#moving as though hes being dragged along by some invisible force | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

no-droids · 4 years

Text

Whenever You Want

Part Fourteen of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11.2K

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

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

***

Din said he’d meet you here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. Shit. What do you do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him, frozen in place.

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

Quite suddenly you’re absolutely fucking horrified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, nobody at the table moves.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Great. Thanks.

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

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

***

The walk back to the Crest lasts an eternity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” you breathe out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #fanfic #reader-insert #rough day #no-droids #smut

6K notes · View notes

dominimoonbeam · 2 years

Text

Promises Promises

Another Sam/Vincent fic... I love the idea of these two.

Alexis has just turned someone and William drags Vincent along to check on things... only to find a terrified Sam.

tags: angst, non-con turning, hurt/comfort, blood, aftermath of violence

Promises Promises

Vincent followed William onto the elevator, going straight up to the penthouse. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Alexis had never been his favorite person and he almost never went to her apartment, but William had told him to bring a car around tonight, so he had. William had gotten into the passenger seat, so Vincent had gotten back into the driver’s. On the way, William told him that Alexis had turned someone tonight—that she and a friend had been in a car accident.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. They stepped out right into the foyer of her apartment. She rushed to meet them, sensing William.

Vincent gawked. He’d never seen her so… frazzled? Her clothes were bloody, dirty, and torn. Her hair was a mess and her eyes wild. There were empty blood bags on the floor of the hallway leading to her bedroom.

William cooed at the state of her, opening his arms to her.

Vincent saw the relief flash across her whole body when he showed her affection, as though she’d been expecting something else. Why? William had always been sweet with her, even though she rarely deserved it. She pressed into his arms and let him fuss over the state of her.

William met Vincent’s eye and then flicked his gaze toward the hall.

Vincent didn’t second guess it. He disappeared down the hall and through the open door of her bedroom. It was dark inside, but his eyes could see through even the thickest shadows.

The reek of blood, death, and fear almost repelled him as soon as he entered. The covers had been tossed off the bed and a man lay on the sheets, shaking in tight, strange convulsions. Vincent came closer, staring down at him. The man’s shirt had been ripped off, his side smeared in blood with a thick, fresh scar beneath. From the car accident? His breaths came ragged, almost choking, and Vincent realized suddenly that the man was awake and staring back at him. Why was he shaking like that? Why was he breathing like that? Was it part of turning? He didn’t remember much about being a newborn himself. Was this normal? William probably should have sent someone else to check…

He was about to step back when the man let out a choking cry, stopping him cold. He strained, as if he was trying to arch off the bed but was strapped down. “I can’t… I can’t…” he wheezed out words, panic almost tangible in the air now.

Vincent leaned closer, gaze flashing around to try to find what was holding the man down. There was blood on his mouth from feeding, and blood on his neck from dying.

“She said I can’t move and I can’t… Oh god…” he said, barely a whisper and accent thick, but it was all thunder in Vincent’s ears.

No. He wasn’t strapped down by some invisible force. His maker had told him he couldn’t move, so his body wouldn’t. “She invoked you.”

“Kill me,” the man asked, almost demanded, breaths so tight that even that seemed to be a struggle under the hold of whatever she’d commanded. He stared up at Vincent, meaning it. Begging for it.

Vincent wanted to throw himself away from this stranger, the request too much of a reminder of things he had said only a handful of years ago. But this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t his fear and pain. This was someone else’s. This wasn’t the fear of being a vampire—it was fear of Alexis and being bent to her will.

“I told her not to turn me,” he choked out, shaking so hard against her invocation that he looked like he might pass out. “I told her. Please. Make it stop.”

Holy shit.

“Vincent, get out of there!” Alexis snapped from the other room.

Sam flinched on the bed, breathing faster, trying to stay conscious.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Vincent promised without another thought, the words jumping from his soul and past his lips.

“Vincent!” Alexis shouted, boots clipping the floor on her way toward the door.

No. He couldn’t let her in that room. He couldn’t let her near this guy again.

He was at the door as soon as she opened it, pushing her down the hall and back into the living room. “What did you do?” Vincent hissed under his breath.

She snapped teeth and shoved him off just as they reached William, who look appropriately surprised but not shocked that his children were fighting.

“What is he talking about, Alexis?” William asked, always calm.

She hissed at Vincent because she couldn’t say “nothing” and lie to her maker.

Vincent pointed back at the bedroom. “He didn’t want to be turned. He’s fucking terrified of her!”

“Shut up!” Alexis yelled back.

William had gone still, focus fixed on Alexis. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

She glared at Vincent and, for a second, he thought she would lunge for him.

“Alexis,” William called, voice low and deceptively gentle. “Look at me.”

Vincent tensed, something dangerous in William’s voice that he’d never heard before. Vincent realized then that he’d never heard him angry before.

She turned, trying to look sweet now. “He’s disoriented. We were in a car accident. I will present him to you in a few days and you will see—”

“Did he ask you not to turn him?”

Her lips pressed shut.

“Alexis…” Her name came out of him in a wave of disappointment. “He was empowered, yes? He understood the decision. We agreed to respect that.”

“Was I supposed to let him die? He’ll be grateful when he’s through the blood lust.”

“Will he be grateful, or will you invoke him to show gratitude?”

The silence that stretched screamed her answer. Alexis didn’t see the difference.

“She’s invoked him already. He can’t move,” Vincent said.

She shot him a glare and he knew suddenly that he’d have to watch out for her for the rest of his life. “Snitch,” she spat like a curse.

“Release him from any invocations, Alexis,” William said. It wasn’t a request. It was a command from a maker to progeny. Suddenly the weight of just how horrific this situation was hit Vincent. The power William had over them…She would have that over this person?

“Vincent,” William spoke without taking his eyes off of her. “Take our new friend to the car.”

“What?” Alexis was already shaking her head. “No! He’s mine!”

William hissed low and she jerked a step back from him. “You are going to tell me what happened. Would you like to do it on your own or must I make you?”

Vincent took steps back from the scene, ducking away down the hall to that dark bedroom again.

He was surprised when he walked in and the bed was empty, but only for the split second until he saw the shape of a man pressed into the corner. He dragged deep breaths, still shaking but not in the same way. He flinched when Vincent came closer, so he slowed, holding out his hands. “We’re going to leave,” he said clearly. “You, me, and William.”

The man’s face pinched, confused and struggling, and then smoothed with alarm. “Solaire.”

