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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 12 days ago

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Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 14

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Summary: Messmer and the Tarnished use the time to think over what just happened. The Tarnished catches Messmer up on everything she's discovered.

A/N: This chapter is labelled a spicy chapter 🌶️ Warnings for this chapter: making out, slight dry humping, mentions of some sexual content

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Chapter 14: Consolation

There are many things you've come to enjoy about Messmer's chambers: from the plush rugs and silk red and gold trim to the warmth that seems to encapsulate the entire room, it feels to be the warmest part of the Keep. The darkness he lives in has swallowed you entirely, not that you can complain. You feel as if you want to be swallowed by it, taken into its arms and tended to. The warmth of his room feels similar to the bathhouse, and you cannot complain when you have just died.

It is something you crave first when you come back to the living; heat. You can only describe coming back from the dead as waking from being drowned; your lungs burn, skin feels frozen and stiff. The only comfort you can hold is the cloak Messmer offered to you without a second thought. It engulfed you when he placed it around your shoulders, his scent was a familiar smell you felt reassurance from.

You've not once taken your eyes off the flames in the hearth. The warmth that consumes you brings the heat back to your once-cold body. Your limbs begin to feel less rigid by the minute. Despite it all, you have to remind yourself you're still alive, your heart beats once again, and your blood flows throughout your entire body.

You still feel its presence, the press of a blade against your skin, the blood and how it flowed out from your wound, how painful each death grows and seems to draw you further and further away from feeling truly alive.

Dying takes a toll on you, over and over again, but it is rather an acceptance you've grown to live with. You shudder, your hand snaking its way to find comfort in stroking the healed skin of your throat, aware of his eye watching you from the corner of the shadows.

Messmer sits idly, not as close as you wish, but you feel his presence, sulking in the shadows as he does best, occasionally disassociating to stare off into the hearth or keeping his eye on you. He has been silent since you came back, where he brought you to his room "for safety". There is still a threat in the air, you can feel it throughout the entire Keep; how there is a feeling that has grown hostile. Regardless of everything the two of you went through, you want to explain things to him so badly, but you don't even know where to begin.

You know when Messmer wishes to speak when you can see from the corner of your eye him wringing his hands together, collecting the right words and courage to speak.

"Thou must be tired." It is not a question, but rather an observation that comes from the redhead, his voice does not hide how tired he sounds himself. You look away momentarily from the fireplace, catching a glimpse of him, shuffling closer to sit beside you on the floor.

It is not too difficult to not spot him, from his red hair that looks to be flames itself, how vibrant it looks. He is fire-made flesh, and you admit to yourself he looks ethereal. Now that he's closer to you, you feel his mere size, how he almost engulfs you sitting side by side, but it is a comfort you've grown yearned for.

"I think I'm fine," you mutter, though you're not sure if you're saying it to him or yourself. You hope your words can ease the silence of the room, but it still feels strange how all of this is happening. You clench and unclench your fingers, the cold takes forever to thaw from them no matter how close to heat you are. "This is all part of the cycle."

"T shouldn't has't to beest," Messmer's voice is quieter, it draws like a hiss from his lips. They form into a hard line, face scrunched. You glance over at him, eyebrows etched in confusion. He continues, "thee shouldn't has't to endureth yond."

"You'd wish I was dead?" You ask, a jest, but it doesn't lighten the mood. The look Messmer gives you could be a mixture of hurt and a scowl. You can tell he's not taking any of this well. His serpents have coiled into him, enjoying the warmth of the room, making his presence smaller, more gaunt. His skin appears to look brighter in contrast to the light cast from the fires, but you can still look beyond it to see just how done he looks. Without the red of his infamous war cloak, he looks certainly more like royalty than a soldier.

"Nay," he seems genuinely shocked you would ask that, "thee doth not knoweth what I did see."

You feel something lurch within your chest, witnessing his vulnerability. You know he is trying to hide this with a shield but cracks are forming. "Messmer-"

"Thee... died." His voice is a mere whisper, and you notice that on his hands, even in the soft darkness of the room, there is still a tinge of red that stains his skin and his fingernails. It seems this has all taken a toll on him, and he is silently absorbing it all alone.

You can remember it all, through your life slipping through his hands, the way he cradled you to his chest, the way he gave you solace in your dying breaths. The vulnerability you both shared was one you still feel, how his ghostly touches are still felt on your skin, the feel of them stroking your hair out of your face.

You try to console him, "I live now." You try to give him a small smile, but it feels foreign to you to be comforting someone over your death. Tarnished are never mourned, so why does it feel so odd to be given this chance to be grieved finally?

"Thee liveth anon, but what if the next is the lasteth? What then?" Messmer asks, making you think: when could it all be taken away? Could your final moments happen the next time?

It would be poignant if Marika had finally been done with you, tearing her guidance from your body with no final warning. It did make you realise how reckless you'd been. Or perhaps, death hadn't been as frightening as when you knew you would come back? You realised how right Messmer was, how careless you had been this entire time, treating dying to play a roulette game.

He continues, "I feared thee wouldst never awaken. Yond mine own mother's direction hadst died 'alongside thee."

"I'm sorry-- I didn't know-"

"Yond is correct," he raises his voice in a hiss, "thee didn't knoweth. Thy recklessness couldst beest thy downfall, what then shalt those doth if thee art not here?" It's when his golden eye softens, he retreats slightly when he spots how his raised voice has made you noticeably flinch.

He sighs tiredly, averting his gaze. "Forgive me. I has't hath said too much."

"Messmer, wait-" You don't think he'll listen to you, so you do one thing you can think of. Leaning with enough force, you manage to grab his hand before he's too far away. The warmth of his skin is expected, yet it always surprises you just how hot his blood runs with the serpent within. You think he is even warmer than the heat of the flames.

The redhead looks down on you with genuine surprise, his eye watching you warily. "Please, stay."

Messmer's breath catches in his throat, but he relents, sitting back down, a bit closer to you now.

You speak up finally. "I... you are right. I was reckless, childish even. I wasn't thinking." You glance at him quickly, catching his gaze already looking at you. "I had... there was still so much I had to do, to apologise to you, and gods, they kept me up there, locked in my own mind, torturing me so I could not-"

You freeze, realising you had to elaborate on the chosen words you used. Messmer is intrigued. "Locked hence thee sayeth? By what?"

Swallowing the bile in your throat, you hesitate. You cannot stop thinking about the false Godwyn, fighting him, to seeing a young Messmer. Even now, you can see such similarities: the boyish youth frozen in time on his face. He is forever a man changed by all and he can only continue and not look back. "I do not know where to even begin."

"The hornsent kneweth of mine own whereabouts," Messmer answers, "t'is not the first those has't cometh for me."

It is when Sir Ansbach's words draw you to reality: to remember the crucial part of it all. Miquella is using it for a greater purpose, even better than his mother's.

"Miquella." Your words loom a great deal of dread through Messmer, but he is silent, allowing you the moment to speak. "He is ascending to godhood, to become a far greater God than your mother. Mohg-- he's using his corpse for something, a vessel of some sort."

You continue, "There is more. Needle Knight Leda said that there was a purpose in me finding you, to hunt you." You wrack your fingers together nervously. "Your flame, they need your flame for-"

"The sealing tree," Messmer answers for you. You know what he talks of, in the Ancient Ruins of Rauh, the thick, blackened twisted vines that block entrance to the tower; that no normal flame could burn down. "Those needeth mine own kindling to enter."

He's oddly calm beside you, and you realise he must've accepted his demise a very long time ago. It makes you wonder how many have come to have their vengeance, how many times his life has been on the line and how often he has thought what comes after his death. Would he be so willing to risk his life and flame? What if the only way to open it was for him to be killed?

Messmer senses the way you've tensed up, the way you have disassociated from your thoughts. He nudges you lightly to bring you back, and you know he's looking at you and trying to find the best possible thing to say. There is an acceptance that is heavy in his words when he speaks to you.

"If 't be true t'is mine own flame thee needeth, thee shalt has't t. But I only asketh for thy blade to endeth mine own life."

You turn to him in bafflement, realising just what he had said. "No way am I going to kill you. Just because your kindling is needed, doesn't mean I need it. Leda can search all she can, but it will not stop me from harming you."

Messmer laughs wryly, "Wherefore wouldst thee wisheth to keepeth me safe? A wretched soul did bind to this form, cursed." He stares down at his clawed hands. "Mine own life hast known nay loveth, nay warmth, only the serpent inside twists and wishes wishes for freedom."

You tell yourself if you confess now, it may ruin everything between you two. That professing all would take back everything you tried to mend. You can't just not say it though, it calls to you, and you wish for him to know just how much he is cared for.

Placing a hand over his, you draw his attention by gently directing his face to look over at you. "Your men look out to you, Messmer. They would start a war in your name. Miquella is frightened of the threat you stand as. He would be a fool if he did something so soon."

"And thee? What is thy purpose as a Tarnished? If 't be true not our deal, what doth thee standeth for?"

