian was holding up. By the time the terrier reached a few feet away from him, one of Silent Sanctuary’s strips zipped past you to snag the box of gum out of Avdol’s hold before the canine could.

“If I learned anything from the orangutan, the dog’s got personality too.” You had the gum in your possession- coffee flavored of all things considered- and Iggy’s attention focused onto you next, growling. “You want the whole thing?”

You didn’t expect any response from him but an attempt to bite your arm. You sidestepped the second the dog charged at you. Iggy turned back, now frustrated. “Do you want the box or do you want me throw it all far away?”

Demonstrating, you let Sanctuary wrap itself around the box and prepared to launch it off into a distance. You heard the dog yelp and sands shifting violently.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Kakyoin said, nearly off-balanced by the moving ground. “Can you just let him have it?”

“The Fool’s emerging again!” Mr. Joestar called out after him.

You ignored their pleas, focusing on your current task.

“Try intimidating all you want but your sand can’t hurt me or this cloth right here,” you said, patting the taut fabric beside you. “So, what’s it gonna be- a whole box of delicious coffee gum? Or none at all?” You didn’t waste anymore time as Sanctuary moved an inch-

Then Iggy whimpered, letting the sands rest with surrender. A wave of relieved sighs swept the air from the Crusaders and the pilots. “You done fussing?” The terrier got on his belly, head bowed. You huffed and approached him with the gum still inside your Stand’s wrap just to make sure he’s not pretending.

“Good boy.” You got onto one knee to level yourself with the growling dog. “I can still launch this to god knows where so you ready to hear me out?”

Iggy nodded, still sulking.

“I’ll give you this whole box now just like you want but,” you said. “What if I told you instead that Mr. Joestar over there will buy you a year’s worth of coffee gum as a reward for you helping us finish this mission?” At that suggestion, Iggy’s ears perked up and his tail wagged with interest.

“Hey now! When did I say that?”

“Do you want our back-up to actually back us up or not?” You quipped at the old man with a smile dripping with snark. And Mr. Joestar went silent, scratching his beard knowing you had a point. Beside him, you could’ve sworn you saw Jotaro’s lip curl ever so slightly. “Exactly.”

You turned back to Iggy, pleased he didn’t make any attempt attacking Sanctuary while you were distracted. “How about it? Ready to help us?” You slowly brought up a fist and with a bark, he raised a paw to place on top of it. “And I expect you to actually help us. No free riding just for the treats, got it? I’ll be watching.”

Iggy barked in agreement.

“Here you go. As promised.”

Sanctuary stretched herself to the terrier, unwrapping the cloth to drop the gum in front of him. Immediately, Iggy pounced on it and began to gnaw on both the coffee treats and the carton they were in.

“Unbelievable,” Avdol said in awe as you walked to where the guys were, dusting sand off your skirt and hands. “You got him to cooperate for the time being.”

“Classic conditioning does wonders to feral animals when done right,” you shrugged. “That and I’m used to talking to stray animals. Being a new citizen to the country can be boring at times.”

With the new ally dilemma resolved, everyone returned to replenishing their stash with medical supplies, additional food and clothing, tracking gears, and a brand new prosthetic hand for Mr. Joestar. In addition, the pilot handed over a camera for the old man’s Stand to utilize with convenience.

But having a camera wasn’t exactly for Stand reasons alone. “Hey everyone! Why don’t we take a group photo while we have this bad boy still in one piece?”

Never wanting to miss the opportunity, all the Crusaders agreed to it wholeheartedly. With the camera in the pilot’s hand, everyone gathered to one spot and got into position- with Polnareff, Mr. Joestar, and Iggy in front, and Kakyoin, Avdol, Jotaro, and you in the back.

The shutter went off and a polaroid photograph was made for the memories.

“Hey Mr. Joestar? Can I borrow that one second?” Before he could reply, you went to grab the device off the pilot’s hand, hurrying back to stand beside Jotaro, slightly caught off guard at the sudden pictorial. “Would you mind if I…you know…”

He hesitated a bit, but after one long stare-off between his borderline glare and your eager gaze, he gave in. “Alright… good grief.”

Excited, you got a bit closer to the delinquent and leaned back a bit, just enough so the angle was right. You pressed the button and heard the shutter activate. Without having to wait for too long, the photo came out as nice as you’d expect it- you smiling with a wink and your hand on your shoulder, with Jotaro closely behind looking at the camera with one eye open (mirroring yours), a subtle curl to his lip, and a faint red on his cheeks.

“Now this is a keeper.”

Jotaro looked at the picture for a second longer and nodded. “Whatever you say.”

---

Jotaro liked the photo. A lot.

He’d keep it if he could, but his stubborn facade held him back from admitting that to you. Besides, you wanted the picture in the first place and he wouldn’t want to take the memento away from you.

With their supplies now stocked and ready to go, time shouldn’t be wasted any further. The helicopter’s blades whirled to life once again, lifting the aircraft up just as the jeep revved with its engine switched on. However, you barely drove across any distance when out of nowhere, a strong gust of wind and sand pushed the vehicle hard, nearly toppling it over.

“What the hell was that?!”

Everyone, with the exception of Iggy who remained asleep, scrambled out of the jeep to look back at the source and to the team’s shock, they saw what had happened. “Is that-”

“The helicopter…” Before them, what used to be a fully functioning mode of transportation now lay in a complete wreck on the golden sand- its body bent in half, metallic skin appeared to be clawed down to its wiring, windows smashed, and its blades crooked and falling apart.

And beneath all that ruined material was a pilot’s corpse, jaw agape and nails bloody from the scratches it had done on the helicopter’s hard exterior. While Kakyoin, Avdol, and Pol went off to inspect the tail end, the remaining crew went on to investigate the shell-shocked cadaver.

Both the craft and its passengers didn’t show any signs that could have sabotaged either. Though in an attempt to pull the body out, Jotaro noticed something in the pilot’s open mouth. “See something?” Joseph asked.

At closer inspection, Jotaro’s brows furrowed with concerned disgust. “Water. Full of it in his mouth.” He grabbed hold of the man’s chin and turned it to the side, allowing the copious amount of fluid to flow out onto the ground. “Saliva doesn’t fill the mouth that much. So it’s not from there but from the lungs,” he said, clearly perturbed. “Shit, that means he drowned in the desert of all places.”

“Rapid water build-up in a dry area like this with no rain? An enemy Stand’s responsible no doubt,” you remarked, already surveying the area for any other suspicious activity.

“Guys!” Your team turned to the other direction where the other 3 was at. “It’s the other pilot! He’s alive!”

The Crusaders re-grouped, forming a circle around the aforementioned man heaving on the sand, incredibly dehydrated and parched. His skin cracked in every area of his body with his bones jutting out underneath. The poor guy struggled to speak but all he could muster were gasps and heaves.

“Quick, Polnareff! Water! He needs water!” Joseph pointed at the nearby fallen canister. The silver-haired adult retrieved the container and brought it to the old man’s hand. “Here, drink up. You need it bad.”

Jotaro would expect the pilot would immediately latch on to it, but suspicion continued to build up the longer the man would refuse to drink from it, let alone go near it even. He grew more frantic the more the stubborn elder kept pushing the canister forward.

And in the last moment, the pilot found his voice.

“GET THAT AWAY FROM ME-”

With no warning, something shot out of the water container and dug its claws into the man’s face, violently tearing at skin, muscle, sinew, and bone until the whole head detached from its body.

You screamed, losing balance as you flinched hard from the abrupt and brutal death. Shit! Jotaro caught you before you could tumble to the ground, pulling you close to him as he shielded your eyes from watching the entity force the fresh head into the canister.

“Everyone move!”

The team jumped off a fair distance away from the now-bleeding object. The delinquent turned to you, slowly removing his hand off of your face once that thing settled. Without asking, you looked back at him with a shaky sigh. “I’m fine now,” you muttered. “Thanks.”

Whose Stand was that just now? More importantly, where was the user to begin with? Throughout their course here, he hadn’t noticed anyone that stood out from the rest of the crowd, nor did he find any silhouette roaming about in the vast desert sands.

Could this Stand be long-ranged just like The Lovers? Or was it remote?

Jotaro took the stillness of the moment to assess his surroundings, bringing out a pair of binoculars to search further and Star Platinum for an extra pair of eyes. Beside him, you helped with scanning the areas behind. Joseph and Avdol lie still nearby, never leaving their sights on the ominous object in front of them.

“Anything?” Joseph whispered.

The delinquent shook his head.

Farthest from the team were Polnareff and Kakyoin, lying across from them arguing something about who’s Stand should be the first to attack it. If they’d be any closer, he might have a way to shut them up and stop them from being annoying in the middle of an ambush.

Then there it was again, a damp spot growing on the sand a few inches away from Kakyoin gradually growing more wet until-

“Kakyoin!” The enemy Stand sprang from the moistened ground to claw both the cherry-haired’s eyes with a single, nearly deadly swipe. Polnareff reacted accordingly and caught his body as it fell lax.

“Get over here! Hurry!” You yelled at them, distressed. At the same time, those close to the jeep climbed on top of the vehicle to get away from the enemy’s range.

The Frenchman wasted no time and got up with his friend in his arms, sprinting as fast as he can away from the hunting Stand. Helping close the distance was Silent Sanctuary extending strips of its fabrics towards them with impressive speed. They latched themselves around wherever they could on both their bodies and with one solid tug, pulled them towards the jeep’s roof before the Stand could land a cut on Polnareff’s leg.

“How is he?” You hurried over to inspect the injuries on the student’s face.

“He’s breathing at least so I guess he’s fine,” Pol panted, high with adrenaline. “He’s knocked out though. Probably will stay like that until his eyes are treated.”

“Look for some bandages. We should stop the bleeding for now.”

Leaving them to tend to his wounds, Jotaro drew his focus back to the sand. Where is it? Now that he knew what to look for, he kept lookout for any puddle appearances or formation of any dark patches. Where are you, you piece of shit. “How do we beat this thing if it keeps going into hiding every time it loses track of us?” Joseph said, concerned with their current situation.

“We need to lure it out somehow. I can burn it with Magician’s Red but only if it’s distracted long enough,” Avdol said in return.

For a moment, they didn’t know what to do. There was a solution in the Egyptian’s plan, but to pull that off was something that still needed a bit more time to polish. Unfortunately for them, time wasn’t given to them when out of the window seat, Iggy barked repeatedly as he leaped out of the vehicle. He continued to do so at them even when his paws landed outside.

You heard him and understood that as a warning. Why else would he jump off if he was fine sleeping in it minutes ago?

“Get away from the jeep!” The guys turned to you as if you had grown another head, questioning why should they when doing so put them on its radar, but you barely got a word out when the vehicle trembled. “Now!”

At the last second, everyone jumped off the jeep’s roof a second before the transport sunk into sand. All of you stuck a rough landing but made it out just in time. Though, you couldn’t move when the fluid Stand crept towards the team.

Beads of sweat ran down your back as Silent Sanctuary hovered above you, ready to provide defense. You’d find out that won’t be necessary when across from you, a watch’s alarm blared out. The hand retracted itself and launched its claws towards the corpse’s wrist, cutting the hand clean from the arm before hiding once again.

“Sound,” Avdol muttered. “It hunts using sound and movement.”

It would make sense. When it first attacked the pilot, the man had screamed in panic. Then its next target was Kakyoin because of his argument with Polnareff. The watch was next after due to the alarm, and last was the jeep itself because of the team’s discussions. Everyone seemed to get the memo with one shared eye contact when all of them remained still and silent.

Testing out his hypothesis, Avdol slowly reached for his silver bracelets. One-by-one, he tossed a hoop onto the empty space in front of him, done in a pace mimicking how someone would walk with cautious steps.

“Jotaro,” He glanced at you, and if he didn’t know whether to be concerned or not when you were already on one knee with a plan in mind. You whispered. “Find a way to traverse the desert without running. The user has to be around somewhere.”

What are you doing? “Avdol’s plan has a high chance of backfiring once he runs out. I have a back-up plan in mind and part of it needs you to do what I told you earlier.” He had his doubts but just as you said, the last of the Egyptian’s bracelets marked itself on the ground, luring out the water Stand to its position.

The delinquent looked back at you with furrowed brows, wanting to tell you that his plan was working and to get down. However, once Magician’s Red hovered behind it to launch a fire ball, the entity dodged it at the last second. Now it was aware where Avdol was.

“Now.” A strip of rose-gold zipped out to shield the adult’s neck where the Stand’s trajectory was aiming for. The same time Avdol retreated back, you bolted out of your safe spot and ran across the sands. “Hey! Over here, you little shit!”