Vincent sighed, at least he knew that much. This wouldn’t all be entirely new and impossible to him. “I’ll keep her away from you. We’ll fix this.” He winced. It was the wrong words and he knew it instantly. They couldn’t fix this. This man was dead and turned. There was no reversing that.

But the stranger didn’t point it out, he didn’t look right at him either, seeming to weigh his very few options.

Vincent waited for that tiny nod of consent. “Is it okay if I carry you? I can get us out of here fast. You won’t have to see her.”

He still wasn’t looking at Vincent’s face, but he nodded again. “Alright,” he said, voice rough and the word rounded in his accent.

Vincent crouched down and easily scooped the other man into his arms, not missing how he tensed or tried to curl in on himself and away from him. He moved fast, through the apartment and down the stairwell. Alexis was too busy with William to even make a grab for them.

He got him down to the parking garage and into the backseat of the car. Thank god he’d taken one with a backseat… “I’m Vincent,” he said, crouching in the open door. He didn’t even know his name.

The guy’s gaze lifted almost to his eyes and then jerked away with a wince. “Sam Collins.”

Vincent’s heart squeezed in his chest when he realized why he wouldn’t look at him. “I can’t trance you. No one can.”

Sam’s heart beat faster. “Alexis…”

He nodded slowly. “Makers can invoke their progeny.”

He cringed.

“William will handle it,” Vincent promised, surprising himself with how much he believed it. They’d had plenty of rocky years, but he knew William wouldn’t let this go on in his clan. It was wrong and cruel, and William wouldn’t ignore it.

Sam nodded, seeming to at least be trying to believe him.

Vincent could sympathize. He had had to take a lot on faith when he died, and it all looked so impossibly terrible in those first days, weeks, and even months. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone. “Sam?” Vincent waited until he looked back at him, meeting his gaze for the first time that night. He wondered what those eyes had looked like before he was turned, but knew he’d never ask. It would never matter. All that mattered was what happened now. “I know this is awful, but I’m going to help you in any way I can. I won’t let her near you, if you don’t want her to be. I promise.”

Sam stared at him, still shaky, but slowly relaxed. He nodded tightly, once. “Thank you.”

Vincent stayed with him until he fell asleep in the backseat and William returned to the car. “She won’t be able to invoke him again,” the king said before getting into the front seat.

They drove home without another word and Vincent put Sam to bed in William’s house.

It was almost dawn and William told Vincent he could leave, he didn’t have to stay. William would untangle the mess and get Sam through his newborn phase. Alexis would not be a problem.

But Vincent didn’t go home, not yet. He’d stay at the main house for a few nights…maybe a few weeks. He’d made a promise, after all.

#redacted asmr #redactedverse #sam/vincent #angsty #hurt/comfort #traumatic turning by Alexis #aftermath of violence #dominimoonbeam #fanfic

100 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

Laisse tomber les filles 7

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; size kink; age gap; manipulation; sexual acts and dubcon (not explicitly tagged for a surprise but nothing extreme).

This is a dark!fic and Lee Bodecker x (short) reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You find yourself ostracized on campus by your shyness, but your reticence won’t deter an unwanted suitor.

Note: We back at it again! Happy Tuesday.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

‘When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue...I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn’t, and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another. I thought a spectacular change would come over me the day I crossed the boundary line.’

You read and reread the paragraph. You couldn’t help it. The first time you read that book, you just didn’t get the cynicism. There were still parts you couldn’t quite relate to. But that passage sank into you like a pebble in water. You felt changed already and after something so little.

You hadn’t seen Lee since Saturday. He had your number now and called at night. A few times, there was noise in the background; people, cars, life. You realised he must’ve been at a payphone, taking a moment away from his patrol. That was another thing about him; he felt so established, so wise, and that made you feel even less.

When the phone began to ring that night, you ignored it. And when it stopped, you picked up the receiver and dialed the only number you knew. Your mom picked up and you heard the sink running in the background. She was always busy when you called.

“Mom,” you said, “it’s me.”

“Oh, hi, dear,” she replied in her creaky tone, “how are you? Oh, is something wrong?”

“Um… I’m okay, I just wanted to call, I…” you thought of telling her about Lee but you weren’t really sure how. You weren’t even sure why you called her, only that you felt alone. “I miss you and daddy.”

“We miss you, too,” you heard her steps and her grunt as she stretched the cord and twisted off the faucet. “He’s been working hard down at the steel yard and he’s so proud. All the other men tell him to hush up when he brags about you.”

“Yeah? I… I’m working hard. Got an A on my last paper,” you played with the coiled cord.

“That’s great, dear,” she chimed, “are you sure you’re okay? You sound tired.”

“I am tired,” you said, “that’s all. Studying and all that.”

“I hope so. I wouldn’t want you going out late to one of those parties,” she tittered, “Noreen’s son got arrested at one of those and spent a night in jail. They spent their mortgage to get him out.”

“No, no, I don’t, um, go to parties,” you assured, not adding that no one would even think to invite you to one.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I’ll have to call back tomorrow,” she sighed as you heard the door clamour, “your father’s so intent on hurting himself these days.”

“Okay, um, it’s alright, I’ll talk later, love y--” the phone went dead and you listened to the dull tone.

You put the receiver back in the cradle and tapped your fingers on your lips. You picked up your book and sat back on your bed. You couldn’t focus on the words though as your mind lingered on the familiar sounds of home. You missed it terribly. You just wanted to take the bus and go hide in your old childhood bed.

The phone rang again. You knew it wasn’t your mother. You left it and when it silenced, there was only a second before it started again. You waited until the next lull and moved the receiver off the cradle and let the low hum rise from the speaker. You kept it off the hook and closed your book.

You didn’t want to deal with any of that today. Not Lee, not Plath, not the plague of woes that roiled your stomach. You flopped onto your bed and pulled your pillow over your head. You weren’t going to think again until your morning lecture.

📚

You sat near the front of the hall with your elbow on the small fold-out desk. You swirled your pen lazily in the air as you listened to the professor expound on the flaws of historical revisionism. He wasn’t the type to entertain questions or comments, he merely ranted and expected you to note those few words of value amidst the sea of thoughts.

You yawned, exhausted despite an early night. You felt empty and drained those last four days. Ever since…

You didn’t think about it. Tried not to even as it tugged at your mind. When the memory managed to poke through, you felt the same tingle between your legs and your cheeks burned in humiliation.

How had you let it happen? How could you let yourself do that?

You were so confused by it all. How could it be wrong if Lee said it was right? He was older, he was a cop, and he knew much more than you. You never even kissed a boy before him and he was so confident in everything he did that he must be doing it all right.