"I stand with you because I want to. Because... I care for you and your safety. If they could send hornsent assassins, what more could come? You were alone and I-" You catch your breath in your throat, "I was scared to lose you."

Messmer seems to let his guard down, his face is not as scowled or scrunched up as it normally looks, rather, it has softened upon hearing your words. "I feared for thee, the moment I did hold thee in mine own arms." He gasps audibly, lost in the moment. "Forgive me, this all doth feel so much."

"It is alright," you murmur and the two of you sit in a comfortable silence, looking over the flames. You feel your heart racing, excitement and fear tears at you and your mind races. You cannot stop thinking about his touches and how you wish for more. Would that be too much to crave?

It's only now do you realise how handsome he looks in this light and those feelings are bubbling to the surface. His face seems so close yet not close enough, his strong straight nose makes him look more regal and angelic that you find it too hard in instinct to brush part of his red hair back, catching him off guard.

His own eye is boring into you, mixed emotions you could not ever know what he was expressing, and almost on instinct, your eyes move from his eye downwards, glancing so shamelessly down at his lips. Messmer's throat bobs nervously, noticing your glances but keeps his eye trained on you. You feel like a squeamish girl, giggling over crushes and blushing at comely princes and knights. Maybe it is courage or the heat of the room that is making your body feel flush, with the need to just be closer to him.

In the heat of the moment, you slowly begin to lean closer.

Messmer, rigid in his spot, looks hesitant too as you lean slowly up to his face, before he corrects himself quickly, "Swear to me thee shall not risketh thy life again?"

Your nose awkwardly bumps against his chin from backing out from doing something foolish, pulling back and averting your gaze from him. How you thought he would like you like that would jeopardise the entire friendship you had built with him, trying to knock those walls down of his only for your fears to spill over.

You nod shyly, noticing the familiar warmth that is flushed to his cheeks as well.

"I swear it."

It's a different night when he finds you again, with a head in the book in the dead of night; consumed in the darkness of the storehouse.

"Art the books of interest for thee did miss dinner?"

He notices that in the darkness of the large room, you're simply dressed in a nightgown, a silk red shift covering you from the chill. He averts his gaze when he notices he's staring too long at your bare collarbones on display, the way your skin looks so soft; the rise and fall of your chest as his eye drifts to the curvature of your breasts-

"I didn't know you were waiting for me. Rather, you'd prefer to enjoy your meal alone." You speak, your voice soft as your eyes drift from the pages to look up at him. He has now found a seat beside you on the floor, resting his back on the bookshelf, careful not to shuffle the books as he leans over to look at what you're reading, pulling away when he realises he can see very clearly down your nightgown.

You know you've been avoiding him to allow for you to not make a fool of yourself, only further pushing him away from you. You realise that you've stepped over the ledge, and surprisingly, it is Messmer who is showing he has not pushed you away.

"Is't too much to sayeth yond I did miss thee?" He asks, making you realise just how close he is this time to you, you can smell something citric on him that you cannot place, "T doesn't frighteneth thee??"

"No." You lean into him, and he does not pull away this time. You realise up close that he's just as nervous as you feel, his skin is flush, and his cheeks too. You look to his shaking hands, before noticing he wishes to do something. You catch his eye once more, silent yet begging internally. It's then that you see he too looks down your face, towards your lips before looking up to your eyes again.

"Thee shall engulf me whole one day," Messmer confesses softly, saying your name. "Though, t'is not something I wisheth to fleeth from."

"I do not wish to be away from you." You confess, watching his throat bob nervously.

From the candle that shines dimly in the darkness, the two of you finally feel whole.

You don't know who kisses who first, for his mouth is quick to connect against yours, pulling away quickly upon realisation. He doesn't pull away fully, only enough to ask with his gaze alone if this is alright, if he has made a mistake. You do not pull away, this time pulling him back as he lurches forward, clumsily holding you by the shoulders as you capture his lips to yours.

His lips are chapped, but warm, allowing you to kiss back and take charge. You realise he is hesitant, his hands are clumsy and are unsure where to hold you. You show him where, his golden eye eager to learn as you place his large hands along your waist, allowing him to pull you closer to him.

He readjusts you a few times due to his height, finally settling with him almost leaning over you, moaning heartily against your lips when you nibble on his lower lip.

"Thee shall beest the death of me." He mutters against your plush lips, his breath hot as you consume his lips before he can continue, feeling the way his limbs shake with either nerves or excitement. It makes your heart swell to know you're maybe his first, or that he's so flustered that he cannot keep his hands off you.

It is Messmer who gains the courage to pull you over him, your thighs caging him as you straddle his waist, not taking a break from kissing him. His scent envelops you, his clawed hands finding purchase on your hips, and you're aware that you're sitting directly above his groin from the way you shift and he lets a long groan out.

You pull back suddenly, thinking you've hurt him when you notice how red his cheeks are. His eye is blown wide, dilated and taking you in. Your nightgown has been tugged upwards, giving him a view of your thighs, and your sleeve has fallen off your shoulder so he can see more of your skin.

"Thou art fine art," he marvels, tugging you back for a kiss, soft moans leave your lips from his compliment. "A goddess hast did bless mine own eye."

You now blush at his words, fidgeting in his lap, feeling the warmth spread through your chest downwards, to grow hotter between your legs. "Messmer-" You whine, your body twitching and jolting upright, now feeling something warm and large below you.

Messmer groans against the clothes' friction, whispering against your heated skin as he moves you slowly on him, feeling the way the tent rubs deliciously against you. "Starlight, thee feeleth most wondrous." He groans, and you move in tandem with him, the friction has built that it feels too good between your legs.

The two of you continue to make out like horny teenagers, groping, teasing, gyrating against one another until your legs are slick with need. "I need you." You whine against his lips and Messmer makes a noise in the back of his throat in reaction, jolting his hips upright to meet yours with need.

"Thee has't me, thee has't me." He repeats like a chant, suddenly pulling back to look into your eyes to see if he has your permission, the consent to continue this further. There is a hesitancy to all that you notice in him, but you know he wishes to please you. "Prithee, alloweth me showeth thee what kindness I can giveth."

A/N: This was anticipated and I don't know what was keeping me from writing this! I hope it's still something readers are still wanting to read. I can promise excitedly that the next chapter will be the long-awaited smut!

#messmer x reader #messmer the impaler #elden ring messmer #messmer x tarnished #shadow of the erdtree #elden ring sote #elden ring #tarnished!reader #elden ring fic #messmer fic #part 14 #itstheendofthegoddamnworld writes

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years ago

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Unexpected 8

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The stylist jabs you with another pin and you bite down on the grunt. You don't want to make this any more difficult than Lloyd already has. His planning, while exhaustive, is not entirely practical. You hear his whistling from behind you. You can't look back as the blonde twists and tugs your hair.

The compartment of the plane allows little breathing room and you feel crowded by the seats and the bodies all around you. Two make up artists working on your face as you're yanked at like a puppet. Another woman steaming the dress, a hazardous task in the air you suspect. You struggle to keep your bearings as the flurry has you dizzy.

As the women deem you suitably dolled up, the gown is presented to you. A simple white sheath that drapes across the chest with a skirt the wraps and splits from the thigh. It's not entirely your taste but it's better than leather or sequins. You let the stylists help you into it, straps to thin to keep on your thick bra, and you reluctantly let your chest loose beneath the charmeuse.

"Almost there, Mrs. Hansen," Lloyd declares as the light dings and all are drawn to the signal. Seatbelts until you touch down. You can barely believe, rather force yourself to accept, that the time has come.

You face Lloyd as he gestures you to one of the ivory seats and you restrain the surprise at his appearance. You'd been so distracted by your own primping, you hadn't noticed his own. A white wedding suit with a red vest. Tailored perfectly to his figure. Oddly refined. You could admit, at least to yourself, that he looked good.

You sit and pull the seat belt across. You'll have to wait till you're back on solid grown to force on the strappy heels. His hand settles on yours, causing you to flinch and he toys with the wring on your finger, lifting it to admire the large diamonds. He leans in to kiss your knuckle.

"This is it, doll face, the first day of the rest of our lives."

"Please, I'm nauseous enough," you grumble.

"Ah, come on, every girl dreams about her wedding day. And you get a whole second one," he taunts, "now that's just being spoiled, isn't it?"

"Sure," you utter and stiffen. You didn't exactly ask for this. He got his pre-nup, he could just shove another contract under your nose to sign.

"Don't be like that, babe, we're gonna celebrate," he leans against you, "I mean, you can't drink, but I can make up for that by fucking you silly."

"Lloyd," you lower your voice as you glance around.

"Ah, don't you wanna choke, daddy? Hmm? Like our little vacation? That was fun. Smack me around--"

"Shhh," you hush him, "I'm gonna smack you right now."

"Oh, please, mistress, mark me up good," he snickers.