With the taunt, the Stand swam its way to you and leaped. Though it couldn’t do any harm when Silent Sanctuary had a ton of impenetrable fabrics ready to defend its user. Each swipe of its claws could only scratch the silk surface of your Stand, unable to tear at its seams.

You locked one more eye contact with Jotaro and this time, he got to his feet as well.

Get around without running? How the hell will I do that? He looked around him to see what can help him do that. He turned to every one of his companions, gauging if their Stands could do shit relevant to his task. But then his gaze stopped at Iggy, staying put in one spot away from the group.

The user of a sand-based Stand able to form into anything it wanted. Got it. “Hey you,” he called out to the canine. “Think you can make something up to get us across in the air?”

Iggy growled, sharing glares with the delinquent. “Listen mutt, do you want your damn supply of gum or not? You heard what Y/N said.” There was still that reluctance present in the dog’s posture, but given that he’s unable to pass on the opportunity on free food, he begrudgingly complied.

In that moment, the sands went into motion around them, swirling around the canine until it rose to form The Fool in its entirety. Unlike its former appearance, a large glider had attached itself on the mechanical Stand’s back. It rolled forward to pick Iggy in its metallic paws. He barked at Jotaro, telling him to grab onto it to hitch a ride.

The delinquent cocked his head. I can’t believe I’m doing this. He grabbed hold onto The Fool’s arm and using Star’s force, he launched both Iggy and himself up into the sky with one strong leap.

Jotaro looked back to see what you were up to. Suffice to say, you still kept up the distraction as the clawed hand repeatedly failed in landing a single cut anywhere on your body thanks to the glint of silk protecting you. With you keeping it busy, the others used the moment to get the jeep above ground and get it running.

Focusing ahead, he brought out Star’s eyes and surveyed the surrounding areas for any sign of a lone Stand user. In front of him, Iggy sniffed the air, actually helping him search and in doing so, The Fool maneuvered itself to the direction of any foreign scent he could smell.

And after minutes of searching, Jotaro managed to find someone 400 meters away- a man cross-sitting atop a sandy hill, head bowed in concentration with a cane in hand connected to the ground. There you are. However, they couldn’t reach in time as they neared the ground.

“Damnit,” Once his foot grazed the sand, he brought Star out once again to launch themselves up into the sky. But by doing that, he gave away his location to the enemy and he could hear the once-distracted Stand approach, harshly swimming underneath the sands, causing multiple granules to sprinkle against the glider and emit a distinct sound as its trail.

Now that our location’s on his radar, it’ll only be a matter of until- The second the sandy rain stopped falling, the watery Stand leaped out of the ground, aiming straight for Jotaro. Star Platinum hovered before him in an attempt to block it, but to his dismay, the enemy Stand slipped past the humanoid’s fist and landed a clean cut across his shoulders and a hole on The Fool’s glider.

Losing flight again, they drifted low onto land, faster than earlier with a heavy tilt causing his shoes to drag across the ground. Jotaro cursed. The man was so close, so close that he could hear him chuckle as if success was within his reach. Would he even make it there without having to constantly deal with this deadly hand?

Fuck it. Jotaro let go of The Fool, allowing Iggy to swerve away to safety, and got into a stance where Star is able to lend its leg power for one more jump, preferably behind the enemy Stand user so he could get one solid hit to render him unconscious. There was the risk of getting attacked in a fatal area, with the pain radiating on his shoulder serving as a reminder of the danger, but if it meant ending this obstacle then so be it.

The delinquent could feel the shifting of the sand making way for the rapidly approaching liquid. He put all his force into his one leg and just as he made that leap, a voice yelled out in the back.

“Catch!”

Something flew past Jotaro’s leg in high speed and what once was targeted at him, the Stand changed course and retreated back into the ground, hurrying back to return to its user. Glancing back, he saw you from a distance standing on top of the recovered jeep with Pol manning the wheel. Silent Sanctuary floated close-by with one strip loosened being the one responsible for the throw.

But by the time the clawed hand made it in time to slice the item- the bleeding canister- in half before it could reach its user, Jotaro had already landed behind him, remaining still to not alert his position.

It wasn’t too long until the man realized that his target stood just outside the water barrier he set for himself. He made it known that he was honored by the way Jotaro decided to approach him, one that wasn’t simply walking up to a blind man to knock the living daylights out of him.

With silent agreement, their battle would end with one attack. Both would hold themselves for a bit longer until their attacks are fired at the same time just like all those Western movies Jotaro would watch as a kid. Their timer would be the cane the man held, letting it fall slowly from his grasp.

In the end, Jotaro was hailed as the victor of their duel, managing to deliver a heavy punch onto the man’s face while his Stand could only knock the hat off his head.

There were a lot to be asked now that they got one of DIO’s lackeys under their grasp, but that hope for any intel dissipated as the man let his own Stand run itself through his chest, piercing the heart inside. The act surprised Jotaro since he never had encountered someone who’d take his own life to evade questioning.

Even as the teenager asked him why he’d do such a thing when he had a life to live for, his reasoning was admirable even if it was twisted with lies of being given a purpose, and is rooted deep due to cult-like devotion. Even in defeat, his loyalty to his god and his fellow companions was unwavering, that he’d rather die than betray his fellow men.

Their conversation ended not too long after and the man named N’Doul breathed his last and died just like he intended, serving his master until the very end.

For the first time in his life, Jotaro gave genuine respect to someone of the opposite side.

The delinquent stayed around for a bit longer until the sun had set into the horizon, giving the blind man a proper burial grave to honor his sense of devotion one last time. His cane, planted on top of the small lump, acted as N’Doul’s personal headstone.

“You know you didn’t have to, right?”

Jotaro looked over to see you stand beside him, hands clasped over your skirt to pay your respects to the grave. “I know, but it felt… wrong to just leave him as is.”

“For you to treat him like this… I guess you both had quite of a chat.”

“Maybe.”

The sun continued to retreat in the distance. “We should head back,” you said. “Your shoulder has some patching up to do. Pol left some of the bandage used for Nori’s eyes.” Although the pain wasn’t that bad, Jotaro knew you by now that refusing treatment wasn’t in your choices. And so he nodded once.

A bark interrupted the both of you. “Guess who found your hat?” You smiled as Iggy crept up from behind your shins, holding his ripped hat with his teeth. “I gotta say, it’s quite impressive the man’s able to knock it off your head that far.”

“Would you look at that?” Jotaro got onto one knee and waited for the terrier to approach him with caution. He reached forward to grab it off his mouth. “Seems you’re not all that bad. Thanks.”

The teenager attempted to give Iggy a head pat, only for the latter to growl at him and run towards the direction of the jeep. In return, Jotaro scowled as he placed the hat back on its rightful spot.

“Little shit.”

“Reminds me of a certain someone, don’t you agree?” You smiled, cheeky.

“Shut up.”

---

Given how late the day had gotten, everyone in the group agreed to camp out in the middle of the desert, waiting out one night before they could continue on with their trip.

A fire was set up in the middle of their makeshift site filled with sleeping mats and cooking paraphernalia, providing a decent amount of warmth for the team in the midst of the chilly evening air. They had a simple dinner of cooked beans and biscuits, chatted with each other for a while, until majority agreed to hit the hay for the remaining hours.

Until now, you still couldn’t bring yourself to fall asleep. You haven’t gotten any sleep for the past hours and with the exhaustion taking over every inch of your body, you didn’t know whether you even wanted to sleep or force yourself awake. You didn’t want to end up in that manor again after all.

Figuring sleep wasn’t your best option as of the moment, you turned to look for the one person who you could trust yourself to be with at this hour.

“Hey…” You waved at the delinquent resting on top of his mat, staying upright against the surface of the jeep. He looked up at you, curious. “Would you mind if I… sit here?”

Not a word was said in return but Jotaro scooting over to the side was enough. You placed your mat beside his and sat beside him.

“Staying up again?” He nodded. “Don’t you feel tired though? You must have times where you just wanna sleep the night away.”

“It’s nothing new. A day nap or two can help me get by.”

“You’re lucky. What I would give to not worry about taking naps. I’m so tired but alas… here I am eyes heavy,” you sighed, resting your head against the vehicle’s surface. “I don’t want to go back there. Can you help me with that?”

“How?”

You shrugged. “Dunno… Maybe I just like hearing you talk. Your voice is really nice.”

A chilling gust of breeze brushed by, causing your body to shiver from the cold. You tried to keep it in, even shoving your feet in the mat as if that could help, until something lightly nudged at you.

You turned to see Jotaro offering you his gakuran without looking at you. From your angle, you peeked at the bandage wrapped around his shoulder courtesy of you. Trailing up, you could see his averted face bearing tightened lips, almost embarrassed with what he just did.

Either way, your cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. You gingerly took the uniform without a word and let it drape over you, nearly covering your entire frame. In it, you could pick up on the faint smell of that citrus scent you recognized back in Singapore and the more obvious hint of tobacco laced with it.

The material itself was warm enough to shield you from the evening chill and you buried as much of yourself inside, savoring the warmth it gave as you grasped the edges of the clothing and tugged it over each other.

“You know I don’t talk much.”

“Didn’t seem like that back in the submarine though,” you said. “Longest I’ve ever heard you speak without a break.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not!” You quickly butted in. “If anything, it made me stupid for the lack of knowledge I have on ocean life. But that just means you have more intellect in that head of yours than just being an ordinary bad boy. Hell, I might need you to tutor me on our future classes.”

Jotaro deadpanned at you, and you giggled. “I’m joking.”

In the minutes without either of you talking, he reached into his pocket and brought out his silver lighter. You thought he’d reach for his cigarettes next, but he didn’t. Instead he fidgeted with the item, flicking the lid open and close. “What… do you want to know?”

“Anything. Whatever you have stored in that memory bank of yours, lay it on me.”

With some reluctance, Jotaro began to share a couple more facts about all the things he might have read prior to their journey. From animal biology to the mechanisms of ships and planes, to the tropes of his favorite movies, you listened to him with full attention and you made sure he knew that by asking questions in-between, to which he answered to with ease.

Neither of you knew how long this went but you didn’t care. You were invested in the way he’d talk about the things he was passionate in, the way he unknowingly began to open more of himself to you without having the need to do so, and from the way you could see more of his youthful energy peeking through all his many layers of jaded stoicism and teenage angst.

It was endearing. Almost wholesome even. You did say you liked hearing him speak, and perhaps this was why.

It also didn’t occur to either one of you that you gradually leaned towards him until you had your arm pressing against his.

However, you still couldn’t hold back the need to shut your eyes as they grew heavier with each passing second, and accompanied by the baritone voice of your companion and the soothing warmth of his uniform, you gave in to its temptation with a drawn-out yawn.

Jotaro paused, taking the time to look at you. “I have to go back again. I’m so sleepy…”

“Then sleep.”

You closed your eyes as you leaned your head on his shoulder, mumbling out a few more words before fully falling into slumber. “But I don’t wanna hurt anymore…”

Silence. And then a response- deep and raspy, but at the same time soft and reassuring. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I’ll be here."

[burberrycanary]

I thought I’d be feeling more triumphant to have wrapped up my post-TFATWS stucky endgame fix-it series, A Man Takes His Sadness Down to the River, which is now complete. And believe me, I’m pleased and relieved to have the whole thing out in the world. But it’s also bittersweet and there’s an odd little feeling of let-down, too. 

I’m going to miss these versions of Steve and Bucky—and Sam and Sarah. These are the most psychologically complex stories I’ve written as Steve and Bucky slowly and arduously figure out how to live with themselves and with each other in the post-Snap, post-Return, post-Endgame world as it is. How do you move forward after all the mistakes and injustice and everything you’ve had to survive to reach this point?

Not an easy question.

But in the same way that I view Steve and Bucky as fundamentally hopeful characters, these stories also contain a lot of joy and hardwon moments of happiness. As Steve thinks at one point—

But that’s the world, bleak turned one way and then somehow still beautiful when turned inside-out with the bleak waiting again for the next reverse, not really gone anywhere: just out of sight.

I’ve been working on this series for years—I started the earliest drafts back at the end of 2021—and it’s been very much a labor of love. So if you’re interested in trying an Endgame fix-it that doesn’t let Steve off the hook for the choices he made but also gives him the chance to do better; and a story that lets Bucky keep the hardwon connections and growth we see in TFATWS while bringing Steve and Bucky, these two profoundly intertwined characters, back together and then asks: after everything, how could these characters live, really live, in the world again?