Besides, after everything, if you refused him, you’d have only been leading him on and using him for his kindness, even if you didn’t realise what you were doing. Because what you did know was that he was a man and you were a woman and that he was doing nice things for you. And you accepted them all. The least you could do was bide his affection. That was the age old exchange, was it not?

“Next week, we’ll review chapters five and six,” the professor’s tone piqued as his ramble subsided, “I expect a class discussion and you can expect ten percent of your mark to be evaluated from your contribution and I will know if you just ‘skimmed’ the introduction.’

The class grumbled as he dismissed you and you stood slowly, stretching the cramp from your leg. You packed up your bag and hauled it on your shoulder. You had a gap between that class and your afternoon publishing class. You trailed out behind the flow of chattering students but found many of them lowered their voices as they came out into the hall.

There voices fell to whispers as they entered the hall. The sight of a brown hat assured you of the reason. Sheriff Bodecker stood against the painted brick and watched the students pass by, each eyeing him nervously and some chuckling under their breaths nervously. You tried to hide behind a taller student but your name tripped you up.

Despite your efforts to maintain your invisibility, he’d spotted you and you knew you could run away. Several of your peers craned around to watch you, no doubt suspecting some trouble on your part. You dragged your feet and stepped out of the tide of fleeing co-eds to stand along the wall with Lee.

“Hi,” you said quietly.

“Young lady,” he said staunchly and kept his eyes on the other students, nodding at them darkly as they passed.

He waited until the hall was empty before he turned on you. You fidgeted and caught your bag as it slipped from your shoulder. Your thoughts wrinkled above your brow and you stared at his brown leather shoes.

“How did you… find me here?”

He was silent as he reached in his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it and showed you a print-out of your schedule.

“Easy enough,” he tapped his badge nonchalantly, “I was worried. You didn’t answer last night.”

“I fell asleep early,” you said weakly, “morning lecture, you know?”

“Mmm,” he hummed, “not that early.”

“I’m sorry, I was sleep--”

“You’re no good at lying and I don’t like you telling me fibs,” he growled, “you playin’ around with me, honey.”

“No, I…” you blinked as he folded the paper back into his pocket and pushed his jacket back to settle his hand on his pistol.

“Did you forget who I am? What I am?” he arched a brow darkly.

“N-No, sir, I… I got schoolwork and--”

“You can’t stop and talk to me for ten minutes?” he challenged, “you hurt me, honey. I’m out on patrol all night, in danger, and the only thing I got to look forward to is hearing your sweet voice.”

“I, um, I… er, I’m confused,” you eked out, “I don’t know… I…”

“Honey,” he leaned in and his hot breath glossed over you as he lowered his voice, “you know what this is, we both know what a bad girl you were on Saturday.”

“I didn’t…” you swallowed and choked on your voice, “I gotta go to the library--”

You tried to turn away but were pulled back by his tight grip on your arm. He forced you against the wall and knocked the wind from you as your bag tumbled from your arm. You gasped and stared up at him in fright. In that moment, he seemed bigger than ever; taller, thicker, and strong as hell. Stronger than you for sure.

“You don’t go nowhere ‘less I say you do,” his other hand shifted on his gun, “you got me?”

“What are you-- I didn’t… why are you being mean?”

“Me? Honey pie, you been avoiding me and I’m mean?” he snarled.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, I’m just... busy,” you whimpered as he squeezed your arm so tight it throbbed, “you’re hurting me.”

“You’re hurting me,” he hissed, “you think I got time to be comin’ down here on duty to find you?”

“You didn’t have to--”

“I did,” he barked, “I had to make sure you weren’t hussyin’ around with any other boys, like I found you last week.”

“I told you, that wasn’t--”

“Shhhhh,” his hand flew to your chin and forced your mouth shut, “I don’t got the time for this, honey. I’ll be around tonight and you’ll wear a pretty dress for me, won’t you?”

You clenched your jaw and nodded stiffly as his thumb toyed with your lip. He smiled and the tension left his grasp.

“Good girl,” he drew away and squared his shoulders, “you be ready at six and don’t keep me waitin’ again.”

“Yes, sir,” you croaked.

“Mmm,” he nodded with a smirk, “you know, I think I do prefer ‘sir’.” He bent and kissed your lips before you could turn away. You let him and he stood straight again and adjusted his belt, “six o’clock, honey pie.”

#lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #dark!lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #fic #series #dark fic #dark!fic #laisse tomber les filles #the devil all the time #college au #au

377 notes · View notes

hpimaginesandblurbs · 3 years

Note

hey hey hey, could you make sub harry x dom fem reader smut where the reader finds out that harry spying on her in the showers with his cloak, so she takes revenge after the quidditch match on the showers? basically shower sex but reader being dom as hell. face slapping, choking, eating out, lots of degration, just pure sub harry smut!! and i loveee your writing btw love 💖🤧

pairing: harry potter x reader

warning(s): 18+, dom!reader, mentions of voyeurism, shower sex, oral (female receiving), choking, slapping (like once), degradation, mentions of orgasm control/edging

word count: 1.6k

a/n: sorry i haven’t uploaded in a while, i’ve been busy but i have the week off so i hope to post more often! as always, enjoy!

Once you saw the last of the team travel out of the locker room, you were quick to barge in - knowing your boyfriend, and the team’s captain, was the only one left.

He was taking his jersey off when you arrived, his muscular back facing you.

“You were great out there,” you said softly as you approached him, wrapping yours arms around him from the back despite how sweaty he was. You knew you’d be showering with him anyways. It was a little post-game ritual the two of you often loved to share.

Harry leaned into your touch, letting some of the weight from his sore body rest on you. You almost felt bad for what you were about to do to him. He didn’t even know what was coming. Didn’t even know he had been caught this morning. But you surely weren’t going to let it slide.

“Where were you this morning?” You asked him, innocently enough.

“Went to breakfast then came down here,” he answered easily, moving out of your grasp to turn the water on.

“And before that?” You asked him, raising a sly brow at him.

You saw him freeze for a moment, but he recovered quickly. It almost made you giggle - the thought of him thinking he could get away with it.

“What do you mean?” He asked, not turning around to face you. Instead, he opted to begin removing his pants.

“Don’t act stupid, baby boy,” you said, almost mockingly. “We both know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He froze for real then, his hands glued to the hem of his pants. You could practically feel him wracking his brain for something to say, but you both knew he already lost.