You shush him again and turn away, looking out the window. This is it. The final white flag. You surrender to this man and his stupid mustache.

💎

A Vegas wedding chapel. You can't say you never saw yourself there. In fact, with Colin, your budget was so small you married in the backyard with his family to witness and disapprove of the entire affair. Worse, you didn't get a single piece of the cake. Even the slice you save in the freezer for your anniversary was ruined after the fridge burnt out.

You stand before the altar shaped like a Roman plinth with a bright red heart attached to it. You must look so stupid. Not as bad as the couple in the empty pews. They must have the next slot, you scoff to yourself.

The man in his Viva Las Vegas Tee and the woman in a pepto pink sundress. They're both older and mismatched. Likely the least odd couple in the city even so. The man, even sitting down, towers over the squat woman with her breast in a generous display, nearly three times as wide as the strawlike man.

As you look at them, the woman smiles and waves, her heavily blushed cheeks rounding. You return the smile awkwardly and return your attention to the drawl of the barely awake officiant. Lloyd clears his throat and gives you a pointed look, his hands tightening around yours.

"Do you Marion Lloyd Hansen take this woman to be your lawfully wed wife?" The droopy eyed man asks.

Your lips part. Marion? You blink as Lloyd says I do dismissively, as if to brush over his name. Your turn comes before you can think of a snappy remark, too amused as you choke on your laughter.

You barely keep your guffaws below the surface. This whole thing has to be a joke. You really just can't believe any of it is real.

"Alright, I do," you say nonchalantly.

The officiant continues, going through his script and prompts the groom to kiss the bride. You nearly evade the pucker but let Lloyd plant one on your lips. He takes you off kilter as he wraps you in his arms and bends you backward, poking his tongue between your lips shamelessly.

You finally wrestle him off you and regain your balance. You slap his chest and keep him at bay, "Jeez, calm down."

"Come on, baby, we got paperwork to do," he slings his arm over your shoulders and leads you down the aisle, "oh, and a few introductions." He stops you beside the middle pew and turns, "ma, pop–"

You wince, taken aback. Okay, he's playing a trick. This really isn't true. He's set this all up to fuck with you.

"Oh, darling," the woman bounces to her feet, "it's so nice ta finally meet ya," she nears and claps her hands on your cheeks her long acrylics poking you sharply. She plants a kiss on you as the man stands stiffly.

"Son," the tall man greets, "nice ta get a ticket down for the event."

"Dad," Lloyd shakes the man hand. As imposing as Lloyd is, he stands a head shorter than his father and a head above his mother. "Couldn't leave you out."

"Oh, I'm so happy my boy's found his lady," his mother chimes, "now, I'm Dotty and this is my lover boy, Harlan."

"Dear," the man says abashedly and nods at you with beet red cheeks, "pleasure, little lady."

"Uh, you too," you sputter, "Lloyd didn't tell me you were coming in for the wedding."

"Ah, he's a sweetheart," Dotty exclaims as he wiggles in place, "he says ma, how about I fly ya out to the casinos and I said you know that's a bad idea but then he said it was special, so… we'd do anything for our boy, don't you know?"

"Ma," Lloyd warns.

"What, pookie," she chides, "I waited so long for a daughter and oh, I can't wait to take her round the tables. They always say you got good luck on your wedding day."

"Uh, yeah, I mean, they say a lot of things," you utter.

"We gotta sign the contract," Lloyd interjects, "then we'll go to dinner like I promised."

"Oooh, I love a buffet," Dotty rubs her palms together, "and dear, you look like you can keep up."

You crook a brow and restrain a chuckle. Not exactly the Hansen stock you expected.

💎

You peel a strip of meat from the chicken wing and pop it in your mouth, a napkin tucked in the top of your dress to keep the sauce from dripping. You doubt you'll walk away unscathed. Dotty has some of the glaze in the corner of her fuschia painted lips but hardly seems bothered as she gnaws on the bone.

She drops it on her plate and wipes her fingers. She leans on her elbows as she balls the napkin in her hands.

"You know, we're so proud of Marion– Sorry, Lloyd," she corrects herself as Lloyd clinks his fork loudly, "anyway, him goin' off to Harvard and all that. But we were worried. He works too much, never got time for girls."

"Mmhmm," you take in all in, enjoying the unnerving twist. Lloyd really does know how to surprise you.

"And such a nice one," she smiles, "so," she takes a slurp of soda, "when's the baby comin'? Do we know if it's a boy or girl?"

"Baby," Lloyd chokes, "what– how–"

"I know a pregnant lady when I see one," Dotty insists, "absolutely glowing with a shade of miserable."

"Erm, well, it's early so we–"

"Lots of time, lots," she sings, "oh, let's not worry about the youngin yet. It's your wedding night and we gotta party it up."

"Ma," Lloyd tuts again.

"Promise we won't get too wild," she grins at him. You see where he gets that from, "just enough to have some fun."

"Son, your ma's grown. Same with the wife, they'll be just fine," the man's placid tone lulls you, "'sides, we got some catching up to do."

#lloyd hansen x reader #dark lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #series #unexpected #the gray man

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omamervt · 12 days ago

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Whenever people complain about the long-overdue change from AAA games costing $60 to games costing $70 (which let's be real - they already did in some places back in the 2000's/2010s. Retailers with no nearby competition would sell wii games WAY above market value, all the time. Ask me how I know.) The common refrain is always that spending power is down (true.) and that most of the dev budget and profits aren't even GOING to the developers, the CEOs are just pocketing it (also true.) But it's also hard for me to care about those factors when the expectation for what a game should cost has been thrown out the window.

Sonic Adventure retailed at $60 in the U.S in 1998, which is about $115 in today's money, and it takes 9 hours to clear the whole story. Sonic Frontiers had a larger team, budget, development schedule, and despite the fact it has nearly double the amount of gameplay, it sold at almost half the price of Sonic Adventure. Adjusted for inflation.

When I was in middle school, it was understood that if a game was free, it was most likely made by someone on their free time, and therefore it would probably be short and simple. The mobile apps that were worth your time all cost 99 cents. This was a fee people were willing to pay, because a song on iTunes also cost 99 cents. Games with microtransactions were already taking advantage of gambling addictions, so people were willing to put up with a certain amount of adware on the free app market to avoid them.

Then everything went wrong at once. Free-to-Play video games were popping up all over the place with the amount of content you'd normally expect from the most ambitious AAA titles, and the content updates you'd expect to see from subscription-based MMOs to keep things fresh. Music could be streamed, so nobody wanted to spend 99 cents to own a copy of their favorite song anymore, and suddenly that fee looked too high for apps as well. Then Apple stopped pushing the paid apps, encouraging every developer to make apps that either monetized every corner with ads, or baited players into constant microtransactions so they'd be more than one-time sources of income. And despite being driven primarily by cynical profit motives, the leadership of most American AAA studios wanted to be compared to Hollywood. And so games are being pushed to look more like Movies. Photorealism. Cinematics. Stories that resemble the Movies. Stuff had to be more and more ambitious while costing less and less for the consumer on the frontend, sometimes in ACTUAL dollar amount and sometimes just adjusted for inflation, while also being designed to wring as much money out of every player as humanly possible. It's still going on like this and we all know it isn't fucking sustainable.

But sure. your DLC contains stuff you feel should have been in the base game now. The default price is $10 more - and once they've patched out as many of the issues they were forced to ship with as is realistically possible, you'll get what you paid for out of the experience.

You realize that if you get your reality where we have smaller games with worse graphics made by people paid more to work less, the price of heavily marketed, retail-worthy games will still probably go up, right? Because those likely won't go anywhere, even if they all start to look like what we think of as AA now rather than AAA. For a game to ACTUALLY cost $70 it'd need to maintain mass market appeal so it could sell enough copies to make back budget and probably fund the next dev cycle. Because in this world, game devs wouldn't be beholden to shareholder interests, right?

I'm not saying this to discourage you from that way of thinking in the slightest. I'm just pointing out that, as with SO many things in our lives, your sense of what something costs to produce is incredibly divorced from reality because of just HOW exploited the labor behind it is.

But to be completely honest, if an extra $10 on the base price of SOME PS5 games is enough of a stumbling block for you, I don't know how you'll handle the value for that money decreasing, as well.