“If you didn’t live in New York,” Bucky asks while passing over another ice cold beer before he takes his own, “where would you go?” Steve has seen a lot of the world, in passing, coming from one fight or heading to the next. “I don’t know.” He slumps further down in the sloped deck chair and tilts his head to watch Bucky’s face in profile, silhouetted against the heat-warmed bricks and the long slice of purpling sky that hangs between buildings over the road. “Anywhere you wanna see?” Bucky wets his lower lip and takes a swallow of the sour beer. Steve shoves down the desire to draw Bucky’s hands, doing the ordinary things of living, until he can bury Bucky in a cascade of those images. “Some days, feels like there’s not much in the world I haven’t seen. Seeing it during peacetime, though, that’d be something.” Bucky slants that dark, dangerous grin at him that’s straight from the spring of ‘44. “If you can call this peace.” Reaching out, Steve offers the neck of his beer. “What’s peace, anyway?” Bucky clinks their two bottles together. “What the hell is peace?”

This series is the story of two old soldiers trying to find some peace, whatever that may be.

Read A Man Takes His Sadness Down to the River (The Consolation of Philosophy)

[minniethemoocherda]

Iridescent: Chapter 22

A/N: Can't believe Transformers One comes out next month!! Ahhhhh!! So excited!! Xxxxxxx

Ao3

FF.net

Once again, high command was a complete mess.

Ratchet was still unconscious.

Ironhide and Chromia still spent most meetings flirting with each other.

Thanks to Bluestreak, Bumblebee hadn’t gotten more injured than he already was. But that didn’t stop Optimus from frantically fretting over his ward who had been in the crossfires of two too many Decepticon attacks.

Red Alert was on the verge of another break down. They hadn't been able to find any evidence of how Silverstreak had escaped but somehow she must have because nobody had seen a shade of her in over twenty-four hours. Inferno had been temporarily relieved from his medical duties so that he could keep his partner sane.

And Prowl… well even those who weren’t as used to deciphering the tactician’s usual lack of outward emotion, could tell that something was off.

Silverstreak's betrayal had affected them all in different ways.

Jazz hadn't been as close to Silverstreak as he had to other members of Spec Ops. But he'd trusted her. Not only with his own life but with the lives of everyone that he cared about. And Jazz didn't trust easily. Even though he couldn't feel pain, he still felt like he had been stabbed in the back.

It was a miracle that Mirage and Hound had been discharged from the med-bay barely an hour before it became a fiery inferno otherwise he might not have had a spec ops at all. However the pair still weren't healed enough to brace the Decepticon infested planet to try searching for the traitor and with trust in spec ops currently at an all time low, Jazz had decided it would be best to employ some outside help, in this case the bounty hunter Devcon.

He just needed Prowl's permission to sign off on it.

Which was why Jazz was the one who discovered the state of their commander's office.

Prowl's office looked like it had been ransacked by a turbo-wolf. Rows of previously alphabetised meeting reports were now shattered across the floor. The desk and half of it's draws had been flipped over. And the seat next it out had gone out the window.

Which was to say nothing of Prowl himself.

The mech was living up to his name, prowling up and down the room, smoke practically steaming from his nose like an animal waiting for an excuse to pounce.

It was rare sight to see Prowl lose his composure. And Jazz wasn't going to lie to himself that the sight didn’t send a shiver of thrill down his spinal strut even if this time he wasn’t the one responsible for it.

"What?" Prowl demanded when he noticed their presence, apparently not even surprised at Jazz hacking open his door anymore.

"Go see Bluestreak." Jazz told him.

Prowl's eyes darted to the datapad in Jazz's hand.

"You can sign these tomorrow." Jazz said, hiding the pad behind his back. As per usual he ignored all warning signs of danger and strolled closer to the mech. Thankfully Prowl appeared to be too busy fighting with himself to take a strike as Jazz. "So go and see Bluestreak."

"She does not want to see me." Prowl stated, shaking his head as though he could shake his thoughts right out of his audio receptors.

"You're her brother." Jazz countered, placing a hand on Prowl’s cheek. The metal was hot to the touch. Unusual for the mech who always appeared so cold. “And Silverstreak was the one who hurt her. Not you.”

Under the hold of Jazz’s steady hand the commander could no longer shake his head, finally forcing him to focus on the spy’s words. Jazz could practically see the gears turning in his head as the logic of his own words against him settled in. Even if the stubborn bastard didn’t want to admit that Jazz was right.

"Plus I know that your shift ended an hour ago and we both know that I can and will hack you out of your profile so you’re not going to be doing any more work tonight one way or another.” Jazz pointed out with deliberate cheek. This close he swore he could see the wire under the metal of Prowl’s temple pulse. “So are you going to see her or what?”

Jazz grinned as Prowl spoke through gritted teeth.

“It appears I do not have a choice.”

[dxseol]

hello everyone and a very happy opening to district x!! ( *´ ˘ `*)

i'm excited to write with everyone and their lovely muses i've been seeing on dash! i'm luyi (they/them), here with my unfortunately red flag of a guy that i present to you: "kim seol", a 23 year old "humble" tier d enhanced agent with "parents" that manages a "sushi restaurant" (lol).

here is his general profile, under the cut will be a short introduction to get to know seol alongside some plot ideas to kickstart some action! do like this post and i’ll get to your dms eventually, or discord upon request! ✶⋆.˚

Ⅰ. 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ↯

born ahn eunbyul who was raised by parents who viewed him as their most successful mutagen experiment rather than their youngest son. the illegal project was destroyed by a villain group who sought out powerful abilities, taking him in as one of them to make use of his eyes of death perception.

changed identities multiple times in his life while going undercover as a spy or performing assassinations. in this ‘life’, his identity is kim seol, a lazy carefree guy who for some reason, isn’t fired from his job. he’s always drinking or partying and does just enough to not get fired — which would infuriate people.

seol is a fun guy to be around with if you aren’t his coworker. he’s good at talking and knows how to lead conversations, there’s some sort of charisma that draws people in. he wouldn’t say no to a fervent night together too. you just have to deal with his strange attachment to his potted plant that he planted a gps on.

he’s like the snow that falls from the sky, mystifying you with its fragile icy beauty, then melting away when it feels the warmth as if it never existed; that’s who ahn eunbyul is. they always say, winter is the season where life dies.

Ⅱ. 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 ↯

coworkers – it’s either your muse wants to help him out out of the goodness in their heart, seeing how pathetic he is or noticing the potential that he does not want to utilise. or not. your muse gets annoyed by him and wants him fired. but hey, at least he lightens up the mood (even if the situation doesn’t needs it!).

a drink or two – they met at bars, parties, whatever social event it can be! seol can be pretty popular at such places. though, his reputation can be either good or bad. consider it a gacha to find out which one your muse will get! he would approach your muse and they could hit it off. he can be flirty and shower them with sweet nothings, take their hand to enjoy an even longer night together. seol dumps them the next day.

to fill the void – they used each other. in what way? let’s find out!

rivals/enemies – maybe your muse is suspicious of his background, and they want to find out what seol is hiding. or perhaps they noticed his ability seems to be more dangerous than he lets on. or maybe it’s just something petty, who knows?

friends? – detached from relationships he may be, he’ll still appreciate the time they spent together. he could always disappear and throw away his identity, your muse won’t remember him, but ahn eunbyul will always remember.

from the past – your muse had met seol in the past, but they aren’t sure if it was him or not. it’s strange, he’s so familiar yet your muse could never figure it out, and it goes on from there.

unbloomed love – a love that could have been possible, but the next day, he ceased to exist.

“family” – your muse knows who he is and they’re in the same line of work.

brainstorming time! we could figure out something fun, something crazy orrr if you already have a plot in mind. throw it at me and i’ll catch it, let’s plot! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

[juvnvalen]

♡Lilya Yandere Profile♡

I love lilya shes up there on my favorite list, writing this as a tribute to her because i just booted her off my team for regulus. ALSO THE ART OF DESTREZA SKIN???? MEOW (please someone notice my lilya likes being callled a good girl head canon) yandere lilya aka wife beater my beloved Also! added a few new r1999 character to my list <3 Pairing: Lilya x GN Darling; FxGN TW: Yandere themes, mentions of nonconsensual touching, Nsfw mentions, and physical violence. Credit for template: @/Cinnamonest

♡What are they generally like? Lucid, aware? Obsessive? How do they behave? Lilya has never experienced feelings like this before, and she doesn’t quite understand how to approach you. At first glance you’d think she hated you, the way she glares, insults you, and it almost seems like she’s trying to make your life a little more miserable all together. She likes to keep you around, and as unbelievable as it is she does like you. Lilya’s doubtful of your ability to take care of yourself, and she's adamant about how pathetic you are. She’s not trying to be cruel, she just knows you need someone strong to protect you, like her. At some point she becomes aware that this isn’t how people typically approach relationships and maybe she’ll even try to court you in a more civil way for a little while, but it won't last very long at all.

♡How likely are they to kidnap their darling? How quickly will they do so? Lilya is very quick to take her darling, for her there are just more benefits from taking her darling than simply courting them. Whether it be from her darling avoiding her, getting into danger, or simply not reciprocating her feelings they can expect her to act quickly in their capture.

♡How difficult is it to escape from them? How do they keep you restrained? How do they deal with attempted escape? Escape from Lilya is almost completely off the table, with the help of her trusty Su-01ве, there is simply no way you could outrun her. There is a chance to escape with the help of Lilya’s drinking, she’s easy to manipulate and a heavy sleeper when she's intoxicated. For the most part you can expect to be restrained to some extent, but of course when she's around to watch you she’s happy to let you roam free a little while. When it comes to drunk Lilya, it's easy to convince her to loosen the ropes for a little while. After an escape attempt her darling can expect any privileges to be revoked. She has no leniency to a newly captured darling either, she expects them to adapt to her rules quickly.

♡How easy are they to trick, deceive, or manipulate? Lilya is decently easy to trick, especially so when she's intoxicated. It's easy to appeal to her ego, and she absolutely melts when receiving any praise. With a few loving words she’s easy to fool the first time, but as soon as she learns your tactics you can’t expect her to be deceived so easily the next time.

♡How lenient are they? What privileges can you have, and what will you be denied? She doesn’t let the rules slide for the most part, but if drunk she’ll let her darling get away with more things than usual. Lilya will allow her darling to have small freedoms such as walks outside with Lilya, highly supervised trips to town, and less restraints while she’s away. She refuses to provide her darling with most non-necessities, not wanting them to draw her darling’s attention away.

♡What kind of rules do they have? What kind of punishment would they use? Lilya is very strict about her rules being followed, and she’ll make sure you remember when you break one. She is adamant about you not mentioning absolutely anything about wanting to leave, or showing intentions of doing so. Any physical violence or verbal beratement from you will be met with immediate punishment. She’s more physical with her punishments, Lilya believes her darling learns better that way. Punishment can range from simply increasing restraints or revoking privileges, to physical beatings.

♡How do they deal with rivals, or perceived rivals? Will they get rid of them? Will they kill them themselves, or find another way? Lilya simply kills them, it's more effective than just threats and she doesn’t want to worry about consequences from letting them live later on.

♡How easy is it to make them mad? What does their anger look like? Lilya is extremely easy to anger, and her darling gets the brunt of her wrath. When she’s angered she tends to get physically violent from destroying furniture to hurting her darling, it's best just not to set her off.

♡Do they see you as above them, beneath them, or equal to them? She sees you as below her without a doubt, it's not just her darling though Lilya sees most lesser capable beings as beneath her.

♡How determined are they for you to love them? How hard will they try to make it happen? Or are they content just having you? Lilya wants a loving relationship, and she expects her darling to provide that for her. She doesn’t expect it right away, but makes sure her darling learns eventually. Just having her darling present can only hold her off for so long. 

♡General perverseness: how sexual of a person are they? What’s their drive like? How touchy do they get? Do they have any reservations about sexuality? Lilya is fine going without sexual contact for long periods, it's not something she needs for a happy relationship. She does let her touches linger lower than they should when she's intoxicated, but it never goes any further than a curious touch. She enjoys softer physical affection more than she does actual sex, Lilya just wants her darling there to hold.

♡How forceful are they? Do they care about your willingness? Lilya has no intentions of forcing anything sexual on her darling, her hands might linger in places they shouldn’t occasionally but it never goes any further. If sex occurs it needs to be initiated by her darling, she won’t engage it, not that she likes to admit it but she’s nervous to go that far with her darling. 

♡What sort of kinks or fetishes do they have, or would they fill? She only has one, and it's not even totally sexual, she adores praise from her darling. Lilya melts at any positive compliments her darling is willing to give. 

♡What kind of (nsfw) punishments would they use? Lilya wouldn’t use any sexual punishments.♡What body parts of their darling do they like the most? Lilya loves her darling’s thighs, she can’t get enough of touching them. Loves laying her head in her darling’s lap if they’re willing to offer.