When he turned to face you, his expression was filled with guilt and shame. It was almost cute how pitiful he looked. You walked up closer to him, completely invading his space until your chest was pressed against his. You could hear the way his breath hitched before he released a shaky breath, and you knew he was exactly where you wanted him.

“Did you think it was okay to peep on me in the shower? You’re not slick, you know? I know when you’re using the cloak,” you questioned, referencing what had happened just that morning.

You had been taking a shower, excitedly getting ready to watch your boyfriend play in his game today, when you heard an unmistakable swishing along the bathroom floor. You barely even had to look up when you saw it hit the light in exactly the right way. To anyone else, it may have just been a trick of the eye, but you knew exactly what it was. You had been underneath it enough times to know. It was Harry, underneath his invisibility cloak, watching you shower.

And as aroused as you were that Harry had managed to sneak all the way in there just for you, just to see you naked, you refused to give him the show he wanted. After all, he didn’t need to know you knew was there. So you continued your shower as you normally would, finally hearing the unmistakable swishing leave the bathroom once more.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, looking down at his feet bashfully.

“I’m sure you’re not, but you’ll make it up to me. Won’t you, baby?” You asked teasingly, palming him through his briefs to find him already half hard. When all he could do was whimper, you couldn’t help but chuckle, but you let it slide. “Help me strip.”

He moved eagerly, quickly helping you out of your layers until you were naked. You moved under the water, letting it encase you before you turned back to him. He was watching you with eagle eyes, not daring to take them off of you.

“Down on your knees, baby boy. I don’t know what you think you were doing, but I’m in charge now,” you told him, spreading your legs seductively, leaving him with a perfect spot to place his mouth.

He was down on his knees within a second, not even minding the cold, hard bathroom floor. His lips sucked around your clit harshly, forcing your hips to buck up from the wall. He didn’t miss a single beat, almost effortlessly working your body with his lips and tongues. Regardless of how you felt about this morning, your man was good and you both knew it.

“Look at you finally being good. Maybe if you had been good all day, I would have been the one on my knees,” you told him between your moans. You felt more than heard him whimper against your body, picturing the roles reversed.

He got you off quickly after that, wanting to prove to you so badly that he was good, so that hopefully, if you allowed it, he could get off too. You came with a deep moan, your back arched against the cool shower wall and your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him as close as possible to your body. His tongue didn’t stop until you were writhing, forcing him off of you.

When you looked down at him again, a whole new rush of arousal shot through your body. His hair was a beautiful mess, tousled under your fingers and the water. His lips were swollen and wet, slightly parted as he finally got the chance to breathe. And his eyes. Oh his fucking eyes. He looked like an absolute glorious fucked out mess even though you hadn’t even touched him yet. He looked as breathless as you felt. The power you had over this man was borderline insanity.

“Do you think you did a good enough job to fuck me?” You asked him lowly, watching his eyes widen.

“Please. I’ve wanted to all day,” he told you honestly, the plea evident in his eyes.

“I really don’t think you deserve it after your stunt this morning but I’ll be nice. You can fuck me, but you better make me cum twice of your cock before you even think about cumming,” you gave in with a dark chuckle, watching as a blush crept to his face and his cock twitched.

He was on his feet in an instant, easily lifting you up and balancing your body between the wall and his strong chest. It didn’t take him much longer to slip his cock inside of you and from the angle, you could feel everything. Every vien, every ridge, every throb. He definitely chose correctly when he picked this position.

WIth every thrust, his pelvis was brushing against your clit and the tip of his cock was perfectly hitting your g-spot. You couldn’t even hold the moans back. He was proving just how good he was tenfold, he deserved to hear how good he was making you feel.

“You were so fucking bad this morning, you know that?” You asked, slowly dragging your hand up his chest and to his throat. You didn’t clench down hard, but the fact that your hand was there was enough to make him moan. “Who gave you the filthy idea that peeping on me was the right thing to do?”

“Y/N, fuck,” he said back, not quiet an answer, but you knew exactly what it meant. It meant that as your orgasm was building, so was his and he was having a hard time controlling it between your words and your hand so perfectly placed.

And you knew exactly what to do to tip him over the edge. To make him cum and break the rules some more just so you could fuck with him more later. It was devious, but it was the perfect punishment.

“You’re not showing me how good you can be. I know how close you are. Are you thinking about me in the shower again? How good I looked touching myself while you watched?” You questioned, your hand only gripping his throat tighter.

“No. Fuck. I’m being good, please,” he begged aimlessly, thrusting inside of you erratically, just proving how close to the edge he was.

“If you were good, you wouldn’t act like a desperate little boy,” you told him, trying your best to sound coherent through your own moans.

You gripped his chin between your fingers to hold him steady before bringing up your other hand and swinging it against his face, a resounding crack echoing around the empty locker room. His head remained steady, but his entire body trembled. He managed to keep you upright, but he was breaking down slowly, spiraling to his release.

“You better make me cum before you do,” you got out, at least managing to sound menacing enough.

“I’m so close. Please cum, please,” Harry whimpered, fighting against himself to get you there.

No matter what, you could never say that Harry Potter was a quitter. He raced to get you to your finish, and when you did, you contracted around him so tightly he hissed and you released with a scream, unable to hold back the sound. He came with a groan, his head buried in your shoulder.

You took a moment to catch your breath before opening your mouth to speak. “I thought I told you to make me cum twice before you did,” you offered weakly, still a little breathless. But nevertheless, your words had their desired effect.

Harry’s head immediately snapped up and you could already see the apology in his eyes. You chuckled slightly as you slid back down the wall, gracefully landing on your feet.

“Don’t worry, baby boy. You’ll learn your lesson for that one later - nothing a few edges won’t be able to fix. But first we need to finish your shower, hm?” You asked softly, moving his messy hair back out of his face.

He gulped but gave you a steady nod before flashing a barely there grin. He was a little shit - basically asking for a punishment. But he was all yours.

#harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter blurb #harry potter smut #harry james potter

571 notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Quite at Home in Hell

For @whumptober2021 day six & day 21: blood-matted hair & hunger

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, noncon touch, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper, biting, captivity, dehumanizing language

Vampire Chris AU Masterlist | Follows directly from this piece

Thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German & @alittlewhump for helping with the French!

1918, the Western Front of WWI

The prisoners are held in a small, hastily constructed sort of barracks far too close to the front lines.

Gefrieter Erich Eeten knows why, of course. The hope is that his own people will hesitate before they blast this bit of dirt apart, that they will be concerned enough about killing their fellow soldiers that they’ll give up a few key moments of pause to the French, the Americans, and the British. Give them the advantage in a firefight.