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cxttonteethviolence-a · 5 years ago

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Please Read || “Tali”

If you have been here for a while, then you know that Wyatt has been a Silent Hill O.C. for some years now. However, as the Silent Hill fandom has gradually died off of Tumblr, plus with my interest in creating an original work around Wyatt, I have changed several things from his story, to his personality, to the NPC’s of his life. I’ll have all of the updated information on Wyatt’s new page -- as I very slowly work on finishing it, but for now, I’ll make posts here to keep everyone updated on how Wyatt has changed.

tw: sexual assault || child abuse

Before:

As a Silent Hill O.C., Wyatt grew up as a relatively normal kid, short of some slight neglect and abuse from his step-father -- of which, he thinks is his birth father at this time, until he was 14 and met a young man 3 years older than him by name of Kyle. Rather gullible in his youth, Kyle gained Wyatt’s trust easily, and within a couple of months, Kyle was able to use Wyatt for blood ritual with him none the wiser. What Wyatt was unaware of was that Kyle was his half-brother, and more, part of a sect of The Order known as ‘The Disciples of our Holy Mother’ that had migrated to Texas two hundred years prior, and was attempting to use the blood of his unbaptized brother to bastardize the works of God for his own gain. This backfired, however, as the ritual instead summoned the first martyred Saint, St. Jennifer, to inhabit part of Wyatt’s soul and body, which lead to Wyatt experiencing a complete physical and violent bodily possession, resulting in the death of his father and crippling of his mother. For the rest of his life, Wyatt must share his body with the presence of St. Jennifer who, with the power of foresight, pyrokinesis, astral projection, and a direct link to God Herself, goes through periods of activity and regression, depending on Wyatt’s proximity to God’s power.

Now:

As an original muse, Wyatt’s treatment from his step-father is a little harsher than in his Silent Hill verse. Though the knowledge that Dean Maverick isn’t actually his father is not known to any of the Maverick children, it is clear that Wyatt is the black sheep of their father’s love.

The product of an affair, Wyatt is the blood son to Sheriff Mark Kibson, who is not only a sheriff, but also the leader to a centuries old religion that Dakota Maverick herself had once practiced, but had since rejected for her husband’s Christian worship. They had been childhood sweethearts, and with one too many cocktails, they found themselves in bed together, creating what would be the end for the both of them.

Unwittingly, Dakota Maverick had her pregnancy test done in the same office where other practitioners of her former religion worked, overheard her confessing who the real father was, and would actively work against her for their own benefit. Meant to be kept a secret, the biological father was instead contacted by a Dr. Vinny Belle, who wanted to make alliances. Dr. Vinny Belle, a lifelong practitioner of the Witchgod Faith, was expected to have a daughter in the next couple of months, and with the Kibson bloodline being direct lineage to that of the Cassandra Cavelier, one the Founding Sisters, Dr. Belle hoped that he could trade the foreknowledge of Sheriff Kibson’s future child in exchange for a blood bond between their children, should the child be born a boy.

Sheriff Kibson refused, choosing instead to keep the birth of this illegitimate child separate from the rest of his family. Months passed, and as soon as Wyatt was born, Dr. Belle ended up performing the bonding ritual anyways, promising the intertwining of their children to their Witchgod once they were both old enough. Dr. Belle and his wife had planned to keep their daughter around the same vicinity as Wyatt and his family, but before they could, Dakota was informed of this plan by a former friend from the Faith, and she put an end to it, threatening to tell the Sheriff everything if they ever came close to her son. With the Sheriff being a man to be feared, the threat worked.

Wyatt Maverick and Susan Belle never met each other, however, they both experienced what would be written off as an imaginary friend, seeing glimpses of each other as they grew up. Wyatt would call his imaginary friend “Tali”. He would see her playing with blocks, coloring, doing homework, brushing her teeth, crying, anything and everything, Wyatt would catch shadow mist glimpses of this young girl who always seemed to mirror his own age. It would often become a daily activity for his sisters, assuming this was just a years-long game of pretend, to ask him: “What’s Tali doing today?”, and he would tell them. As they grew older, they’d stop asking, and Wyatt would stop talking about her, but she never went away.

At 14, the visions of Tali stopped being friendly. Once simply a part of every day life, the appearance of Tali was now saved for his nightmares, often bringing with her a horrible sense of dread, terror, and the smell of burnt flesh. During the day, she would notice him, where they’d never crossed paths before. Too afraid to speak of this shift in his consciousness, Wyatt does not speak of it to anyone.

It’s not until Wyatt is 28 years old that Wyatt finds out the truth of “Tali”. At 14, “Tali” is Susan Belle, and her parents have just informed her that she is spiritually betrothed to Wyatt Kibson, but that no one is allowed to know the truth until the time is right. Having been raised in the Faith, Susan is excited for the marriage, and feels honored to have been chosen for a Son of Cassandra. She knows she can’t tell just anyone, but feels as though she can trust one of her best friends, who has also been raised in the faith. Unfortunately, this information gets back to the most dangerous of the Kibson line, Sheriff Kibson’s third son, Kyle Kibson, who takes vigilante action against the Belle family.

Kyle was unaware of his youngest sibling, and feeling betrayed by his father’s secrecy, took his anger out on Susan and Wyatt. By 17, Kyle had already committed multiple accounts of sexual assault, assault, theft, and trespassing, all deflecting legal action with the connections of his father. He did incur extreme levels of physical punishments for his actions by the hands of his father, but this only ever made him better at covering up his tracks.

With Susan, Kyle kidnapped the poor girl, drugging her and taking her to an old, abandoned gas station a few miles out from his family’s farm. There, he used her to practice ritual magic, torturing her with the original methods used by the founders of their Witchgod Faith. Though he did not kill Susan, Kyle did rape and torture the young girl before informing his father of the Belle family plan.

Infuriated by not only the deceit of his brethren of Faith, but also through the actions of his son, Sheriff Kibson took no mercy in his decision to immolate the entire Belle line. Susan’s death was quick and painless, opting to shoot her in the head, as she had done nothing wrong, but her parents would be taken to the Kibson Farm where they would be burnt alive and fed to the pigs for feed. Susan was buried an unmarked grave, and the disappearance of the Belle family was an open and shut case.

Kyle was beaten, arguably, within an inch of his life and forced through surgical castration, where it was then assumed that he would learn to stay in line and lose his violent urges. But once again, this only made him better at hiding them.

From ages 14 to 28, Wyatt sees Tali as a ghost-like figure; rotting, mangled, and always part of the shadows. She still always seems to mirror his age, and always manages to find her way to the corner of his eye. He is misdiagnosed as “paranoid schizophrenic”, and for the most part, does not question that validity. From 28-32, Wyatt learns the truth of Susan Bell, and his visions of her shift to what she would have looked like alive. He finally believes in her presence, and that belief strengthens the energy around her, giving conscious thought to what’s left of her. She helps him uncover and dismantle the truth of his family, aiding him in killing Kyle.

#headcanon;;#so this is suuuuuper long #but also super important if you care about wyatt's backstory and his switch from silent hill to original content #will there be similarities? of course there will be #i'm wring the content i want to consume #but i think it's different enough that it won't be an outright copycat #also i would just really really appreciate if anyone reads this #tali;;

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nightowlwriting · 3 years ago

Text

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

#steve rogers imagine #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel imagine #mcu imagine

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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago

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Original Sin | Darksaber!Din

Pairing: Dark!Din x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ older for the love of all things holy)

Word count: 3.4k~

Summary: Things change after Grogu leaves. People change. No one is exempt.

Warnings/tags: DUB CON?¿, masturbation (m and f), inappopriate use of darksaber, sex toy (...), Dark!Din, Dom!Din, sacrilegious references, really dark shit, i am so sorry

Update: This should go without saying, but as it turns out, it’s in need of being said: every word written in this fic is my own; any likeness to any other work is coincidence, regardless of how bizarre. I don’t mean to offend anyone or raise suspicion, as I am certainly not a plagiarist (literally couldn’t be even if I tried: I am equal parts too incompetent, too busy, and too lazy to steal from someone else. Fellow writers can attest, I’m an absolute garbage reader and fall behind on almost everyone’s work. There’s an embarrassing amount I haven’t read.) Please reach out to me personally if you have any concerns. I respect everyone here like you wouldn’t believe. Sending love to you all. Be well. ✨

Notes: When I go to hell (it really is only a matter of timing, and not so much a question of if anymore), this fic will rank number one on the list of reasons why I’m sent to my eternal timeout. This... I'm twisted. I have issues. God help us. Seriously, this is basically a horror show. I bow down to the Darksaber!Din content creators who came before me, and the original artwork that inspired me to write this— thank you for lighting this (descending, dirty) path. I HAVE TAGGED A FEW PEOPLE HERE WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE INTERESTED but really— REALLY— there’s absolutely no pressure. Cheers friends x ( gif credit: @skyshipper )

Masterlist | Read it on Ao3!

The days stretch long like morning yawns—hours passing on creaky bones, slow and congealed inside the metal womb of the Crest.

It wasn’t always this way.

They used to be filled with pitter pattering— with wily antics and vanishing acts that could baffle even the most veteran of illusionists— with prying frogs from tiny, green hands and giggling as blocks and baubles floated through the hull. Laughter. There used to be laughter here.

But that was then. The child is gone now. The Razor Crest is quiet.

Time fills itself like this; there’s little for you to do now but wait. Wait for the dusk to blur into the dawn. Wait for your food to cook. Wait for the shower to warm. Wait for the parts you ordered to arrive at the port. Wait for Din to come back—to come home.