♡♡

[gggoldfinch]

Hatchetknife

Richard B. Riddick x OFC (or reader)

(disclaimer: photo found on pinterest ^ )

A/N: I’ve been gripped by the most manic and inexplicable riddick brainrot ever and needed to get this out of my system or I’d deadass explode ‼️I usually don't write oneshots like this so it was a nice breath of fresh air actually. Hopefully now this sexy bald bitch will leave my poor brain alone so I can do something else other than binge watching vin diesel movies

warnings: original female character (descriptions vague enough to be reader insert), possibly a little ooc, very brief discussion of SA (in a non-threatening manner), minor violence & injury, explicit language, forced proximity, only one bed, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, light choking, biting, pet names. MINORS DNI

word count: 12,114

{AO3 Link}

summary: A low-profile merc masquerading as a man has her ship (and life) invaded by an unlikely guest. She gets found out, and things progress interestingly.

***

There's a ship that's been sitting idle in the upper-east Storage B-Port for weeks now; Riddick knows this. He also knows he hasn't been this incapacitated in a while. It's a hard thing to admit to himself, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hasn't slept in over 72 hours, and has been fighting and running for most of that time. He's out of his element— stuck in the heart of a congested city-planet rather than out in the wilderness of some uninhabited backwater planet. He's bleeding from somewhere— his side, maybe. His nose is broken, too, and there must be some sort of nerve damage too, because he can't scent who's coming after him anymore. He lost his goggles somewhere during this most recent scuffle, too, so all the neon signs are like miniature suns searing his retinas.

There's an idle ship gathering dust in Storage B-Port. He recalls it looking like a good model, some custom parts. It'll be easy to hijack. It'll be easy to leave this planet and his merc pursuers in the dust.

———————————————————————

Everyone has their own way of surviving in this nightmare of a universe. Some kill, some are killed. That's just something each and every person has to come to terms with while they draw breath. While not exactly thriving, this one particular individual has found their own way to survive. Some may call her a mercenary, and they wouldn't necessarily be wrong— but she prefers to call herself a mere gun for hire. It's easy to make a living when you have a thick head and nothing to lose, going from one job to another with little in the way of possessions and even less in the way of social relationships. She goes where the proverbial wind takes her, planet-hopping and working odd jobs. Sometimes the jobs entail hunting dangerous quarry, but more often than not she's hired for non-violent jobs running security for personnel protection or transport. Honestly, the only jobs she turns down outright are those having anything remotely to do with the Necromongers. Sure it isn't ideal, but it's better than living in the slums of the over-crowded metroplanet where she'd grown up.

It's a risky job, no doubt, made no less difficult by her deliberate choice to fly solo. Solo is safe. Solo, she don't have to worry about crewmates stealing or betraying her, or worse, taking advantage of her. Barely an adult when she'd begun her life hopping between merc crews, she'd learned early that being on her own is better, safer. No— she keeps to herself with nothing but the ship's computer system for company. And, when the occasion rises where she does have to venture out into civilization again—to find a job or stock up on supplies—she takes heavy precautions.

Strong from years of fighting and labor, her body can shoulder the burdensome weight of armor; broad shoulders and sturdy bones make her intimidating and capable. Years worth of mismatched armor plates make up her regular uniform, both metal alloys and plastic prints. Some pieces were taken off fallen quarry—or former crewmates—some purchased responsibly. Each plate has a little story she can recall, fondly or not. When worn all together, her form is virtually unrecognizable, and more importantly, masculine. The crown mantle is her helmet: sturdy, sleek, black, with a visor capable of internal screen display. The vocal distorter programmed into it deepens her voice to a disguised pitch. The suit of armor isn't entirely comfortable, but it's a requirement for her safety.

"Hatchet!"

She swivels her helmeted head, looking in the direction from which she hears her codename. She hadn't been calling herself anything when she'd assumed this masculine persona. Her various employers just began calling her a shortened version of her ship's name—the Hatchetknife—and it just ended up sticking within the merc circle she floats in. No one knows her true identity, as far as she's aware. If they do, no problems have arisen from it yet.

A man approaches her, stocky and shorter than her. He's been her employer for the past several weeks, paying her to be a glorified bodyguard for his uppity son, on probation for yatta yatta yatta. She'd tuned out the rest once she'd heard the price of the paycheck. 350 thousand units just to  babysit an alcoholic man-child for a month while he's on probation. She couldn't pass it up.

Her employer holds out a datapad, the blue screen alight with money transfer information. She's about to receive her payment and get the fuck off this stuffed metroplanet. Maybe she can finally replace some of the older parts on the Hatchetknife with this payment.

"Don't be a stranger, now," the man says amicably once the digital paperwork has been filled. She receives a notification ping on the screen of her visor, indicating the payment has gone through successfully.  

She inclines her concealed head, thanks him for the business, and turns tail to leg it back to the ship. The thing has been docked in storage for nearly a full month cycle now— long enough for the ticket expense to be a bit of a blow to her newly acquired units. It doesn't matter; this planet will be long behind her in only a matter of a few short hours. She's been idle, been on this polluted and overpopulated planet for too long.

And she'll be damned if a little blood on the exterior hatchpad of her ship is going to deter her from getting out of dodge in a timely manner. It's a handprint, maybe a couple, smeared all along the white panelling of the cargo bay door's control console. The cargo bay door is locked up tight though, so she's not particularly worried that any ne'er-do-wells have tried breaking into her sturdy old ship. It's a good model, she tells herself. It has a security system that would alert her of suspicious activity through the link between her helmet and the ship's mainframe. Sure, someone clearly tried to get in, but there's no sign the bay door had been opened recently.

She pays her exorbitantly priced docking ticket and opens the bay door herself. She remains completely oblivious to the other trail of blood, smeared up the side of the ship and leading to the secondary hatch. She doesn't notice the cut wires either, spraying pathetic little sparks instead of warning signals to her security system. To be fair, she doesn't notice much of anything—doesn't even remove her armor or helmet—in her haste to take off. She just charges through the cargo bay, vaults the ladder to the upper deck, and wedges herself behind the control console.

It feels like home, being behind the console. More of a home than she's ever really had, at least. She exhales against the interior of her helmet. Her reflection gleams in the bare windshield, the sleek black glass and metal of her high-tech helmet staring back. Gloved fingers press buttons and flip switches, igniting holoscreens and a rainbow of lights. Meters and regulators all seem to be in check despite the ship's extended idleness, and the hyperdrive kickstarts with a comforting purr. She has to take the ship up and out of the atmosphere before kicking it into warp speed, lest the planet's nasty police force pick a fight with her. Fog and flames lick the nose of the Hatchetknife as it accelerates upward, breaking through the upper atmosphere at a smooth 15 kilometers per second, and an even 75 degree angle. Only then does she crank the hyperdrive and watch as the countless stars warp around the nose of the ship.

She plots an aimless course, avoiding setting a firm destination until she can get her hands on another potential job lead. Upon throwing it into autopilot, the ship's automated computer system welcomes her back on board. Hatchet, it calls her. Not even her own ship uses her true name anymore.

Her boots are heavy as they tramp out of the cockpit. Reinforced steel and acid-resistant soles, these boots are. They're her favorites. They make a robust thump thump as she walks into the narrow hallway of the Hatchetknife. Here resides her bunk, and across from that is the kitchenette and table where she eats and works and sometimes sleeps. It's barely wide enough to fit two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She's used to close-quarters; it's almost comforting, like a womb. The hatch and ladder down to the cargo bay gapes at the end of the hall, and this is what she beelines for once acclimating herself with the interior of her ship again. Her bunk looks awfully inviting, but first on the agenda is to shuck off all the armor.

Boots bracketed on either side of the ladder and gloved hands holding tight to the side-rails, she slides down until landing on the grate panels of the cargo bay floor. This area is vastly larger than her living quarters— it has to be, in the event she has to transport sizable goods or heavy machinery. A armory case for her weapons and uniform sits bolted against the side wall, its grate doors barely revealing the contents. She opens the thing up, removing the machine gun strapped to her back to place it on its rightful hooks.

She hooks her thumbs under the seal of her helmet and disables the suctioned airlock. Just as she's preparing to lift the burdensome thing from her head, something collides with her right side, knocking her clean off her feet. It takes only a few frantic moments to realize it's a human being— a male attacker. Her deactivated helmet collides with the metal flooring at an odd angle, instantly disabling the visor's screen as a result of some internal damage. The force of the tackle and impact against the floor has the breath drawn from her lungs in a violent, rattling wheeze. The muscles over her ribs convulse and tighten, sending a shock of panic and pain and adrenaline through her system. With little time to think, no weapon handy, and no opportunity to scan the stranger, she starts thrashing. Amidst the scuffle and blow to her head, she can't quite see clearly, only able to make out a blur of squirting blood. The blood isn't her own— she's sure she would feel it if she'd been shanked in any of her armor's vulnerable spots.

She thrusts a gauntleted arm upwards in the direction she thinks the intruder's head is. Her metal-sheathed wrist collides with something and the oppressive weight above her slumps over to the side.

Hatchet scrambles up to her knees and tears the nearest gun from off the rack. She spins, points the weapon at the stranger's head, and... doesn't shoot.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor is a man. A large man. Bald-headed and covered in blood she knows she hadn't drawn from him herself. It's old blood, old wounds— maybe hours, maybe days. Despite the vaguely stunned look about him from being hit in the head, he wears a wry little smile upon his full mouth, lips and nose bloody from what looks like a previous beating. His eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, almost like feline eyeshine, silvery and shifting.

He holds his hands out by his head placatingly, palms facing upward. Then, he grins. "Okay, okay. You got me." His voice is deep and smooth like rolling thunder. It's almost startlingly in its intensity.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on my ship!? What do you want?" she barks into the voice modulator, keeping the hardy submachine gun trained on him.

"Got a pretty nice ship here, don't you think?" he rumbles out.

"Fuck you!"

He chuckles at that, although the action looks like it pains him. The blood, she realizes, is oozing from a substantial stab wound on his left flank, just below the contour of his shapely pectoral muscle. She swallows thickly, choking down the apprehensive lump in her throat. Still a little off-kilter from the blow to her helmet, she shakily rises to her feet, steady finger not leaving the trigger once. The man clenches his silvery eyes shut, sucking in a substantial breath only to groan it all out again. One broad, tan hand shifts to press against the wound on his side, the other remaining innocently idle.  

Without prompting, Hatchet's line of sight raises to the secondary hatch within the cargo hold. There it is: a smear of blood and sparking wires. That's where he'd gotten in. Must be a determined fella—let alone smart—to have hacked the ship's security system to override the locking mechanism and find which wires would send out a warning signal before they even had the chance to. She looks back to him, curiously tilting her head to the side in observation of him.

"What the fuck do you think is supposed to happen now?" she grits out. The voice modulator gives it an extra bit of bite.

The man laughs, blood staining his straight teeth. "I dunno. Thought you might hand over your ship."

"Hand over my— Do you have a fucking head injury?"

He laughs again and she kicks his calf roughly.

"What about this is funny? Please, illuminate it for me. Because all I see some fucking stowaway who has a gun to his head and a nasty stab in his side. You're not getting my ship, pal. You'll be lucky if I let you see tomorrow."

"Bad timing," he murmurs, voice thick with strain and sardonic amusement. His expression slackens, the crease between his thin brows flattening out gradually.

"What?"

She kicks his leg again; he's unresponsive. Unconscious, actually, judging by the sudden lack of tension in his face and limbs. She drops the gun-wielding hand to her side and lets out a high-pitched wail of frustration.

She's not a cold blooded murderer. Sure, she's had to take a life or two throughout her days, but then again, who hasn't in this line of work. Those times were different— kill or be killed. This is... this is an injured, apparently unarmed guy on her cargo bay floor. Yes, he'd broken in, but maybe he has a valid excuse. She's had to break into places to survive before, it's really not that unusual. And despite all the shit she's been through, deep down Hatchet has a bleeding heart. She'd be pressed to admit it, of course. The sight of the stranger, wounded and unconscious, male as he may be, pulls at her tender and guarded heartstrings.

Fucking hell. She can only hope that someday in the future, if she's ever in time of need, that some stranger will treat her with kindness.

The man is heavy. Not deceptively so, as his height and build imply a great amount of mass, but hell if she's not winded by the time she drags him over to the cargo lift. The small elevator is usually for objects and not people, but it's the only way she can get his dead-weight ass to the upper level where the only cot and good light source are. She hasn't taken her armor off, and at this point she doesn't think she's going to. Certainly not with a strange man aboard, unconscious or not.