They want to shield themselves with the bodies of the men in this tent, unwashed and dirty, who are exhausted from a day spent digging trenches for their enemies to hide in.

He can’t exactly blame the Allied powers for it.

It’s a brilliant bit of strategy, if less and less effective as men on both sides become so battle-hardened that they cease to care about their own lives, let alone each other. Still. He’d almost rather be at one of the true POW camps further away from the front lines, where the Red Cross at least comes to check on their treatment.

Here, so close to the front, there is no one keeping watch on what happens to them at all… and the longer the war draws on, the more viciously they kill each other, the more the prisoners kept here too far for oversight feel like they are teetering at the edge of some terrible invisible cliff.

There’s a stiff breeze outside the tent, whipping the heavy, waterproofed canvas edges. They’re flapping a little, making a sound that Erich will one day hear in his nightmares. The cold sneaks in through the slight space between tent and ground, and the men in here are huddled together for warmth, sharing the meager blankets they are given.

At least, though, their captors are officially the French.

Say what you will about the blasted frogs, they never deny their prisoners a nip of strong cognac to help hold off the cold. The Americans, on the other hand, seem to be laboring under an enforced lack of good liquor, not just for prisoners but for their own soldiers, too. That seems a worse crime than nearly any other, in circumstances like this. To force a man to be a cruel killer without even a nip or three to soothe his conscience… to Erich, it sounds like brutality.

There’s a bit of a scuffle outside the tent, and the prisoners look up. Erich is at the back, leaning back against the rough frame of a cot he sleeps on at night, cards in his hands wrapped in strips of bandage cloth just for warmth. What happened to his gloves, he’s no idea. Probably one of the Allies took them for a souvenir.

The canvas wraps work well enough.

“Au garde-à-vous, prisonniers! Sur vos pieds!” Erich knows the voice - it’s the main guard of the tent they sleep in, a man named Alain who looks entirely too old for war. Here he is, anyway, all moustache and silvering hair, pulling open the entrance of the tent, moving the flap aside.

Erich glances left and then right, meeting the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the half-dozen of them that share this single small tent push heavily to their feet, shifting apart as much as the tent will allow, hands behind their back.

His stomach dips, a low drumbeat of dread alongside his heart. Something tells him this isn’t a social call he wants to be part of.

He’s even more certain when a tall, thin American steps into the entrance, nearly silhouetted by the dim, barely-there light behind them. Their hair is long, in a loose plait with parts undone, and their eyes gleam, briefly seeming to glow in the dark. Erich is reminded of his mother’s cat, who would stalk mice at night and whose eyes did just the same when light hit them.

He feels very… mouselike.

They wear a medic’s uniform, but it’s a little tattered. There are unrepaired bullet holes through the heavy woolen tunic, and they move with grace and disdain for how heavy wet wool must be, how itchy and uncomfortable. As if it simply doesn’t matter to them.

Because, of course, it doesn’t. The damn thing is a walking corpse, baring fangs in a grisly smile.

“Hello, soldiers,” They say, in a voice that isn’t quite a purr. “You all look a fright.”

“Verdammte Blutsauger,” Lukas Müller mutters to his right.

Erich hates the bloodsuckers. Everyone does. They come with the Americans, monsters brought from the shadows as a kind of secret weapon. Erich has never seen vampires out in the open before - back home, they are creatures of hiding. They live in cellars and basements and houses with the windows painted in thick matte black. They sweep along the streets at night, a risk for anyone who stays out too late.

But they’re not part of anything.

Here, they’re death itself, demons quite at home in hell.

Oh, sure, the Americans claim they use them only for bringing the injured back to safety - and some of them, he’s sure, are kept to that purpose. Some kind of ability to deny the truth of them, if there are enough seen doing only what the official story claims.

Erich, though, has seen one dispatching wounded German soldiers one by one left behind in a field, killing them before they can be recovered by their own people. He’s seen one with fangs buried in the throat of a man who would otherwise have lived. They’re listed as medics, but those things are what keeps the Germans on their own side of the battle lines after dark, and everyone knows it.

His own side brings canisters of poison gas. The Americans respond with an army laced around its edges in abominations the gas can’t touch.

The vampire sighs, faintly disappointed. “No good morning for me from my audience?”

Erich speaks the best English out of them all - his grandmother was English, taught it to his father in the cradle, who taught it to him. It’s made him more or less the spokesman for his small group of prisoners, and for the larger group when they are moved and briefly allowed to interact with the others. He clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. Lukas and Vilhelm, on his other side, nudge him just a little with their shoulders. It’s meant to be support, he supposes.

He feels like he’s being pushed onto a target painted on the floor, one invisible only to him.

“Good morning,” Erich says, voice flat, letting his accent roll far more heavily off his tongue than it needs to, turning good into gut. It’s always good to let the enemy believe you know less than you really do, so he pretends that English comes with difficulty and not ease. “Should you not turn to ash?”

Their eyebrows raise just slightly, not quite in amusement, and they give a brittle little laugh. “First off, Fritz, that’s a myth. Secondly, it’s not even morning. Probably close to evening now, honestly.”

Erich rolls his eyes. Lukas mutters something under his breath next to him, but the slight creaking of their boots seems to cover it too much to be understandable. Erich sighs, heavily. “Then why did you have us say to you good morning, Blutsauger?”

“Because it’s funny that you don’t know what time it is, of course. All right, who here is Fritz, who is Hans, and who am I just going to call Kraut?”

“No one here is named Hans and no one is Fritz, fangs.” Erich tips his chin down slightly, a lock of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes. “May you drown in holy water.”

He spits at the vampire’s feet.

He feels a pang of regret when the vampire turns to look at Alain, the French guard and points back at Erich, cheerful. “I want that one. He’s rude.”

“Das ist pech,” Lukas whispers.

When Alain simply stares at them blankly - and Erich knows Alain speaks English, they’ve spoken before in a tongue they had in common when neither spoke the other’s mother-tongue - the vampire groans. They don’t seem to know Alain is pretending not to understand them. “Fine. Let’s try this again. Je veux cet homme, s'il vous plaît.”

Alain’s expression tightens a little. He nods, and he won’t look Erich in the eyes as he draws the entrance open a little wider. “Emmenez-le alors.”

“Merci beaucoup,” The vampire says, giving a little bow. Erich backs up, but there isn’t anywhere to go, and none of them is armed. Besides, any resistance is met with removal of meals, with being denied the smallest comforts that make this bearable. With the possibility of all of them being handed over to a vampire, not just one.