Home. You used to be so certain—you’d bite the head off anyone who questioned otherwise— but you’re not so sure this is home anymore. Its not that anything has changed. No, the galley, the carbonite pods, the cockpit, the deck—it’s all still here. The scuffed walls, the durasteel, the littered crates and packed arsenal. But—

It’s different. It feels different. Something is...

off.

You can’t quite put your finger on it. Its intangible, but it’s everywhere—like gas. Invisible to the naked eye, but encircling you all the same. Choking you.

Killing you.

There’s no good explanation for it. You feel eyes on you when there are none. You find yourself glancing over your shoulder, knowing full well you are alone. Something keeps snagging you, pulling at an unseen thread. The corners of your peripherals tugging at you. Beckoning.

Was that a shadow? No.

Is someone there? It’s just you.

There is a tickle at your ear - a constant - dancing along the shell of it. Wherever you go, it follows.

Home home home. It only feels like home when Din is there, safe and sound at your side. But even then, even Din—in all of his plated exterior—even Din has succumbed. Even Din has

changed.

The truth is, Grogu left and a part of Din left with him. There’s less of him now— more, too: there’s less where it matters, and there’s more where there shouldn’t be.

You don’t remember when it started—when he first disappeared. When the spark in him died, and he was reignited anew.

When this Other became.

On multiple occasions you’ve caught him murmuring into the bellied dark of the Crest with a bent spine, hunched over himself as if he’s shrinking—enveloping in in in as far as the beskar along his chest will allow him to cave. You can never pick up what he mutters, but you catch the sounds of his teeth and lips brushing together, hissing. It’s not Basic; you’d recognize it if it were. You don’t think its Mando’a either. It’s too sharp— too vile. There’s none of his language’s elegance in it.

“Did you say something?” You asked once, poking your head around the doorway, eyes resting on the shine of his helmet.

A beat—and slowly, he unfurled, rearing to his full height and like a sentinel he swiveled, pivoting to face you.

“No.”

Your throat bobbed. “Oh, I-I thought I heard-”

“Come here, mesh’la.”

And you did. You always do.

The darksaber appeared on his belt one day, shortly after the child went away. It came, only once, and there it stays. Indistinguishable - inseparable - there is no dismembering the two. It accompanies him in all things; when he pilots, when he hunts, when he eats. It sleeps by him.

By you, too.

Din has always been stoic—of scant words and physical timing—but now he is a golem. A silent, shrouded figure. His Creed is broken, and you wonder maybe - briefly - if Din is broken as well. He is never unkind to you. He is never threatening. But he is never him. His eyes— the oaky comfort you once found in them— have blackened. He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man.

And within that pit he has born rage. Immaculately, it has sprung from him as woman did by Adam’s rib. Like mold growing upon stale fruit does he have this—this wrath. It crept through him. It stalked along his soft flesh— his tawny hide—and it waited; patient, there in the shadows, it waited for him. Waited for him to turn his back, to close his eyes and drop his guard— leeway, an entrance— as to slip in undetected.

To inhabit.

The virtue and love that once thrummed within the heart of him has burned away. Charred. Only this of him remains; this insatiable lust— for blood sport, for the promise of split knuckles and fractured bone, for you.

For all of you.

Now, Din goes out on bounties like he needs it—like it’s oxygen. He lives off it. He’s sustained by the rush, by the adrenaline laced chemicals pumping through his arteries. He’s gone for days and weeks on end and when he returns, he fucks you like he’s been starved. Out in the wilderness without a morsel to eat, he devours you. He’s ravenous as he tears his way across your body—all too pliant for him, all too willing—letting him feast on the nectar dripping from your heat.

You can feel it in his foot steps as he storms the ship, the bassy echo of it. You can see it in the pitch of his visor. You can feel it in his cock as he slams into you, night after night after night—ceaselessly. Tirelessly. Unnaturally. The number of orgasms he wrings out of you is countless—his need so incurable, you have to fight to stay above it all; you have to war against your urge to slip away completely.

Din is one grey choice - one hair trigger - from coming undone.

And you should be scared. You should be terrified—he should terrify you. Like scalding water, you should flinch away at the mere sight of him—at the warning steam that rises from his pauldrons. This predator, unhinged and off his leash—a great, crushing beast at which you are at the mercy of.

But— you aren’t.

You couldn’t place it at first: the gnawing. The gnawing at your insides like maggots festering upon a grizzled carcass hanging limp at a wet market. You couldn’t name the tremor in your gut. You gave it epithets as best you could, you gave it placeholders - fear, worry, intrigue - all until one day it spilled. One day it seeped past the tremble of your stomach and sank lower, lower,

lower.

It settled in your cunt—the gnawing. And you named it Want.

You want him. You want this—you’re addicted to it. This sin like led-lined velvet, you want to roll in it until it poisons you, until you’re smothered with it, just like it’s smothering you now— blanketing you as you mewl naked in your bed, knees knocked together. Your eyes roll back into your skull as you frantically work circles into your clit with the all consuming thought of him: his teeth at your shoulders, his hand around your windpipe.

You’re nearing your finish, the promise of that tight coil unraveling there - there - right before you. You’re so enrapt in it—in this dizzying, wanton act—you don’t register the ramp lowering. You don’t hear the carbonite chamber whir, his quarry freezing over, or his foot falls sounding their way to your bunk.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You gasp, frightened eyelids wrenching open as his baritone timbre crackles through the hull. The Mandalorian stands there, backlit by the glow from the galley and he looms—expressionless. Haunting. You blink at him rapidly, batting away the desire that’s glazed over your eyes.

“Y-You’re back,” you stutter lamely. You try to smile. You try to distract him. “I uhm, I didn’t hear you come in. I thought you wouldn’t be back until, u-until..."

Your excuses fade, mouth parched dry. The film of his visor gives you nothing. He is unknowable, but you feel it - sense it - that energy—unbridled and rippling off of him in sick, suffocating waves.

“I’ll ask you again,” Din starts.

“What-" he steps towards you, darksaber hanging heavy at his hip, “do you think-" you shimmy up your cot, shoulder blades digging into the steel sidings, “you’re doing?”

Your heart thunders against your chest, beating until you’re sure it’ll burst.

“I’m-"

I’m sorry you almost say, and you have to force yourself to gulp down the apology. You know he doesn’t want it, and he knows you wouldn’t mean it even if you offered it to him.

Your brow wavers. “I-"

He rips away the sheet you had drawn up over you and reflexively you jerk back, revealing the gloss on your fingers and the patch of hair above your mound, shimmering shamefully—exposing you, mocking you under the dim lights.

“What’s this?” he asks, and fuck he’s patronizing you. He’s smirking—you don’t have to see it, you can hear it in the curving lilt of his voice as he drinks in the sight of your very obvious indiscretion, laid bare before him. You can’t bring yourself to answer him—you can hardly look at him—and you bristle, hair on your arm prickling up.

“You fuck yourself speechless, little one?”

Your cunt throbs, burning and contracting around the orgasm that was snatched away from you and fuck, you’re drowning in him. Din is tar—he’s an oil slick, and you’re plummeting through it—gasping for air, for the surface, for sunlight. He’s everywhere—his broad frame, his voice, his scent like copper and smoke. You can barely breathe through the thick of him.

“Answer me,” he growls, leather croaking at the clench of his fist.

“Yes—yes,” you utter, proceeding with honesty, no matter how pathetic. “I missed you,” you squeak out.

Din cocks his head, a smug look scowled onto his visor. “You missed me?” he purrs through a sneer and you nod, precious and small, worrying the inside of your lip.

He sinks one leg and then the other onto your bedroll, just between your parted feet, kneeling before you. The flimsy spring mattress squeals under his weight—all of that armor, all of that boiling soot trapped within him.

“How much?”

For a moment, you must look confused. Puzzled. Your eyebrows furrow as Din unclips the saber from his belt, rolling it over in his hand. You rake your gaze up from it, dilated pupils landing on the unforgiving black panel there.

“You claim you missed me. Prove it.”

Your cunt bottoms out.

He crouches over you, tracing along your inner thighs with it's steel shaft and you bury your fists into the cot. You don't know which to look at: Din or the rod in his hand. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you trust me.”

Fuck, it feels like you’re going to rattle apart. There isn’t an inch of you that isn’t humming—isn’t seizing up wild. “I-I trust you,” you mouth softly. And you do, whether you should or not—you trust him with your life, to make or ruin.

“Fuck, you’re wet mesh'la,” he appraises darkly, leaning in to run a leathered digit through your seam, parting your curls. Your legs twitch, heels of your feet digging into the bed. “So ready for me. So eager."

Your eyes dance frenetically down to the handle and back up to him as he aligns the saber with your pussy. The blunt end of it touches your lips and you shudder, instinctually fidgeting away from it. Din splays his hand on your knee, anchoring you in place. “Shh,” he coos, rubbing a thumb soothingly into your skin. It doesn’t feel sweet. It feels sickly, cloying— like arsenic.