Upon both arriving at the upper level, it takes a great amount of effort to haul the man over to the bunk. The space is barely big enough to comfortably hold Hatchet, and she's nowhere near the size of this beast of a man. The cot creaks as she lowers him onto it, his boots scraping the wall as she crams him into the broom closet sized space. Flicking on the overhead light, it illuminates him with white fluorescence. It's only then does she realize he's not entirely unconscious; somewhere in there, he's aware enough to wince at the light coming on. She squints at him for a long moment, scrutinizing the situation. He doesn't show any other sign of cognizance besides for that averse reaction to the bright light beating down on his eyelids. When she decides it had only been some sort of odd reflex, she goes to retrieve the medical supplies from an aptly labeled storage cabinet.

Modesty be damned, she has to remove his shirt. It's barely holding itself together, anyway, and she has replacements to dress him in after she's patched him up. She feels hot under all her armor and layers, nervous as she stares down at the stranger's bare chest. Christ, he's build like a tank. It's intimidating, actually, once she chokes down the insidious feeling of attraction that prickles her skin and bubbles in her abdomen. Anyway—  upon closer inspection, the wound on his side is largely superficial. The extensive bruising along his ribs, however, indicates some unknown level of internal damage. It may only be deep-tissue bruising, or his ribs could be broken. She can't be too sure either way, and makes sure to properly bandage up his torso regardless, though only after disinfecting and stitching up the gash.

His nose is broken, that much is obvious. However, it looks as though it's already been set, so all she has to do is clean the blood, disinfect the small cut on the bridge, and properly bandage it. He has a nice face, apart from the bandaged nose. She can't really describe his features. Harsh, but soft at the same time. She huffs against the interior of the helmet at the thought, crossing her arms and leaning back.

She has stationed herself at the table across from the bunk, cautiously watching over the stranger through the deactivated visor of her mask. Hot and stuffy and heavy as the armor may be, she won't risk taking it off just yet. She doesn't quite have a plan yet as to how this is going to unfold. She'd chosen to spare his life, yes, but that isn't to say she won't protect herself to the nth degree if the need arises going forward. She doesn't want him out of her sight—especially considering her unprofessional lack of manacles—which means she can't program a route into the ship right now. The task would've been made simple if he hadn't gone and broken the screen display mechanism in her helmet. She can't even scan him in this state, to gather his identity or vitals status. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd grown on the visor display until now, having worn the damn thing for weeks straight at this point.

It takes a couple of hours by her count for the stranger to rouse again. He's disoriented at first, but soon grows aware of her shielded gaze burning into him from the other side of the narrow living area. He shifts in the cot, turning onto his wounded side to better assess the situation. He doesn't seem threatened—or particularly threatening—at the moment.

"Rise and shine," Hatchet speaks into the voice modulator.

She kicks a boot up onto the edge of the cot from where she sits barely three feet away. She tells herself it's a show of dominance, to plant her boot right beside the stranger's head, but in reality she probably just looks stupid. The man just looks at her with those silvery eyes, squinting under the bright overhead light. She doesn't shut it off.

"Now here's the deal—"

"How many people you got on this ship?" He cuts her off, tone both aloof and detached despite the situation. He breaks into an odd little grin, then twists his head to scent the pillow. "You hiding a lady somewhere? Fella like you sure wouldn't smell this sweet."

Hatchet's face crumples under the cover of secrecy. She has to school her perturbed reaction for the sake of her anonymity. What the hell kind of guy is she dealing with here, exactly? Not only must she refrain from showing any physical reaction, she shouldn't verbally address it, either.

"Now here's the deal," she repeats. "I spared you once— even did you the favor of patching you up. But, it's not gonna happen again if you try something funny."

The man tucks his chin to his chest to look down at the bandaged wounds, holding a curious hand to his side. She can't quite interpret his expression perfectly, but she thinks he seems vaguely impressed by her medical treatment of him.

"I'm going to take you to the nearest inhabited planet and dump your freeloading ass off at the first dock I come across. You aren't going to resist or complain. I'm doing you this favor— clearly you were on the run from someone dangerous, and I got you out of dodge. I don't expect payment, but I'd be mighty grateful if you didn't do anything violent or stupid." Hatchet kicks the bunk when his eyes slip shut again. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

He does appear to fall unconscious again, but she can't be totally sure he isn't just fucking with her. Irritated, she sucks her teeth and curses him out, kicking off the bunk to stomp off into the cockpit. Forget keeping him in sight, he can suffocate for all she cares. There's a shotgun under the control console, anyway.

She seals the cockpit door shut behind her. Only then does she feel safe to remove her helmet. Once again she's greeted by her reflection in the windshield, though this time it's her own face that stares back. It's a tired and sweaty face, with hair matted flat to the scalp from the tight interior of the helmet. She needs a nice long shower—that much is obvious—but now isn't the time. Finally breathing fresh, unfiltered air again, she gulps it down greedily and deposits herself in the pilot's seat. The autopilot had taken itself out of hyperdrive some time ago, and now the Hatchetknife careens at a steady pace through open space. The stars are magnificent, as always. The endless, unfathomable sight almost makes her forget her burdensome stowaway.

Hatchet pulls coordinates for the nearest inhabited planet. She expands the view on the holoscreen projected across the console. The information, illuminated in a fluorescent blue, scrawls across the screen just fast enough for her to barely be able to read it in time. Her eagerness to be rid of the stowaway slowly melts into a nauseating apprehension. Apparently, according to the data, the nearest planet for several lightyears just happens to be crawling with Necromongers. Fucking Necromongers. If there's anything Hatchet hates, it's violent religious cults that double as armies. She avoids well-paying jobs on the off-chance that those psychos might catch a whiff of her— she's sure as hell not landing her ship in a hive of those wasps.

"Fucking shit!" She kicks the console.

There goes the plan to drop this motherfucker off. It'll take days at the very least to make it to the next viable planet. She tosses her head back and groans loud, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until they come away leaving splotches in her vision. Venting her frustration, she kicks her heel against the console twice more.

———————————————————————

If Hatchet learns anything during her time in close proximity with the man, it's that, 1. he's a shockingly fast healer; 2. he doesn't like bright lights; and 3. he's quite sharp-witted despite the meathead look about him. In the few days that follow the unexpected detour, she avoids him as best she can in such cramped quarters. They only interact on the occasions when she checks up on his wounds or gives him MRE meals throughout the day—  always outfitted in her armor, of course. He only takes power-naps, never a full sleep, and reacts tensely to loud and sudden noises. He's smug and facetious when he speaks, and brooding when he doesn't. He's like a storm in every aspect of the description: thunderous voice, eyes like lightning, and a stormy personality to match. Despite Hatchet's aloofness, the man has found a way to wheedle himself under her skin. Once he was stable enough to stand on his own, nothing could stop him from getting up and wandering around the ship, hiding in the shadowed areas like a predator stalking its prey, much to Hatchet's chagrin. He makes little quips and witty comments in that deep voice when she's least prepared for them, and he stares at her with those glimmering eyes like he can see right through her disguise. Sometimes, she worries he does. He's like a fucking ghost the way he soundlessly moves around the small ship. That's more unnerving than his appearance, she thinks.

It's all getting rather frustrating. At first she'd been pissed that a man had the audacity to impose himself upon her time, energy, and ship. Now, she can't help but feel a strange tug of loneliness when they aren't in the same room. It's upsetting how the mind perceives human connection. She doesn't even know his name, yet the thought of being on her own again seems... well, lonely.

It does help that he's easy on the eyes, too. She finds herself locked away in the cockpit more and more frequently, brooding long and hard over the increasingly frequent thoughts of how fucking fine the man is. That soft yet masculine face, those thick arms and sturdy torso. The deep, intense tenor of his voice alone is enough to make her weak in the knees. And those eerie, glowing eyes, which watch her every movement like a hawk. Oh, for fucksake...

Hell, in all honesty she might as well be swimming in her armor with the way she sweats when he stands close and talks real smooth. She's afraid she's making it a little too obvious, actually. That carefully crafted persona is slipping through her fingers and all because she's a little hot under the collar about this stowaway she'd sworn to dump like a box of rocks come first chance. It came to a point approximately three simulated days into their time together when she couldn't stand the sight of him shirtless anymore; she ended up handing over one of her spare XL tanks, which still managed to look small on his burly frame. There's a sort of undeniable animal magnetism about him which is almost a little distressing in its intensity. What a fickle thing her trust in others is— and how tragically simple it was for her to get comfortable with the situation.

She doesn't insist on taking her bunk back from the healing man. While he rests his battered body on the cot, she kicks back at the well-worn table every night cycle, sprawled across the bench seat with a flimsy pillow beneath her helmeted head. This way she can keep the stowaway within her line of sight. Once his intimidating nature is overlooked, he is surprisingly amicable and seems rather appreciative of all her efforts. He hasn't tried to attack her, or otherwise threaten her person, which she takes as a sign he'd heard and accepted her deal before passing out on that very first day. In fact, he only ever deliberately menaces her when standing over her shoulder, or appearing out of nowhere. Or when he belligerently thumps his fist over wall panels to deactivate overhead lights he finds irksome.

Hatchet, though she herself is nameless to an extent, finds his lack of proffered identity a little frazzling. Though she's come to accept his presence as a whole, it would make her a lot more comfortable if she had a name and background to put to the face. Which brings her to the locked cockpit, wherein she works tediously to repair the screen and scanning mechanism in her helmet. With her tongue poked out from between her lips and one boot up on the console, she takes the helm apart and repairs it with a notable proficiency, then puts it all back together again. The screen automatically powers on when she activates the airlock seal, illuminating her field of view with digital notifications and vital statuses.

She catches him unaware, aiming her visor at him for long enough to scan his facial features and biometrics. Identification data scrawls across the screen before her eyes, her blood pressure spikes. Under the guise of piloting the ship, she locks herself in the cockpit again and feverishly scrolls through mugshots and bounty reward data.

Holy shit. She's been harboring the infamous convict Richard B. Riddick.

Her jaw clenches, muscle twitching against the interior padding of the helmet as she absorbs the newfound information. She should've known. She should have known. Those eyes— she'd heard the merc legends about those eyes.

But fuck... for a guy who'd spent half his life in the slam, he's certainly been affable within these restrictive quarters, mingling with a complete stranger, no less. It's hard to reconcile what she reads on the screen with the man she's been interacting with for the past few artificial cycles. She yanks the helmet from over her head, roughly scrubbing her palms over her face.

When she returns from the cockpit, nerves gathered to the extent they can be, she finds the man halfway through shaving his tan scalp. She stands at the mouth of the living area, the girth of her armor nearly taking up the entire doorframe. Richard B. Riddick, her reserved and shockingly mannered stowaway, sits at the metal table with a compact mirror and razor— a feeble weapon which she now knows could be used against her in all sorts of ways if she were to get on his bad side. Does he even have a good side to be on? She hopes he does, and hopes she's on it. Largely without thinking, one of her hands flutters up to her touch throat as images of it being brutally slit flicker through her mind.

She sits down across from him, folding her hands on the tabletop. He doesn't pause his grooming, doesn't even glance up. His eyeshine remains trained on the little mirror as he meticulously scrapes the stubble from his head with help from what looks like motor gel, no doubt nicked from the cargo bay below. Hatchet purses her mouth into a nervous line beneath the safety of her helm. She can't help but silently observe the flex of his muscles as he moves, every innocuous gesture striking a flustered chord within her. She swallows against the tightness constricting her throat.

"How are you feeling?" She hopes the modulator eliminates the shakiness she feels in her voice.

Logically, she has nothing to be afraid of. Unless this guy is prone to switching demeanor on a dime—which she has no reason to believe he does, based on what she's seen so far—why wouldn't this passive companionship continue? If anything, Hatchet is more afraid of how he will react to knowing she knows his identity now. Either he's been assuming she has known this entire time and just doesn't care, or knows she's been blissfully ignorant and has taken advantage of the anonymity.

He finally spares a glance at her across the table. His jaw visibly twitches, then one corner of his mouth quirks upward. He returns to shaving his head.

"Better. Thanks." He sniffs, sounding indifferent.

"You... uh. Want anything to eat?"

"Naw."

Hatchet exhales, both relieved and oddly disappointed. The storage compartment for the MREs is right beside him, meaning she would've had to stand right over him to retrieve anything.

"You got any goggles laying around?" His deep voice brings her out of her mind. "Been looking but..." he sucks his teeth.

Her brows raise confoundedly. "Goggles?"

"Yeah, you know. Goggles."

Fuck, he must think she's an idiot. She fumbles for words. "Uh. I'm not sure, probably not. I usually just wear the helmet when I need to shield my eyes. Why do you need them?"

He snaps the compact mirror shut and sets down the razor, using the bloody tank he's arrived in to wipe the remaining gel from his scalp. It looks like he'd shaved his beard recently, too, if the dark shadow on his jaw has anything to say about it. Setting the tank down, no more than a scrap rag at this point, he inhales deeply and briefly sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip. Hatchet bites her cheek hard enough for it to hurt, deliberately keeping her gaze from his mouth.