This war had been civilized, in some ways, before the Americans brought their monsters.

It’s not actually true, but in this moment it comforts him to pretend it, to have a place to put his furious disgust as the vampire’s thin, long fingers close around his arm and yank him forwards with inhuman strength. They’re clicking their tongue against the top of their mouth in a strange animal way. Erich thinks again of his mother’s cat, making just that sound watching birds outside the windows.

“May your hands be pressed into the holy cross,” Erich snaps as he’s forced out into the freezing humid air outside the tent. There are others walking around - a war camp is never less than controlled chaos, no matter the time of day - but none of them will look at him. No one acknowledges him, although they’ve all seen this before. They know what’s going to happen here.

“Je déteste ça,” Alain mutters.

A bell is rung, clanging in a discordant note, and soldiers move into the POW tents. Erich is led towards a pole in the center of the ring of prisoner tents, something that a half-century ago might still have been a flogging post, a punishment for mutinous men.

“Crosses don’t really harm us,” The vampire says, careless and casual. “Very little does, actually. I’m a big fan of garlic, for instance. Silver, though…” They hum, dragging a fingernail over Erich’s wrist. “That hurts.”

He jerks his hand back and free, only to have the vampire laugh, bright and brilliant, and grab him again, spinning him around until they’re behind him, chest pressed to his back, using that demon strength to twist his arms up his back until his bones creak and ache, forcing him forwards towards the pole.

“I hope you have silver shoved down your throat,” Erich manages, but his heart is pounding in fear as the vampire grabs his hair and jerks his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the rough-hewn wood. Splinters bite into his skin and he grunts as his arms are moved, forced to encircle the pole. His wrists are tied with rope, leaving him looking a little ridiculous, as if he decided today to go for a hug.

Another rope goes around his shoulders, keeping him in this awkwardly pressed position. He tries to kick back, pulling viciously, but then his ankles come next. The rope goes from them to small metal hooks driven hard into the ground, keeping his legs more than shoulder-width apart. He can’t kick, or even balance himself. He must rely entirely on the pole he’s tied to in order to stay upright.

“I’m going to enjoy you,” The vampire murmurs.

Behind Erich, the sounds of a crowd gathering begin. Soft mumbles, exhalations of surprise and disgust. He closes his eyes against the rush of heat he feels - more rage than tears - knowing the prisoners are being brought out to witness this, to be shown what could happen to them next.

It does an excellent job of making them grateful for every day it’s not.

The French commander of the POW camp is barking a running list of commands to his men, but Erich doesn’t speak enough French to clearly understand them. Someone comes close by behind him, and he jolts as there’s a clap to his back. There’s a laugh behind him, not the vampire but someone else.

He manages to see from the corner of his eyes. A different American, of course. Comfortable enough with the vampire to get this close to them.

“Isn’t this a sorry sight,” The American says, and laughs. “What’s the prize for, fangs?”

The vampire lifts their hand, gently brushing Erich’s hair from his eyes. He spits in their face, this time, and is gratified by a flash of very real anger that briefly overtakes their constant amusement. They slowly wipe the spit away, then clean their hand - sort of - on Erich’s uniform.

It’s so dirty they’re probably even less clean after that than they were before.

“Reported a desertion. Now I get fresh food.” They lean down, meeting Erich’s furious hazel eyes. “I’m so hungry, Fritz. All the time. Imagine being surrounded by schnitzel and cabbage as far as the eye can see, and you’re not supposed to eat your fill. Imagine how empty you would feel.”

“Fick dich.”

“What, you won’t even curse at me in English anymore?” The vampire pouts, lower lip sticking out. He hates them more than he’s hated anyone during this godforsaken war. “Come on, you have to understand how hard this is for me, right?”

Erich ignores them, jerks his wrists again, trying to yank himself free of the ropes through sheer force. His back already is aching from being slightly bent forward, his thigh muscles stretched. He does the only thing he can think of - he slowly, with effort, drags his face along the wood and manages to turn away, and look the other direction.

“Well, fine. I suppose you’ll be mad at me for acting like you all eat schnitzel and cabbage, too,” The vampire says behind him. He doesn’t dignify them with an answer. He fixes his eyes, instead, on a point in the dark roiling clouds in the sky, above the remaining trees.

“The prisoners are well-positioned to witness,” A French officer states, speaking with a light, dancing accent but without the difficulty and hesitancy some of the regular infantry have. “You may feed when ready, Private Saathoff.”

That gets Erich’s attention. “Saathoff?”

“That’s right.” The vampire laughs, stepping up behind him. Their fingers move through the hair that curls, grown a little too long, over the back of his neck. He shudders with disgust at the intimacy of it. Their mouth moves close to his ear, but there is no heat of breath. Only the brush of lips. “Ich bin Deustcher, genau wie du.”

“Nothing like me,” Erich grinds out with his teeth gritted together so hard his jaw is already aching. He presses his forehead into the rough wooden pole and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

If he’s going to die…

“Vater unser im Himmel,” he begins, halting. He hasn’t seen the inside of a church since he was fourteen, and that was twelve years ago now. Still, the words to the Lord’s Prayer come easily, more muscle memory than thought. “Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme, Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel so auf Erden-”

“Zu jeder anderen Zeit hätte ich dich als Haustier behalten.” They use his hair to jerk his head back, and their fangs jam into his neck with a flash of sudden agony.

It’s a white-hot pain that races down his spine to the very tips of his toes, and Erich screams, the sound strangled and thin but still echoing, bouncing off of trees and tents and back into his mind, crashing like the shells that slam into the earth.

Lukas jerks forwards as if to run to help him and is pushed back by one of the French soldiers, their expression set in a grim line. They have to twist Lukas’s arms behind his back to hold him as he shouts, angrily, that this isn’t fair, it’s against the laws of conduct.

There’s laughter, at that, from their captors.

The other prisoners grumble and shift uncomfortably, look at anything but Erich whenever they can, but they can’t escape the sound of his horror, of his pain.

There’s no pulse of the much-spoken-of venom. There’s no numbness to drift in, there’s no fog to cloud out his awareness of what is happening to him. Every muscle of Erich’s body is tensed tight enough to snap the bones they wrap around, the veins standing out in his throat as if giving them a roadmap of where the food can be found.

He didn’t know vampires could choose not to use the venom.

He didn’t know they could make it feel like this.