You don’t dare breathe as he prods the shaft into you, inch by terrible inch. It doesn’t matter how slicked and wet you are from touching yourself, your walls strangle the foreign intrusion. Your body resists.

“Fuck,” you sob. Your throat, your pussy, all of it— it’s all compacted. It feels so fucking tight, both words and air fighting to get out and in all at once—everything inside you constricting.

“Show me,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Show me how much you missed me.” He drags his gloved digit over your clit, pressing down onto it until you see stars, fizzing in front of your vision. “I know you can take it, sweet girl. Be good and show me.”

Be good. Be good for him. Be his only vice.

He continues to swirl at your bundle of nerves and you’re nearly thrashing with it— with all of this— hair fanned and mussed against the pillow as you writhe, swallowing his saber to the hilt. Fuck, you’re so full. Maker, you’re stuffed with it; with the cold, uneven edges, the ridges woven into the grip of it— and he slowly - tortuously - delves the handle in and out of you, hitting against your cervix with every thrust.

You can only mumble. Your lips have gone slack, your mind is cavernous. All you can do is quiver and beg— beg for release. Beg for it to end.

Beg for more.

“Oh gods, oh g- Maker, please—”

Your bleary eyes shoot open as you’re silenced by the grip of his gloved hand.

“No.” Din pinches your jaw in the web of his palm, fingertips dimpling your cheeks. “No, your God isn’t here,” he seethes, low and deadly, graphite venom dripping from his lips. “Pray to me.”

Fuck.

Trembling, your lips pucker ugly and sloppy as you babble uselessly in his stony grasp, chin crinkling with a whimper. “D-Din.”

He inhales sharply, mouth snaking into a wicked grin behind his helm. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

He’s deboning you as he would a fish. Practiced, he plucks you into messy pieces—gutting you through your open maw. His ministrations are crawled. They’re slothed and carnal with arrogance and pride and it’s not enough—its all together too much, but still—it’s not enough. You’re hungry. You paw at him, scraping over his breastplate.

“Din, please—more," you gasp feverishly, eyes blown wide.

A blip of static huffs through his modulator. “You want more, you filthy little thing?” He gives you another squeeze, indenting scorch marks into your face.

You nod—you try to, his grasp is too firm, rooting your neck to still. “Yes.”

Din groans, all but obliging you as he begins to fuck you harder, pistoning through you as he thumbs your nub with his rough pad.

“Din-”

You’re whining now, tinny and depraved. It’s wrong. Every part, every second of this, is wrong. Immoral. But you can’t stop the way your body convulses at his every touch—you can’t stop the heat roiling in your core.

“Din, Din baby- fuck fuck fuck-”

It’s like he’s trying to split you in two—all of you. Your pussy, your mind, your soul—he’s bisecting you. Divvying you up to bits of nothing. It’s only then that horrid realization occurs to you, winding through your addled haze as he fucks you deep and splintering: you’ll never be whole again.

And scarier still—you don’t think you want to be.

No, you want to be these loathsome shards. You want to be broken glass. You want to draw blood.

You want to be possessed by him.

“Fuck yourself,” he pants, his cock straining violently against his trousers, begging for relief. “Be good and fuck yourself. Let me watch.”

Be good be good be good

He leaves your clit and you whimper at the loss. Your face is stained with tears. The salty trails cascade down to mingle into your hair, into the sheets. You’re vibrating, but you do as he says and you reach down, recoiling when you touch the chilled metal tip. Tentatively, you pad along it, settling on the end that’s peeking out from you.

A pained sound rumbles through Din as you wrap your fist around the saber, and your eyes flit up to meet his, hidden somewhere behind his helm. Hurriedly he unbuttons his pants in a flourish and removes himself from his constraints. He’s pulsing and proud, flexing up against his stomach, the veins choked to bulge along the angry, silken shaft of him.

Finally, you begin to move the hilt—finding an aching, undulating rhythm and he can’t fucking take it. He rips his helmet off, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Din,” your pray, “Din, I think I’m going to-”

You’re wrecked – fried like a livewire– as you look for him, as you search and search—for that warmth, for a trace of him left there. The Din you knew, the Din you agreed to fly with all those months ago, the Din you love. You think you see it sometimes—in the slant of his mouth, the bridge of his nose— but here, now, he is gone.

He is a pit.

Din Djarin is a pit of a man, and you want nothing more than to fall. Standing on the ledge of him, staring down into the abyss—you want this. You want to fall. You want to jump.

“Tell me you’re mine. Tell me, sweet girl— tell me.” He’s fucking his fist raw, humping into his palm as desperate as an animal.

“I’m yours,” you mewl. Furiously rubbing your clit with one hand and spearing yourself on the rod of his saber with the other, your hips buck and spasm. You snap. A blinding light sears through you, ricocheting off every scrap of muscle and tendon sewed up in your body. “Just for you,” you cry, “I’m yours I’m yours I’m yours—”

Your ragged sobs mix with the lewd slaps of skin as Din pumps himself, hot ropes of his release spitting onto you— painting your pussy, the divot of your navel, coating along the slope of your tummy.

“Look at you—fucking, look at you,” he moans throatily, easing through his rough strokes as he softens.

Your chest is heaving and you feel dumb, empty—like a puppet, arms and legs moving on phantom strings. Din removes the handle from you with a wet squelch; a viscous strand of your juices clings on, obscenely connecting your pussy to the base of it, and you rasp—the wind punched out of you with its gaping absence. You gush. It dribbles out the slit of you, leaking past your abused hole and soaking into the bedroll.

When he unsheathed the saber from your scabbard, he took a part of you with it. You’re so fucked out—you’re practically a parsec away— it went unnoticed.

Undetected.

It brushed past you. You didn’t feel it—you didn’t recognize the whisper that has slithered in in it’s place, nestling within your swollen folds.

Breeding there.

“Beautiful,” Din murmurs, placing it on the mattress beside your head, the chrome of it gleaming with your slick. He bows his head to lick a path up your cunt, laving you clean as he climbs higher and higher, tonguing off his seed from your stippled skin. “Fucking beautiful, mesh’la,” he growls. “Mine—all fucking mine.”

You’ve gone heavy. You’re too heavy to keep your eyes open—you’ve been hollowed out and you’ve got nothing keeping you tethered here. You start slipping under in slow motion—intervals between languid blinks lasting longer and longer. You’re spooled in a knot of tangled limbs with Din’s mouth, fervent and needy, flaying you open as he sees fit— with his hot mouth and teeth, suckling your breasts, biting at your nipples and bruising your pretty neck.

It’s not long before you hear it again, as you have before— as you always do: the faint caressing of speech, of lips forming language you cannot understand—made indecipherable in your strung out high.

“D’you say something?” you mumble, half conscious—half dreaming.

Din laps a long stripe up your throat, his stubble sanding your skin. “No.”

You sigh, breathy and girlish, as his fingers find your mound, dipping into you once again. He makes you cum twice more that evening. You barely have the strength to watch him do it.

Finally, when he’s satisfied—when he’s spent with driving you mad, making you rile— he grants you respite. He permits it – generous, charitable - and you sleep like the dead, soundly through the night until—

until you don’t.

Eyes. You feel them somewhere— there are eyes on you. You stir, stuttering in your sleep to squirm in the dark. You don’t know what you’re listening to at first. It’s a sound of some kind, a noise. There is a hiss—

A frigid hand seizes around the bloody organ pulsing in your ribcage.

No, not a hiss—it’s a voice. It’s— no-

You pat around for Din beside you but he’s gone—he’s long gone and his vacant spot has grown cold without him—and your nails dig into the sheets, desperately clawing into the fabric.

Inside you.

The voice, the sharp hush of it—it’s inside you. It speaks from inside your own mind, its forked tongue fluttering against your ear.

‘Wake up, sweet girl.’

Tags (IM SO SORRY): @djarinsbeskar @pedros-mustache @krissology @keeper0fthestars @read-and-rec

#darksaber!din #dark!din #dark!din x reader #dark!din x you #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #mando fanfiction #mando x you #mando x reader #the mandalorian #star wars #sw fanfic #darksaber #Im so sorry #dom!din #haunted!din

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fuckepilepsy · 3 years ago

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EPILEPTICON 2021 ANNOUNCEMENT POST

@the-twitchy-life has been pretty diligent about making noise for EpileptiCon, but I have not. I've very tired, ya'll.* So I'm going to repost my yearly write-up, but first, here is a link to her official announcement post. It's much more concise and straightforward, and I will reblog it again after posting this.

What is EpileptiCon?

EpileptiCon is sort of festival or convention for people who have seizure disorders, right here on Tumblr. This year EpileptiCon will run from November 1st through November 8th!

Anybody who has a seizure disorder is invited to participate. That includes epileptics and non-epileptics alike. If you have pseudoseizures, psychogenic seizures, PNES, NEAD, FND, etc., you are absolutely a part of EpileptiCon if you want to be!