"I wouldn't need them if you didn't keep turning on all the lights," he replies. A hint of dry amusement hides within his flat tone.

"I wouldn't have to turn on the lights if you didn't hide in the shadows all the time," she retaliates. Riddick chuckles like deep, rolling thunder. Hatchet's pulse jumps; fear, arousal. "I'll keep it in mind not to turn them all on. I know your eyes are sensitive to light," she continues.

He suddenly pins her with a suspicious, scrupulous glare. She realizes her mistake and backtracks, sweating bullets beneath her armor.

"I mean, you squint a lot. And you make your way around in the dark better than in the light. I shouldn't have assumed." She's babbling. She can't keep a lid on it.

If he suspects what she knows, he doesn't let on. He cocks his head to the side, eyes glimmering as they trace the contours of her hefty armor. His gaze stops on her visor, right where her eyes should be. Somehow, she feels like they're making direct eye contact.

A questioning smile graces his handsome face. "Do you ever take that damn helmet off? Or do you live in the thing."

Hatchet's face falls beneath the shield of the visor. Her pulse thumps in her throat; a part of her thinks he can sense it. Her demeanor becomes prickly, unchecked. "Why do you care? You're a stowaway on my ship— what is it your business how I eat, sleep, shit—"

"Fuck?" He raises a thin brow, tickled by his own addendum. Meanwhile, Hatchet flushes a fiery shade of red beneath the helm in question. Then, he huffs a short little laugh— more a harsh exhale than anything. "I have to say, your little getup had me convinced at first. But, I know you ain't a man."

Hatchet's heart skips a beat. She disguises her anxiety with derision. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest, sweetheart." A white canine glints when he flashes that oddly charming smile.

That combination—a quaint pet name and that devastating smile—has her feeling lightheaded and confined within her suit. Her hands slip from the tabletop to clench into fists in her lap. He appears upsettingly smug about his little revelation.

"How'd you figure it out?"

His nostrils flare; he takes a deep breath. "Thought I smelled a woman my first night in the bunk. My nose was all fucked up, but... eventually I figured out that sweet smell was coming from you and not some phantom scent hanging around. I give you credit, you had me going for a little while."

Her brow twinges. What a strange man.

She's faced with an internal conflict. She could deny the accusation, but something tells her that won't work in the slightest. She could keep the helmet  and armor on until they part ways, but really what's the point, seeing as he already knows she's a woman; he looks strong enough to pry the armor right off her body anyway. The most logical choice she can make is to take the discovery in stride and go back to living comfortably, with the addition of a slightly threatening guest who does one-armed push-ups in the hallway and lurks around dark corners. The jig is up. He's just that good. Her choice is practically made up for her.

Hatchet's hands raise, slow and tentative, and she maintains what feels a lot like eye contact with Riddick. Her gloved thumbs hook up under the seal, disabling the airlock and visor screen. Air hisses out from the seam at her throat, loosening the helmet's grip on her head. Somewhat dubiously, she lifts the burdensome metal and glass dome from over her head. It comes to rest in her lap as she shakes out her sweat-dampened hair and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

They look at each other's faces for the first time, unencumbered. The visor distorts perception a tiny bit, so it's almost like seeing him for the first time. A permeable scent of sweat and metal lingers between the both of them, despite both having showered recently in the ship's minuscule wash room. She can also smell the motor gel he'd used to shave his head (so strange— must be a leftover trick from the slam, she thinks). The woman is overcome with a bout of anxiety and shyness upon revealing her true face, and flushes under his heavy gaze. She resists the submissive urge to tuck her chin to her chest and avert real eye contact.

"Well... I guess you know who I am, now." She clears her throat; she hasn't heard her unfiltered voice in ages. Her jig may be up— but she still has something of a trump card on him, too. Sure, he might kill her for it, but this entire conversation is toeing the line of life-threatening risk to begin with. She musters courage to utter her next words; "Just like... how I know who you are now, Richard B. Riddick. Thought I wouldn't do a facial recognition scan?"

Hatchet squares her shoulders and raises her chin by a fraction, feigning confidence. He can probably smell her fear. The man inclines his head, brows raised as a chuckle rolls in like a storm. He almost looks impressed with her mediocre detective work.

He smiles that wolfish smile, showing teeth and smile lines. "So, you think you know who I am now, huh? You afraid of the big bad monster now?"

One corner of Hatchet's mouth quirks downward. "Should I be?"

"If you're smart you would be." He levels her stare with that inhuman eyeshine.

"I only fear true monsters. Men who kill for pleasure and nothing more. I read the files on you. You don't kill unarmed women— children. You don't rape them."

It isn't phrased as a question, but he replies regardless; "Naw."

It's actually kind of relieving that he looks a bit offended by the idea. "Then you aren't a true monster. You do what you have to to survive. We all do out here. I can't fault you for killing people trying to kill you. I won't fault you for anything you had to do in the slam."

There's more she would like to say—to tell him he'd been dealt a really shitty hand—but that feels too intrusive for the context of their relationship. She doesn't want to risk angering him by coming off as pitying.

Riddick narrows his naturally suspicious gaze at the woman. He doesn't touch her previous soapbox comment. "So... that mean you're gonna try to turn me in for a payday?"

"Fucking— Jesus, dude," she guffaws incredulously. "Why the fuck would I turn you in after I did so much to save your ass? You're worth more dead than alive, you know. If I wanted to, I could've."

The big man shrugs. "Who knows. Every other merc would."

"Well I'm not every other merc, am I?" She leans back, crossing her arms over her chestplate.

"Naw, definitely not."

If she'd been any less observant, she may have missed the glimmer of flirtation in his tone and demeanor— in his eyeshine. Stifling heat rises like a kettle boiling, tinting her face a noticeable hue. She can only hope she looks disheveled and sweaty enough for it to pass as an exacerbated flush. Abruptly, she stands from the table, wringing her hands in an uncontrollable combination of nerves and bashfulness. The helmet is dumped onto the tabletop, rolling towards the seated man.

"I'll uh—" Her voice cracks; she clears her throat. "I'll look for those goggles for you."

"Good talk," he calls after her as she hastily turns on her heel.

She pauses her stride, mind running a mile a minute to find a way to gain some sort of traction and authority amidst this interaction. She shifts halfway to turn back and face him.

"Hm. Yes, good talk... Richard."

His uproarious laughter follows her down into the cargo bay where she quickly disappears.

———————————————————————

Riddick is both a complicated human and a very simple man. On one hand, a selfish part of him wants nothing more than to take control of this cramped little vessel and fly it fuck-knows where. It's clear to him that this ship and its pilot are a package deal, which brings him to a sort of moral crossroads. On the other hand, this woman—this merc—has been undeservingly kind to him, more so than anyone he can remember. She has a point, too. He'd been dangerously incapacitated for a short while, in which time she could have easily gone and ghosted him or handed him over to some other scummy mercs. But she hadn't. This lone woman, mistrustful enough of others to go so far as to masquerade as a man, had saved his hide and given him shelter and transport, all out of the kindness of her heart. She isn't threatening or outwardly malicious; he doesn't know how the hell she's survived this long out here. Perhaps her assumed persona has gotten her this far after all, amongst the masses less perceptive than himself.

Fuck. Merc or not, he can't just ghost her now.

And besides— he's a man, and she's a woman. Simple as that.

Even suited up to the jaw in armor and reeking of sweat, her newly revealed face stirs something all-too familiar within him. Hell, her scent alone is enough to get him off. Riddick doesn't even have to know what the rest of her looks like to know he wants to fuck her. And she doesn't seem all too averse to the idea of him, either, based on the subtle changes observable in her posture and scent. His senses are too keen to miss the physical and vocal cues she tries so hard to hide with that modulator and beneath the suit of armor. He knows hot and bothered when he sees it; and it's a fucking ego-boost.

After their little conversation, she'd grown more comfortable— if that's the appropriate word for the scenario. He'd revealed her identity and she responded by completely forgoing the suit of armor. Not that he's curious or anything, but he finds himself asking more about her. She shares that she is called "Hatchet," which he thinks is a little entertaining given her rather docile nature. He also learns that she's been in the mercenary business since her early teenage years, which almost always spells trouble for young women— hence why she'd taken up the persona of a more masculine, faceless merc, rather than be perceived as lesser-than by her professional peers. She's funny too, he pleasantly discovers, when not restrained by that helmet.

He's surprised when she comes up to him a few cycles following their conversation. She's dressed in a tank like his (which he realizes is hers) and a mechanic's jumpsuit, the top of which rests tied around her supple hips. He eyes up her body with a brashness that usually intimidates even the most battle hardened of men. She doesn't even flinch— she grows shy, instead. He stands by his previous statement in which he'd wanted to fuck her without knowing what her body looked like, but he's certainly not complaining now in getting to see her without the bully armor to conceal her curves and soft shape. Even the light musculature of her arms and width of her shoulders is hot.

She holds something as she approaches from the cargo bay ladder, and he quickly deduces it is non-threatening. She sidles up to the table where he has been parking himself at more frequently lately. She wears a sweet expression halfway between anticipatory and nervous— not much different than usual.

"Hey, dollface," Riddick greets.

He cocks his head to the side as he looks up at her, observing her through the purplish hue of his shine-job eyes. He quickly discovered that playfully teasing the young woman almost always earns a flurry of entertaining responses; namely flustered yammering and a red flush which trails all the way down to her full breasts. The pet names come easily, oddly enough. She blushes as expected and leans a hip against the table edge. While toying with the object in her hands, she glances between it and him.

"I uh. I found a pair of goggles, since you'd been asking."

She holds her flat palm out towards him, displaying a set of simple black welding goggles. They're essentially like the pairs he usually sports: midsized circular lenses, held in place by a thick plastic compound. Riddick takes the proffered eyewear and tests the weight in his own palm. The strap is a fabric material rather than a continuation of the flexible plastic, but still appears sturdy. He pulls them over his head, lowering the lenses over his eyes. They block out the Iight sufficiently, subduing the vibrant hue of his altered vision.

He scans the woman through the shades, smiling appreciatively. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're a real peach."

Hatchet releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, sure. No problem... Richard."

She doesn't use fluffy little names on him like he's begun doing for her. When she does refer to him, she only calls him by his first name. Which, given the fact virtually no one else does, feels like a more powerful naming. It's humanization in its rawest form. She shifts to sit down across from him. Neither of them can ignore the way their ankles tangle together beneath the table, hefty boots knocking into one another. Riddick watches her throat bob as she swallows. He raises the goggles and leaves them perched on his knit brow.

"Okay, so, I've been thinking," she begins, somewhat hesitantly. "Here's the deal— I'll take you wherever you want to go, so long as you don't, you know, kill me in my sleep and steal my ride or something. I think that's only fair since I didn't do the same to you when you were incapacitated. Also, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not gonna tell anyone about this encounter or your whereabouts. If you don't trust my good will, just think how negatively it would affect my life if it got out among the wrong crowd that I've been in cahoots with an escaped convict."

Riddick barks out an abrupt laugh. "In cahoots, huh?"

Hatchet blanches, her jaw opening and shutting several times before she gathers her words. "W-Well, I'm willingly harboring a fugitive, aren't I? I haven't booted you out the airlock yet— so yes, we're in cahoots."

The man's laughter tapers into a light chuckle. He perches his chin on his fist in a way that makes Hatchet tense with bashfulness. A muscle in his thick forearm flexes, drawing her curious eye. Lately, she's been daydreaming about those strapping arms. She's been catching herself daydreaming about the rest of him, as well.

Her eyes dart back to his silvery ones, clearing her throat. "Well, what do you think of my deal?"

Riddick tilts his head, unable to resist smiling. "Sounds good."

The woman blinks at him, big doe eyes wide as she picks apart his reaction. "Ah... uh. Okay, cool." She drums the tabletop with both hands, fidgeting under his heavy stare.

She pushes to her feet suddenly, and Riddick launches up after her. Instantly he crowds her in the tight space, his large frame taking up a majority of her vision. She startles, automatically pressing her hands flat to his built chest. This draws a rumbling chuckle from him as he gazes down at the flustered woman.

Hatchet's heart rate quickens, the muscle thumping wildly in her chest. That pulse begins its mortifying throb between her thighs, too— a desperate, hot desire which boils up without her expressed permission. It's not an entirely unwelcome feeling, but it's certainly indicative of her poor self-control given the situation. She has no clue if this dangerous convict is about to crush her head like a clump of dirt, or if he's going to make a move on her. Those are the only two explanations for his startling proximity to her.

Nervously, her eyes raise to meet his. She finds his head bowed towards her.