When his scream dies, he can’t get enough breath to make another. All he can do is let out high-pitched, thin whimpers and cries. Spots dance before his eyes. Beneath the sound of his heart pounding in a sudden panic to push more blood faster to replace what is being lost, he can feel - can hear - a low rumbling sound against his back.

Erich has heard the rumors that vampires purr, and now he knows they aren’t rumors at all.

He can feel it right through his back, just barely. It’s a vibration that would be pleasant if it didn’t seem to be somehow making everything hurt even worse, waking up his nerves the way the venom is supposed to deaden them. Their hands are closed around his ribs, pressing the tips of their fingers rhythmically against them, as if playing a piano, as if he is dough to be kneaded, as if he isn’t human at all.

As if he’s nothing but a field mouse that found his way into the wrong house, and the vampire is the housecat who has waited too long for a living toy to torment.

There is no prayer, in pain like this. There is no thought beyond the body’s fight for survival and the mind wanting to flee from it, if surviving means this feeling will not end. There is nothing but the feeling of his blood being pulled forcefully out of his body, nothing but his nerves screaming to escape it, nothing but the bite of the ropes that ensure he can do no more than jerk in his bonds and choke on his agony.

It feels like forever - and like a moment - when their fangs pull free, their cool rough tongue lapping at the wounds to close them, purring against his ear with contentment. Their fingers knead into his skin a little bit longer, drawing the moment out as he slumps against the wooden pole he’s tied to. He’s only standing because of the ropes.

Pain rolls through him, breaking against the edges of his body from the inside, like the smaller waves after a storm falling onto a beach already strewn with debris. He slumps. His own breath is a rasping wheeze, taking far more effort than it should.

Nein, Erich, Erich stirb nicht…” Lukas’s voice comes from somewhere so far away, filtering through the noise in Erich’s mind slowly. He can’t even begin to form a response. His mouth won’t answer his commands. It only hangs open, panting, pulling in the chilly air over his tongue. He starts to shiver as the breeze hits the cold sweat in his hair and on his neck, cuts through his uniform somehow.

He doesn’t have enough blood left to warm himself.

Their tongue licks up his neck behind his ear, matting his own blood into his hair there, sticky and hot. It starts to cool and dry immediately in the cold air. Erich’s stomach twists.

“Oh, he won’t die,” The vampire coos, petting through his hair slowly. Their nails scratch at his scalp. “Not today.” Their mouth presses back against his ear. “Thanks for the meal, Erich. And for being so entertaining. Maybe I’ll find you after the war. I’ll buy you a beer… and some schnitzel.”

They push themself away from him, turning away to wipe a bit of blood from the corners of their mouth, and walk with a jaunty step through an opening that appears in the ring of watching prisoners, whose eyes follow them with apprehension and no small amount of fear.

When Alain comes up to untie him, Erich simply collapses into the Frenchman’s arms as soon as he’s free of the ropes. Lukas is allowed to move up to stand at his other side, putting Erich’s limp left arm around his shoulders, while Alain supports his right. Erich lets his head fall into Lukas’s shoulder, hitching his breath as he forces down a sob.

“Wh… why do you let them do this?” He asks, his English slurred with the exhaustion that means he is dragged with his boots carving paths through the mud back towards the tent.

Alain is silent until Erich is dropped onto his cot, the hard frame digging into Erich’s back right through the thin mattress. He glances over his shoulder, the three of them alone in here for the moment, and then looks back.

“It is believed that this is how we will win,” He says, and pats Erich’s hand. “My apologies. I do not believe in the monsters, but I am not the one to run this war.”

“None of us are,” Erich says, weakly. He closes his eyes. “We are only the ones who must fight in it.”

There’s a pause, and Alain’s exhale is audible in the quiet tent. “I will ensure you are given extra meat rations tonight, and I will find you some schnapps. Essaye de dormir, maintenant, si tu peux,” he says with soft regret lacing his voice. Then there is a shuffle of footsteps, and he’s gone.

Lukas shifts and sits with his back to the cot, in the same position Erich was in before. He swallows, picking up the abandoned cards from the game they’d been playing, looking over Erich’s hand. “You’d have won, you know, on the next hand,” He says in German, before he reaches out to grab the others’ cards and reshuffle the deck.

“Do I still get my… my winnings?” Erich can barely move his lips to speak. He’s so tired. So, so tired. He can feel his hands starting to shake, now that it’s over, the trembling moving slowly up his limbs, stuttering his breathing.

“My share of the liquor? Not on your life.” Lukas pauses, and then his tone gentles as he looks Erich over again. “You know what... of course you can. You’ll need warmth. What did the bloodsucker say to you, anyway? I couldn’t hear.”

Erich thinks about the promise to find him after the war, about the way they spoke into his ear as if he were little more than a toy top to be spun at their command. In another time, I’d keep you for a pet, they had whispered, before they bit down.

He shakes his head, slowly. “Lies,” He answers, and feels the softer-edged darkness of sleep begin to take him.

“Lies?”

“I hope… I hope they were lies.”

For the moment, at least, he is too exhausted by the present to feel terror for the future.

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump @thefancydoughnut

105 notes · View notes

fanficshiddles · 3 years

Text

Tear You To Pieces, Chapter 9

Kelly shut the curtains as soon as she got into the rather shabby B&B room. But it was the best she could afford in the meantime, she had no idea how long she was going to have to be on the run for, so didn’t want to blow all of her money too quickly.

She’d managed to budget herself to last on the run for around a year. She had to include hair dye into the monthly budget. As even though it had been two months, she had no idea if Loki was still looking for her or not, so she only went out in disguise to be on the safe side.

She was still not over what happened, what was still happening. And she knew it was all her fault, she would never be able to get over it. She had unleashed the monster, literally.

Not bothering to turn the TV on, she just got into bed and tried not to think about it all. The news was always filled with Loki now, and how he was conquering the world. Country after country was flocking to kneel under Loki’s rule. Otherwise, he was slaying every country that dared to defy him. Which soon brought them to heel, before they lost everyone.

Kelly was really jumpy, every noise right outside her room had her entire body going ridged, expecting the worst. It took her heart a while to stop racing after each noise. She knew she couldn’t carry on living like this, but she didn’t know what else to do.

Turning onto her side she curled up and cried herself to sleep, like she did every night. But her sleep was never peaceful, it was always laced with nightmares. Always of him. Most of the time, he was looming over her with her sisters’ body at his feet.

She woke up in a sweat, calling out for her sister. How she wished everything was just a nightmare, but no. She was living a nightmare.