Here’s the concept: for a week, we generate a burst of activity in a community that is typically quiet and gloomy, flooding the tags and each other’s dashboards with epilepsy/seizure disorder content, talking about ourselves, our experiences, and our interests as people who live with a seizure disorder.

Okay, but why?

You might have noted that EpileptiCon coincides with Epilepsy Awareness Month. This is by design. @the-twitchy-life and I conceived of the idea of EpileptiCon as an alternative to attempting to raise awareness, because we believe that Epilepsy Awareness Month should be for people who have epilepsy.

Epilepsy Awareness Month isn’t even really about people who have epilepsy, at least not directly; it’s about epilepsy itself. Epilepsy Awareness Month isn’t for us, either. It is for people who do not have it, because the whole point is to improve public awareness and understanding of epilepsy. Those of us who are living with epilepsy are already quite aware of it and have no need of an awareness campaign.

Furthermore, it’s generally on us to scrounge up the spoons to do the work, and as you all know, spoons are always in short supply. I believe that energy would be better spent reaching out to each other, so that we might enjoy a sense of fellowship and belonging pertaining to something that normally brings isolation and despair.

EpileptiCon was conceived because we need to take time to celebrate ourselves and each other for our ongoing efforts to survive and persevere in the face of adversity. So we feel less alone, so we feel more comfortable and safe talking about it, get some things off of our chest and maybe achieve a little catharsis.

How do I participate?

Make epilepsy-themed posts and tag them with “EpileptiCon2021.“ They don’t have to be high-quality or time-consuming. In fact, I encourage you to indulge in completely low-effort shitposting, because spending a bunch of energy writing a post on how epilepsy is terrible is a good way to get burned out. The goal is quantity, and whatever fun you can wring out of it.

If you want to do a big write-up about an epilepsy-related thing that is important to you, go for it! Just remember that you are absolutely free to pour low-effort epilepsy shitposts into the tag for everyone to see. It’s also absolutely cool to repost your old stuff, though you should remember that reblogging it instead of doing a copy-paste into a fresh post won’t drop it into the tag for public viewing.

For those of you who are flagged NSFW and can’t post into tags, just tag my url so I can see your posts. In fact, it may be a good idea to do that regardless just to make sure. In the past, I have discovered EpileptiCon posts that escaped notice MONTHS afterward.

I’ll watch the #epilepticon2021 tag in addition to all the others (#epilepsy, #epileptic, #seizures, etc.) and reblog everything that comes through it. If you’re not comfortable with epilepsy stuff on your blog, feel free to submit to @the-twitchy-life or myself. We’ll get you the spotlight you deserve.

*So tired, in fact, that I felt compelled to use the word "ya'll" despite never actually using anywhere in real life.

@jaskkin

#epilepsy #actually epileptic #epilepticon #epilepticon2021

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moody-cowdaddy · 5 years ago

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Blue Button-Down

Arthur Morgan x Reader | Imagine #4

Summary: You get soaked during a rainstorm while on an overnight trip with Arthur, and now you're freezing.

Category: Fluff, Sexual Tension.

A/N: I'm honestly having too much fun writing these lil' fluffy/sexual tension Arthur pieces. 😭 also, I apologize in advance about not being able to put add a 'keep reading' cut. It's been almost a year or so since I've been on Tumblr to actually write as much as I have the past week. I'm not sure how Tumblr mobile works anymore. So, if anyone would know how to put this under a cut, please let me know. 🤷‍♀️

××××

"I said, I wanna touch the earth

I wanna break it in my hands

I wanna grow something wild and unruly

I wanna sleep on the hard ground

In the comfort of your arms

On a pillow of blue bonnets

In a blanket made of stars

Oh, it sounds good to me."

××××

If there was ever a time for New Hanover to suffer a torrential downpour, it was always whenever you and Arthur went on trips where it was necessary to stay overnight. There had been some O'Driscolls spotted in the Valetine saloon. So, immediately, Dutch sent the two of you out to tail the gang back to their hideout to take them all out.

You were halfway to Strawberry when the bottom of the sky seemed to just give out, pummeling the two of you and the surrounding area with rain. It was already close to dusk, so Arthur decided that you needed to stop and set up a campsite as fast as you could to get you and the horses of the rain.

You agreed with him as you slid yourself off of Jasper, leading him over to a slightly more wooded area to provide the stallion with some form of cover from the weather onslaught. Your clothes were already halfway soaked with water, and you could feel your body temperature dropping the more the cold rain fell on you.

"Think ya can help me get this tent up?" Arthur asked as he untied a canvas from the back of Athena's saddle.

"Yeah, we gotta be quick. Looks like it's set in for the night." You walked over to him, helping him unload the rest of the supplies from his saddle.

He nodded. "Seems that way. Them O'Driscolls will have'ta wait 'til mornin'."

The two of you were utterly drenched by the time you finally got the tent set up. Arthur seemed to be unbothered by it, but then again, he had been subject to far more harsh weather than this. You, on the other hand, were completely chilled to the bone. When you were finally able to get inside of the tent, it was a relief to finally have yourself sheltered from the freezing rain, but you were still cold, regardless. It was going to take more than just shelter to warm you back up. You dropped yourself to the ground, shivering as you pulled off your trail coat, tossing it to the side. It was a bit of a relief, but not by much, the majority of the rest of your clothes were still soaked through to the skin.

"Goddamn," Arthur hissed as climbed into the tent after you. "I tried'ta get the horses s'much cover as I could. It's a damn mess out there."

He lowered himself onto his bedroll near you as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up. It was quiet, all except for the sound of the rain as it poured on top of the tent, beating the material to hell, gallon by gallon. You did what you could to wring the water out of your hair before bringing your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as your shivering began to intensify when the cool air from the outside hit your drenched clothing.

Arthur had took notice of it immediately, turning his attention towards you. "Ya alright, girl?"

You shook your head. "Other than freezing to death, I'm fine."

"Ya bring any extra clothes?" He stuck the cigarette between his lips, taking a drag.

You gave him a pleading look as you shook your head, figuring he'd berate you for not bringing any extra. But he didn't. He never did, and you knew better than that. Arthur was always different with you than the others. He'd berate anyone else in a second with his quick wit and a smart mouth, but with you, that wasn't so. If he ever had a difference of opinion with you, or needed you to know better about a situation, he'd always give you that familiar stern look of his, followed by the dangerous way his tone sounded when he said, "Girl".

Quite frankly, sometimes you'd antagonize him just to illicit that response out of him. He was even more desirable than usual when he had a streak of anger in him.

He shook his head amusingly at you as he reached over to dig through his saddlebag. "I gotta lot to teach ya about bein' prepared, huh?"

A bashful expression appeared on your face as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I guess ya do Mr. Morgan."

He finally leaned back over to you holding a worn, blue button down shirt. It was the one that you had seen him wearing so many times before, and your heart skipped a beat as you saw him offering it up to you now.

"Oh, Arthur. You'll have nothin' to change into if I-"

He cut you off with his free hand as he held the shirt out to you with his other, the cigarette still hanging from between his lips. "It ain't up for debate, (Y/N). You'll catch ya damn death out here if ya keep that on."

You took the shirt gently from his hands, clutching it tightly. "Thank you, Arthur."

He smiled, "Ya know damn well I ain't gonna let you freeze. Ya need me to step out?"

"No." You shook your head, "There ain't no need to for all that."

Truth be told, you'd have been more content if he was taking these soaked clothes off of your body for you.

"A'ight then." He took one last drag off the cigarette before throwing the butt of it outside of the opening flap of the tent.

But, him being the gentleman that he was, he still turned his head away from you. You sighed lightly, smiling to yourself as you began to unbutton your own shirt. Sometimes he was too much of a gentleman, but that'd have to wait, The focus right now was getting these clothes. Pulling the saturated clothes off of your body was a torture all on it's on. The wet material of both your pants and shirt still tried to cling to your body, making you hiss everytime a freezing piece of the cloth touched your skin.

When you finally got the shirt and pants off, you threw them across the tent, wanting them as far away from you as possible. You pulled Arthur's large shirt over your shoulders. It was an indescribable feeling, not only for the warmth that it held, but the fact that it was his shirt. It smelled like him; a mix of cigarettes, campfires and pine needles. He was considerably bigger than you, so the shirt was very loose fitting and comfortable. It was long enough to where it hung just a little past your thighs. You were still cold, but you felt much better than you had before.

When you finished, you lowered yourself back down onto your bedroll. Arthur peeked around to check if you were decent before he shifted himself back to the front of the tent. The rain had calmed down from what it was a few moments ago, but that wasn't saying a whole lot since it was still pouring down rather heavily.

"Ya know I'm gonna feel bad about takin' ya shirt. I owe ya one," you admitted.

"Nah," he said. "Long as your warm, that s'all that matters."

The way he cared for you almost made your heart hurt sometimes, especially when you so desperately longed to care for him, and to be with him in more than just this way.