"Uh."

"Why don't you ever sleep in your bunk?" he asks, derailing her frazzled train of thought. "Don't you need your beauty rest, sweetheart?"

"O-Oh? Where are you supposed to go if I take back my bunk?"

He hums and sways his shaven head. "We can share."

Brain unable to catch up with what he's offering, she defaults to thinking in a blunt, literal sense. "W-We can't both fit. It's too narrow."

He steps forward and she steps back, only to realize he's effectively backed her against a wall. One of his beefy arms rises, forearm and fist resting on the wall beside her head. He leans further into her space, smiling as he takes a deep breath of her scent. Fuzzy butterflies explode in her abdomen; she goes weak in the knees.

"Oh really? 'Cuz I got a few positions in mind that we can fit into," he purrs. Hatchet lets out a surprised little noise and he ducks closer. "Aw, don't get all shy on me now, babygirl."

"I'm— I—" she stammers.

Her eyes flick between his own and his lips. That now-familiar eyeshine glimmers with heated desire as he carefully observes her. He leans in real slow— torturously slow. The tip of his nose brushes against hers and she shudders. Riddick's breath is hot as is fans across her face. She finds herself panting heavy through parted lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his steady one. Her chin ducks low, shyly averting his advance to where he has to chase her lips.

His full lips are shockingly soft when they do finally graze hers— his mouth gentle and curious at first while he tentatively pecks her. The few kisses he lavishes upon her lips are short and teasing, serving only to rile her up further. The heartbeat at her core prompts her thighs to clench; the action doesn't go unnoticed. One of his broad hands clamps over her upper arm, effectively pinning her in place against the wall. The shared kiss grows more frenetic with each passing second. His other hand slides rather possessively up the length of her back, coming to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. He uses it as leverage to tilt her head back— a move which earns a quiet gasp and unintentional whimper through her parted lips. With a small self-satisfied grin, Riddick takes the invitation to claim her open mouth, exploring teeth and tongue with his own.  

Hatchet can barely catch her breath— especially not when Riddick slips his tongue past her lips. The pulse between her thighs grows increasingly unbearable and she squirms desperately in his tight hold. That hand holding her arm in a vise grip shifts instead to press against her shoulder blade, pinning her to his broad chest. Her own hands find the courage to come up, fingers taking liberty to slip beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. His tanned skin is warm and pulled taut over an ample amount of muscle. Her hands are cold—they always are while in space—which results in a string of tangible shivers as she drags her fingers up his sides. The thin fabric of the grey tank bunches up around her wrists as her hands continue their exploration upward. Her right hand is careful to avoid irritating the stitched wound over his left-side ribs. Instead it glides to his smooth chest, squeezing a generous handful of his pec.

He chuckles into her mouth and she swallows the deep noise with fervor. Without warning, he crouches and drops his large hands to her ass, hoisting her up with ease. Her legs clamp around his waist on instinct, canting her hips to shamelessly grind her throbbing core against his hard stomach. Her hands continue to grope his muscled chest and arms, appreciative of his powerful physique. All the while, mouths slot together in feverish kisses.

Riddick pivots on his heel and effortlessly pitches forward at the waist, dropping the woman clinging to him down onto the cot. There's little give to the canvas fabric bunk, but it's certainly more comfortable than a metal tabletop. Not that Riddick particularly cares; he's already swimming in visions of bending her over the table, anyway. Only when he deposits her on the bunk and crouches over her does Hatchet release him from her clinging grasp. Her hands barely leave his chest long enough to yank the tank up over his head, relying on his aptitude to fully rid himself of the thing while she continues her impromptu anatomy lesson. While she latches her mouth onto the pulse point of his throat, he plucks the goggles from his brow and flings them aside. They clatter down somewhere unimportant.

Wordlessly, there lingers between them a mutual agreement that this is consensual. This is needed. This has been building up for a while now.

Riddick's broad hands engulf Hatchet's soft waist, squeezing her affectionately. His fingers push upward, skirting along the hem of her own shirt. She parts her mouth from his neck only long enough to allow him to tug the garment up over her head, hastily followed by the discarding of her sports bra, too. His palms are rough with calluses against her sensitive flesh, and unrelenting when they come up to squeeze her bared breasts. The topless woman licks up the column of his throat to just below his right ear, tasting sweat and skin as she suckles the sweet spot. Her fingers dig into his biceps, keeping him in place as she straddles him. She smiles against his hot skin when he groans. His weathered hands explore her torso, sliding from her chest to her back, then down to grasp her waist tightly.

"Fuck, come on," Riddick grunts into her hair. His hands slip lower to her ass, yanking impatiently at the fabric of her jumpsuit bottoms. "Pants."

It takes no effort for him to lift and flip her onto her back again, taking pride in the surprised expression she wears. Her limbs and eyelids feel heavy as she undoes the tied sleeves around her hips, helping him shuffle off her slate grey jumpsuit. She doesn't even realize he's also slipped off her underwear until she feels the cool air of the ship against her bare core. Fuck, all her constant worrying over her appearance, and in the moment she isn't even concerned. She just needs to feel good with him.

Despite this minor revelation, Hatchet briefly feels a tad in over her head as the burly man holds her down by the hips and leans over her. He eclipses the dim overhead light, his eyes shining magnificently. Those nocturnal eyes are growing on her at a frightening rate.

"Richard," she whispers. One hand reaches up to touch his face, petting his cheek before skating over the stubbly crown of his head. "Fuck, Rich."

He drops his head and growls against her hot, bare skin. The sound rumbles beneath her palm where it presses over his heart. That's a new one— Rich. He's never been called that before. He doesn’t dislike it, mainly because it comes from her.

Riddick leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck and across her chest. His fingers press into her supple flesh of her hips hard enough for it to dimple under the force. He continues downward, laving his hot tongue over her pebbled nipples, teasing his teeth against her delicate skin. With her head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, she remains ignorant to the garland of lovebites he leaves across her skin, decorating her chest with the constellations of the open universe. His lips follow the line of fine hair down the middle of her stomach, until finally stopping just above the curly thatch at her mons. He shifts his attention, choosing to nip at the skin of her inner thighs. He kneels on the floor and roughly yanks her to the end of the cot for better leverage, earning a surprised yelp from the woman. In the same moment, he tucks his thumbs around the underside of her knees and hoists her legs over his broad shoulders. Her ankles automatically lock overtop his shoulder blades.

Hatchet shudders with delicious anticipation. Her big eyes shoot open and head cranes, meeting his silver gaze from where he has positioned himself between her thick thighs. Without much civility or warning, the man stuffs his shaven head into the tight crevice of her thighs. She is suddenly relieved that he'd taken the bandage off his nose almost immediately after gathering his bearings all those days ago, because now he puts the prominent feature to good use against her swollen clit.

A wanton moan claws out from Hatchet's throat as she throws her head back against the rigid cot. Riddick's breath is hot against her cunt, tongue skilled as he works it into her most sensitive area. Two fingers pry her labia apart to get at a more effective angle. Her hands dart to clamp down on either side of his head, her nails digging crescents into his nude scalp. Panting and squirming, she uses her iron grip on his head to grind up against his big nose. He groans low against her core, the vibrations on his tongue adding to her pleasure. Her thighs squeeze against his flushed ears, and for a moment the thought she may suffocate him flashes through her mind. That worry is ejected out into space when his tanned hands come around to grip her where her thighs meet her hips, dragging her even more securely against him.

Her eyes roll back, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms as Riddick brings her increasingly closer to her peak. His nose is replaced by a skillful thumb, rubbing firm circles around her clit. He continues lapping at her cunt, groaning and taking intermittent gasps for air. Just as she feels that hot coil tightening in her lower abdomen, sees white light flickering beneath her lids, he does the unthinkable. He pulls away. Hatchet whines at the sudden neglect and desperately claws at his head in an attempt for him to continue, leaving red stripes on his stubbly scalp.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asks lowly, smugness dripping from his tongue. That isn't the only thing dripping from his tongue; his nose, mouth, and chin are coated in her arousal.

Hatchet laughs breathlessly. "Fuck off."

She welcomes him with open arms when he crawls up over her again, accepting his lips as he presses down to kiss her. She can taste her own wetness on his mouth, but is largely distracted by his hips slotting between hers and grinding down.

He pulls back for a moment, leveling her with an entertained but mildly miffed eyebrow raise. "You got protection?"

Hatchet has to take a moment to catch her breath in order to answer. "Don't worry, I got that fancy implant. Unless you're riddled with some horrible penitentiary disease?" She smiles brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with playfulness.

Her hands cup his face when he returns a dazzling smile. "Me? Who do you take me for? A convict?"

She curls against him when he ducks his face to the crook of her neck, warm and blushing as they both laugh. Unabashed, laughing together. It feels bizarrely intimate, and so completely foreign to the both of them. When the brief chuckles taper off and the weight of the scenario sinks back in, Hatchet wriggles her hips against his, attempting to stimulate some friction. The rough fabric of his cargo pants sparks a little something, but nothing spectacular. Catching on to her renewed desperation, Riddick presses weight against her hips, teasing her with his clothed erection. She mewls softly, grinding up against him.

A calloused hand slides up the length of her body to her neck, first two fingers and thumb pressing lightly against either pulse-point. He squeezes just hard enough for her to squirm with an intoxicating faintness, but light enough for it not to harm her. She swallows hard, feeling the pressure of his palm against her larynx. It would be child's play for him to fully wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze the life out of her. This flirtation with death is not only exhilarating, but it's something she'd never considered as enjoyable before now.

She's too busy with panting against the hand around her throat to realize he'd slipped his other one down towards the apex of her thighs. That is, not until there comes a delicious and unexpected pressure against her swollen clit. She jolts from the sudden stimulation. The moan that slips unbidden from her lips is loud and breathy, and she arches up into his devilish touch. His thumb rubs concentrated circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the middle finger sliding lower to tease her slit. Meanwhile, he drops his head to press against her temple, lips leaving sloppy kisses on her cheek.

Riddick groans, rutting against her soft thigh. He drags his lips against her cheek, bottom teeth scraping her skin. A tingly shudder ripples through her body.

"You want it, babygirl?" he growls in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

Hatchet whines when his thick finger breaches her entrance, sliding in easily with the wetness of her arousal. Her toes curl and back arches when that searching finger strokes that hidden sweet spot, her entire body overcome with a delicious shudder.

"Fuck," she pants, "Please. I want it."

The hand at her throat inches upward to clasp her jaw, angling her head for him to effectively whisper in her ear. "Want what, sweetheart? Use your words."

Another finger is stuffed into her pussy; she pants and squeezes around them. An embarrassed flush heats her chest and face at being made to speak her desire aloud. In some little act of defiance, she merely continues huffing and rutting against his hand. Punishment for her disobedience comes swift however, arriving in the form of the ceased stimulation. Riddick sucks his teeth and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"So stubborn," he tsks.

Fuck— that rich, buttery voice sends a desperate throb straight to her neglected clit. She sobs out a pathetic whine, making a futile attempt to force his hand to continue its work.

"Please. Okay, okay. Please, please. I want you, I need you. Fuck me, please, Richard," she begs, voice coming out ragged.

He brings his lips to the corner of her mouth and smiles into the kiss he places there. "Good girl," he purrs.

Hatchet squirms under him, clit pulsing with an immediate flush of blood at the praise. "Say that again," she pants, sliding her hand over the back of his thick neck. "Please, please, Rich. Say that again. I'm— Hah."

She can feel the fond chuckle under her palm as it rumbles in his chest. He wrestles with the button and zipper of his cargo pants while keeping himself aloft with one arm. "My girl. Good girl."

Each kiss steals her breath away, dizzying her with butterflies and anticipation. It takes a hurried moment of effort, but Riddick manages to shuck his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. Perched on his knees between the woman's spread thighs, he greedily admires the sight of her laid out before him. There's something particularly special about this woman. She's managed to weasel her way into his frigid heart, and he can't find it in himself to complain. She's sweet, and kind, and sure fucking hot. She too watches him greedily as muscles flex in his arms. He plants his hands on her bent knees, dragging them down the length of her soft thighs. Fingers sink into the fat of her hips, dragging her closer.

One glance at his proud erection is enough to draw a flustered whimper from Hatchet's lips; his dick is thick, befitting of the rest of him. She thrusts an arm up over her face, if only to hide the embarrassed blush which splotches her skin. The big man lowers himself over her once more and gently pushes her arm away, murmuring about her shyness. The weight of his cock resting on her belly makes her squirm, which he seems to enjoy greatly, much to her impatient desperation. He slots his plush lips with hers while his left hand slips around her right thigh, encouraging it up. Her knee brushes the bruised wound over his ribs, but he doesn't seem to care all that much as he pins the long limb tightly against him.