You gave him a nod and a thankful smile as your lowered yourself to lay down on your bedroll. You and him listened quietly to the rain for a while, thinking over your own things, and thinking about how this whole thing with the O'Driscolls would play out tomorrow. But you couldn't keep your mind on much else, not even on Arthur, and that man consumed a good portion of all your thoughts. You were still bitterly cold, and the sharpness of the air outside didn't help. At all. You had began shivering again as you curled yourself up into a fetal-like position, trying to get some more warmth going, but it wasn't much use.

"Ya still cold?" Arthur cocked an eyebrow at you.

"Very. This is why I don't meddle with the cold." You could see small clouds of fog each time you spoke.

"I can't start a fire with it rainin'," Arthur breathed, looking from you to his saddlebag.

He finally stood up and quickly began to unbutton his own shirt, dropping it to the ground before he kicked his boots off. Next, he worked on his gunbelt, letting it drop the the ground with a THUD as he went for the button on his pants after that. Even as cold as you were, seeing him literally strip down in front of you like this was obviously enough to take your mind off of it for the moment. You lifted your head slightly as you watched him standing there in nothing put a pair of underwear. The man seemed to be all muscle, there was almost no part of his body that didn't look like some kinda statue you'd see in a big city, or one of them old places like Greece.

He ended up pulling out a pair of dry pants from his saddlebag and put them on. When he got the fresh pants on, he walked back over to his bedroll, yanking his blanket off of it before stepping over to you, quickly gesturing to you with his head.

"Scoot," he said bluntly.

A certain look of surprise came over your face as you leaned up, forcing your tensed muscles to move as you made room for the hulking man to lay himself down beside you. He threw his blanket over you, lowering himself down beside you. He lifted the blanket up just enough to his work his way up under it. You could feel your whole body go even more tense when you felt his body heat and the way he protectively wrapped his arm around you.

You scooted yourself just a little closer to him. You laid your head down near his chest while you brought your hand up, resting it against his broad, firm chest, feeling the tussles of chesthair beneath your fingertips. You could hear the slight hitch of his breath when you touched him, and you weren't completely sure if it was because of how cold your hand was, or if he was just that touch starved. You had a feeling that it might've been both. He didn't seem the slightest bit uncomfortable about it, though.

Overall, it seemed as if it was somewhat of an open secret between the two of you, that, you both knew that each of you had some sort of attraction to the other. But how much and how far either of you were willing to go with that was still up in the air and never discussed. You knew what you wanted from Arthur, and you just hoped that somehow he knew that.

But those were thoughts for a different time. The man literally had you in his arms at this very moment, doing whatever he could to keep your from freezing to death, and that's all you were worried about. You were absolutely grateful. You laid there for the moment in a state of complete bliss. The feeling of his strong arms around you was almost too much to bear, you hadn't experienced anything else in your life that made you feel what you were feeling now.

No one else in your life had ever made you feel the way that Arthur was making you feel in this very moment, and it made your heart ache all the more because of it. You were so close to him that you could hear the slow, steady beating of his heart in his chest. It sounded more lovely than any song you had ever heard before.

"How ya feelin'?" He asked.

The grumbling of his his deep voice vibrating in his chest sending another shockwave down your spine, but, atleast this time it was for a reason that you actually enjoyed.

You rolled your eyes up to him, looking directly into those crystal blue iris' of his. This was the first time you had ever been this close to him, and you couldn't help but be in awe of him. You admired his chiselled features, and how thick his beard was beginning to get. Any other time you'd stop yourself from doing this, but he seemed to be studying your face just as much as you were his.

You finally sighed, reluctantly peeling your eyes away from the handsome cowboy. "I'm a lot better now. Thank ya, Arthur."

"Don't mention it. I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to ya. Ya already know that." You could feel him shrug as he shifted his arm, moving to rest it flat against the small of your back.

You scoffed playfully, "Yeah." You looked up at him once more, "I think I know that better than 'bout anyone."

"That ya do," he chuckled. "Don't think I'd be lettin' anyone else take my best shirt."

You scoffed at him, "This ratty ol' thing, Arthur?" You were only poking fun at him, and he knew that.

"Hey, don't be talkin' shit 'bout mine. It's keepin' ya warm, ain't it?" He chuckled again, shifting his eyes down to you.

"I won't doubt ya, but I think that's more you, ol' man." You smiled innocently back up at him.

"Who you callin' ol' man, girl?" He squinted his eyes at you in mock offense.

"You," you repeated with a coy smile.

"A'ight then, I'll remember to let ya freeze next time. Maybe one'a them grizzly bears will keep ya warm." He cut his eyes to you again, trying to hold back his smile.

You shook your head at him. "Y'know you'd never let anythin' happen to me, Arthur Morgan."

That familiar smile danced across his lips as he gave you a slow nod. "Well, I can't argue with ya on that one. Yer the pain in my ass that I jus' can't live without."

You both laughed as you laid there, arms still around eachother. It was one of the few moments where the two of you could just let your guards down and be yourselves. And getting to spend this time wrapped in his embrace only made it better. You honestly couldn't think of a moment where you had ever been happier. The two of you locked eyes with eachother once more, both of you seemed to be doing the best to stare into the other's soul, wondering who would ever be the one to make the first move.

"So," you spoke, trying to break up the silence that had set in again, "Mind tellin' me what Dutch's obsession with these O'Driscoll men is?"

Arthur sighed, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he turned his head to look up at the roof of the tent. "Ehh, it's a long story. We've been at war with 'em boys for years. Colm, the leader, killed Dutch's woman years ago. The only woman I think he ever really loved, an' he's been tryin' to kill that slippery bastard ever since."

"Oh. Well, you can't damn 'em for that. I think I'd wanna kill the person that took someone I love. But, then again, I ain't never found a man I could stand for more than a night." You shrugged.

"That right?" Arthur asked curiously.

You looked up at him, biting down on the inside of you lip. "Perhaps I fancied at least one of 'em."

Of course you were referring to Arthur himself.

"What about you. Why ain't you gotta woman?"

Arthur hummed, his chest heaving slightly at the question. "I did, long time ago. Almost got married, but she didn't want no part'a this life, an' this life is all I ever known, so, that was that. I'm a bad man, an' I know that."

You rolled your eyes at what you were hearing him saying. "You're pullin' my leg, right?"

"What?" He cut his eyes to you.

You grunted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him head on. "Arthur, you are one the of the best, most kindest men I ever met."

"She didn't see it that way," he gestured his head, still unconvinced.

"Jesus Christ. Just 'cause some woman disapproves of ya ifestyle don't make you a bad man. Do you think I'm a bad person 'cause I live this life with y'all?" You narrowed your eyes at him.

His lips parted in surprise as he shook his head quickly. "No. 'Course I don't think that. Why'd ya say some shit like'at?"

"To prove my point." You smiled mischievously, knowing you had just got one over on him.

His lips stretched into a thin line, stifling a smile. "I swear, gal."

"Ya know I'm right," you said confidently.

He hummed again, "Hah. Careful, darlin'. Wouldn't want ya gettin' too cocky."

"Yeah, yeah," you giggled.

You were finally able to relax once you were fully warm, thanks to Arthur. He still had his arms slung around you, and he seemed to be just as comfortable as you were. The feeling of his bare skin against you was the epitome of heaven.

"Ah shit," Arthur breathed, finally laying his head back down to the bedroll. "If we're gonna get the jump on them O'Driscolls, we better get some rest."

You had already began to get sleepy once you finally got comfortable. So you had no reason to argue with him about that.

"You're right about that."

"Ya want me to get back on my bedroll, or stay here?" He asked, peering up at you with those blue orbs.

"You can stay right here.. I mean, if youd like?" You asked.

He sighed, giving you a non-chalant shrug as he nestled himself down onto the bedroll. "Ah hell, I'm already comfortable where I am."

You tried to hold back the feverish nip of red at your cheeks, but there was no stopping it now. You gave him a nod, and lowered yourself back down beside him.

"Thank you again."

He turned his head in your direction, giving you a look of sincerity. "Ya don't have to thank me, (Y/N). I'd do it again."

You could feel a warmth in your chest as he spoke. His voice was gruff, but was as smooth as silk whenever he spoke. You couldn't help but smile, and you were convinced there wasn't anything you didn't like about this man. You took in a calming breathe and met his eyes again.

"I know you would. You wanna know why?" you asked as you leaned up once more, surprising him as you laid a kiss on the side of his prickly cheek, the hairs tickling your lips. "That's because you're a good man, Arthur Morgan. And you're gonna know that someday."

He looked at you in shock as a small, shy smirk tugged at the side of his lip as he watched you lower yourself back down beside him. You nuzzled your face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat again, which was beating considerably faster this time.

"Goodnight, Arthur," you whispered in a sleepy tone.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)," he answered back softly.

You could have swore you felt him pull you closer into his chest, wrapping his arm around you just a little tighter as you drifted off to sleep.

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