In the space between them, he fists his dick and pumps once, twice. He holds Hatchet's lidded gaze with those intense eyes of his, drinking in the dazed sight of her. He drags the cockhead through the wetness of her arousal, teasing her swollen clit before aligning himself properly. His throaty groan mingles with her gasped noises as he slowly presses into her, sheathing himself within her hot cunt. It's a snug fit, lax as she may be. He bottoms out painfully slow, taking his sweet time in stuffing her full of himself. That hand returns to her throat and gently squeezes while he holds himself aloft with the other arm.

Hatchet sucks her teeth against the slight sting of his size. The discomfort quickly fades into a satisfyingly tense pressure once Riddick gets a steady rhythm going. With her leg hiked up over his side, he continually pulls out almost all the way before plunging back into her, driving her down into the stiff cot with each powerful thrust. She shudders with each drag of his thick cock against her inner walls— with every gentle squeeze of his broad hand around her throat.

"Fuck, babygirl. You feel good," he grunts out. "Such a good girl for me. Real pretty." Riddick groans through clenched teeth when her cunt spasms particularly hard around him. His words are like a match to her gasoline.

The hand at her throat shifts away in an attempt to touch as much of her skin as possible— caressing her breast, tangling in her hair, touching her lips, squeezing her waist and hip. It's almost like a compulsion to feel every part of her warm body, to get lost in her skin and pretty noises. Hatchet's hands perform their own exploration; she can't get enough of wrapping her fingers around his biceps and broad shoulders, her breath panting hard against his collarbones as she clings to him. The middle two fingers of his wandering hand come down on her clit again, sparking electric spasms throughout her writhing body. Those fingers rub circles against her sensitive bud, and every so often slip lower to stroke around the spot where they join together.

An especially rough drag and thrust has the tip of cock kissing that sweet spot within her. She cries out and he repeats the motion with an exact precision. He continues hammering into her at that perfect angle, grunting and shuddering with each of her clenches and moans. Light blooms beneath Hatchet's eyelids, that hot pressure coiling up in her belly once more. The combination of internal and external stimulation is enough for her to see stars and arch into the man like her life depends on it.

Nearly animalistic in his frenzy, Riddick can't control himself when his teeth sink into the woman's shoulder. It feels right.

Hatchet cries out at the sharp feeling of his bite, shock mixing with odd delight. He doesn't use enough force to break the skin, but his teeth leave a sting nonetheless. In retaliation, her nails sink into his muscular back and drag downward to his sides, leaving crisscrossing stripes across his tan skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes that she may have torn one of his stitches, but he doesn't make any indication of it bothering him. That delicious tension deep in her belly increases almost unbearably; she bucks up into his fingers on her clit, grinding against the hilt of his cock stuffed in her. His mouth latches onto the slope of her neck and bites again, licking the minimal damage each time he retracts his pearly teeth.

Her orgasm comes suddenly, like fireworks. She spasms around him as she comes, back arching up against his hard front as she cries out. Riddick continues pounding into her— continues rubbing her clit through her shuddering orgasm. The sounds of their sex seem awfully loud in the quiet confines of her small ship.

"There we go. Good girl," he murmurs into her throat.

He pushes up on his supporting arm, putting a bit of space between himself and the spent woman. She twitches and pants beneath him, cunt contracting around his continued thrusts. Her nails haven't yet retracted from his sides, clinging as though grasping for purchase. Riddick sits upright with her legs slung around his hips. One hand wipes over his head to clear away beads of sweat, before both come down to clutch her hips.

"Fuck... Where do you want it, sweetheart?" He punctuates with a harsh snap of his hips, plunging deep into her.

Hatchet's wrists demurely cross above her head. Her breaths come in short, exhausted puffs as she wriggles against him. Overstimulation is beginning to fray at her edges, but the feeling of being so full of him overrides the discomfort. She can barely think straight enough to give him a proper response— fucked thoroughly out of her mind.

"Richard—" She groans low in her throat. He's practically rearranging her guts. Tears prick at her eyes. "Fuck. Inside. Please, just— ugh, inside."

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Sounds good to me, baby." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know the smug, cocky, sexy bastard is grinning. "Nngh, fuck."

Riddick's head tilts back, shuddering violently. He groans loud and holds her steady with his fingers dug into her hips. She feels his hot release spill into her, coating her insides as he ceases his relentless pounding. She's overly sensitive from the intensity of her own orgasm, so his sudden stillness comes as a relief for her tender parts. His chest heaves, fingers twitching.

After an extended moment of basking in the bliss of his finish, Riddick slumps forward. While he's careful not to crush the woman, he does rest a bit of his weight atop her. Sweat-slicked skin meets sweat-slicked skin as they recover together, lounging in the afterglow. He remains partially sheathed within her, allowing a minimal amount of his seed to trickle out around his length.

Amidst tenderly petting Riddick's back, Hatchet nearly gets lost to the grips of sleep. That is, at least until his rumbling voice stirs her again.

"I think you needed that." He noses her throat, inhaling deeply. She cants her hips without thinking, then grunts softly at the feeling of him still buried within her.

"Oh?" she chuckles quietly, "Is that right?"

She smoothes her palm over the back of his head, then traces her fingertips up and down his neck and shoulders. He hums against her clammy, flushed skin. Sentimentally isn't even remotely his forte, but this intimacy feels surprisingly good. Odd and unfamiliar, but pleasant. He feels safe to relax in her hold, resting a little bit more of his weight against her capable form.

"Yep. You're a little uptight."

Briefly pressing his lips to the bite-shaped bruises on her shoulder, he lifts his head. She cracks an eye open to peer at him, then sighs wistfully. He really does have a beautiful face. She caresses his cheek.

"And hey, would you look at that. We fit." He grins wide and smug and raises a brow, referring back to the conversation which started this whole affair.

Hatchet drops her head to the cot and closes her eyes again, laughing heartily. "Fuck you, Richard."

[morganaspendragonss]

a worry that i can't place

happy holidays vera (@lutavero)!!! here is your secret santa gift, i hope you like it! i chose to focus on the superhero and fluff with established relationship prompts. sending you so much love and all the best for now and the new year! 💚💚💚

also please send me your ao3 if you have one i forgot to ask sorryyyyy

ao3 | 1.4k | au based in canon, canon-typical injury, remember that time buck got struck by lightning in 911?

title from ease my mind by ben platt

“TK! TK! Firefighter Strand, do you copy?”

“I haven’t got a pulse!”

“Do better!”

*

Carlos had grown used, over the years, to the bruises and scratches that appeared on TK’s skin every now and then. He was used to the blowing in and out, the late nights and early mornings, the unpredictability of their lives. It was all part and parcel of being married to an international superhero.

Or, officially, ex-international superhero. As far as everyone else was concerned, The Flash had gone offline years ago and conspiracy theories were left swirling in his wake; some claimed he’d died, others that he was in witness protection, others still that he was being hunted and so had to keep a low profile. 

Carlos knew the truth: that TK had been suffering in New York under the constant pressure of being the city’s salvation. There’s a longer story there, too, one that he’s not quite managed to draw out in its entirety, but he’s aware of the heartbreaking gist.

(“My dad found me,” TK told him one night, about a year into their relationship. “Drink and drugs don’t touch me anymore, they haven’t since… Anyway, they didn’t work so I went looking for trouble.

“I found it.”)

He can read well enough between the lines of nuclear breakup and everything’s just grey to figure out what TK meant.

But, TK had confessed, as much as he had wanted to get away from the spotlight, he was never going to be able to give it up entirely. He still had to do something with this power he’d been given.

So Carlos knows a second truth: that The Flash isn’t really gone. 

He worries, of course he does. It’s impossible not to when your boyfriend-fiancé-husband is off doing god-knows-what – and that’s only when he’s at work. But Carlos grows used to it, stops freaking out at the minor injuries TK sometimes sustains and starts being ready with whatever TK might need, even if it is just a warm bed to climb into and a husband to hold.

But there’s something – it got lost between Iris and the wedding and his father and work and and and, but Carlos remembers – that keeps bothering him, that’s made his fear increase of late. 

He’s anxious enough anyway, given what TK’s been through just at work, but…

“Babe?” 

TK rouses from his position on his lap, blinking sleepily up at Carlos. He’d got off shift a couple of hours prior and they’d not long had dinner; TK tends to go out like a light pretty quickly after being fed. Carlos feels bad for disturbing him now, but he has to know.

“What did you mean, three comas?”

TK’s brow scrunches up adorably in confusion. “Huh?”

“When Iris was here,” he clarifies. “You said you’d been in three comas, but only two since you came to Austin. I know about those two, but you’ve never told me about the third. Or…first, I guess.”

“Oh.” TK pats at Carlos’s arm to be let up, and once he’s sitting, he throws Carlos a wry grin. “I thought I’d gotten away with that one. Nice recall, Detective.”

“Still not a detective,” Carlos corrects mildly, but – not the point. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, TK. I guess… I worry about you when you’re out there. On the job you have people to back you up and you still got hurt enough to end up in a coma. Twice. You don’t have that the other times. I just want to know that you’re safe.”

TK smiles and leans in to kiss his cheeks. “You’re sweet,” he says. “And you already know I save the most dangerous stuff for work. But if you’re asking if the first coma was anything to do with The Flash…” He trails off and waits. Carlos nods, biting his lip. “Then yes.”

A trembling sigh leaves Carlos, but he doesn’t have time to ask further before TK speaks again.

“And no.”

Carlos sends TK a look his husband smiles, though it’s not quite as bright as usual. There’s something sad in it, something that speaks to a thousand memories, and he turns his gaze to his hand. Carlos follows it, and has to swallow a surprised sound when he spots a thin line of electricity crackle between TK’s fingers. 

He knows exactly how TK carries that electricity with him everyday, felt it the first time they’d touched in the honky tonk. He thought he’d been imagining it at the time, but… Well.

“Do you remember when I told you who I am?”

Carlos nods. “Sure.”

(Just a couple months into their relationship, it was one of their worst fights to date. It almost broke them; probably would have if TK hadn’t shown up on his doorstep hours later, vibrating with nerves until he seemed blurred around the edges – which, Carlos realised later, he was.

TK sat him down, remaining standing himself, and told him this: that, fresh out of rehab, he’d been struck by lightning; that it had given him superhuman powers; that he was the fastest man alive, the man the whole world knew as The Flash.

That his ex-boyfriend had never known the truth, that it had been one of the reasons they fell apart so spectacularly, that he didn’t want the same thing to happen to them but he would understand – really, he would – if Carlos wanted to walk away.

Staying had been one of the easiest decisions Carlos had ever made, second only to being with TK in the first place.)

“I didn’t… I’ve never told you how I became…this. I didn’t mean to hide it from you – honestly, I don’t remember most of it – but I guess I just thought it didn’t really matter. It happened and I just have to live with it.”

TK looks at him and Carlos nods encouragingly.

“Okay then.”

*

TK had never seen a storm like it. Some billionaire’s science experiment had gone wrong and now the city was having to clean up their mess on top of all the usual calls, and apparently their mess included torrential weather.

So now TK was climbing up the ladder of the truck to an apartment on the eleventh floor where an electrical surge had electrocuted one of the inhabitants. TK loved his job, but at the moment he would rather be anywhere else than out in the freezing cold. It didn’t help that his immune system was still shot and probably would be for the foreseeable.

He reached the top of the ladder and lifted his gloved hand to wipe rainwater out of his eye, useless though the action was. The sky continued thundering above him, lightning flashing every now and then, and the very air felt charged. TK went to grab his radio, managed to press the button and opened his mouth, then–

Nothing.

*

“It wasn’t a normal bolt of lightning,” TK continues. “If it had been, none of this would have happened. I was in cardiac arrest for a long time, then I fell into a coma for eight months. My heart stopped multiple times, I was having seizures, there were…things going on inside me that the doctors couldn’t explain.

“I was a mystery to them. My dad told me after I woke up that one of them had wanted to do a scientific study on me; he shut that one down pretty quick. Nothing the doctors did worked and my parents were getting desperate. So when the guy who built that reactor showed up and told them he could save me, it was kind of a no brainer.

“I don’t know what they did to me, but I eventually woke up and I stayed at his lab for a while, long enough to recover and figure out how to use these powers. They tried to stop me from leaving but I couldn’t… I hated that place. After that…well, you pretty much know the rest.”

TK falls silent and Carlos doesn’t know what to say. The story hasn’t changed anything, has neither alleviated his fears nor worsened them, but at least he knows now, he supposes.

(at least he has one more thing to add to his nightmares)

He doesn’t say anything in the end. He simply draws TK closer, and swears to protect him as best he can.