Keeping on the move was her plan, so since she was awake anyway, even though it was only five in the morning, she decided to move on to the next place to stay. She had made it all the way up to Edinburgh by foot mainly but also a couple of bus trips. She just kept moving around from city to city, town to town. Wherever she could get to.

As Kelly made her way down the road, there was just a few people going about at that time of the morning. But she kept getting shivers down her spine, and not from the cold. It was like someone was watching her…

When she looked round over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of a tall, black-haired man amongst a small crowd of early risers heading to work. Her heart started racing in fear, thinking it was Loki, she quickly moved on and walked as fast as she could. When she glanced back in the direction of the man, there was no sign of him anymore.

She tried to shake it off, thinking it had just been her imagination. Surely if it had been Loki, he would’ve made his presence more known.

But as she made her way further into the centre of the city, she still had a really bad feeling that she was being followed. So she rushed into the bus station and bought a ticket to head further North, maybe if she headed out of the cities and tried the quieter villages, she might be able to stay under the radar better.

Just before she was able to pay for her ticket, there was sudden screaming and panic within the station.

‘What the…’ She looked around in confusion, but then she felt pure dread run through her veins as she saw the reason for the panic and chaos.

Loki.

He had stormed into the station in his regal armour, the biggest grin formed on his face when he locked eyes on Kelly.

‘No…’ She gasped out quietly, her legs suddenly turned to jelly as she tried to run with the others that were panicking.

Loki made his way towards Kelly straight away, with large purposeful strides as he towered above everyone else that was scarpering around him in terror.

She started running for the back exit, but Loki reached out towards her and Kelly suddenly felt as if there was a collar around her neck that was suddenly pulling her backwards towards him. She brought her hands up to her neck but couldn’t feel anything there, but there was definitely something pulling her back.

She panicked and screamed as she was dragged back towards Loki, who had stopped and was just pulling her towards him. When she was within grabbing distance, the invisible collar disappeared and she felt like she could run again.

But she was within striking distance. And Loki struck like a snake, grabbing her he forced her to the nearest wall and pinned her against it, his large dominant hand wrapped around her neck firmly. Her lower lip was trembling in fear as he sneered down at her, she tried clawing at his arm but it was futile.

‘Mmmm, I finally found you.’ Loki hummed low and squeezed her neck a bit harder in warning when she continued trying to struggle.

‘Plea… please… Let me go.’ She stuttered out between trying to take big breaths, his hand controlling her breathing wasn’t making it easy to talk.

‘Oh no, my little pet. You should be begging for my forgiveness, for that little stunt of running away from me. You have no idea how much of an inconvenience it was when I came to collect you, to find you gone. Ungrateful mortal.’ He growled, squeezing her neck again for a few seconds, making her splutter.

He could see the pure fear in her eyes.

‘However.’ He purred, easing up a little on his grip he rubbed his thumb up and down the side of her neck. ‘I wouldn’t be in the position I am now if it hadn’t been for you. And whilst I should punish you for being a naughty girl and disobeying me, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. This time. Because I know you’re my good girl really, aren’t you?’

Kelly closed her eyes and tried to tune him out. But of course, that could never happen.

‘Look at me!’ He demanded and squeezed her neck again, making her eyes fly open.

‘Maybe once I get you home, you’ll be more talkative. And I shall give you your reward, and finally claim what you owe me.’ His eyes darkened and he smirked, then leaned in and kissed her on the lips, despite her trying to move her head away to no avail.

She had no choice but to endure his lips moving against hers, he was surprisingly gentle, yet there was an urgency within him too. A very deep part of her was longing at his kiss, like it was a reminder of what she thought they once had… But she remembered that had all been fake, Loki had used her.

Loki pulled back slightly, licking his lips. ‘Now come, pet. Let me show you your new home.’ He grinned wickedly and released her neck.

But before she could even think about trying to run, a collar formed around her neck. Only this time it wasn’t invisible, she could feel it too with her hands as she tried pulling it off. There was a chain leash attached to it that Loki held, so she was going nowhere.

‘Come on.’ Loki growled and tugged her along as he headed out the main entrance.

When they stepped outside, some civilians that saw Loki started kneeling for him instantly. Some ran away. But Loki didn’t care about any of them, he had what he wanted.

Kelly couldn’t stop shaking and crying as Loki slipped his arm around her waist and held her in close, then teleported them both to the airport where Loki had a jet waiting for them. He hauled Kelly onto it, she wasn’t sure why she was even trying to still get away, she knew there was no chance.

Loki had the leash vanish, but the collar remained. As soon as it was off, she ran as far back in the jet as possible and cowered down in the corner. Loki chuckled and took a seat near the front, looking very pleased with himself.

‘There is a much comfier seat down here for you, pet. It might be a bumpy ride.’ Loki called back to her as the jet started off down the runway.

But Kelly was quite happy where she was, as far away from Loki as she possibly could be between some seats. Though she knew it wouldn’t be for long, the jet was already taking off into the sky. She didn’t know exactly where home was for Loki. She really didn’t want to know.

‘You know, it has been ok since I’ve been ruling your world. Not quite as fun and exciting as I had originally hoped, but I realised it’s been because I’ve been chasing you. Now that I’ve found you, the real fun can begin.’ Loki said casually as he opened a bag of salted nuts.

Kelly shivered at his tone and words, she didn’t want to know what he meant by that.

It only took half an hour to get to their destination. But it had felt more like ten hours for Kelly, with Loki trying to make small talk the whole way there, as if nothing was wrong. As if she was there of her own accord.

‘Isn’t this a delightful sight.’ Loki chuckled, looking out of the window.

Kelly was curious as to where she was. So she slowly moved onto her knees and leaned up on one of the seats to look out the window. Her eyes widened at what she saw.

They were coming to land in New York, but it wasn’t the New York she remembered.

For starters, where The Statue Of Liberty should be, was replaced with a ten times larger statue of Loki himself. Then as they headed into the city, where the Avengers tower used to be, a new tower was built. But it was much larger too, and on the side of it was Loki’s name in bright gold letters.

‘No… No.’ She sobbed and put her hand over her mouth in horror.

#Loki #tom hiddleston #tear you to pieces #fan fiction #dark Loki #Loki fic #Loki x OFC #Loki x original female character

63 notes · View notes

eddiesfaerie · 4 years

Text

Pet

Summary: You accompany the Supreme Leader to one of his meetings. Unsurprisingly, you become desperate for attention. (2.2k words) ao3 link here

Warnings: NSFW, noncon/implied noncon, f!reader, exhibitionism, memories of sex lol, thigh riding, canon typical violence, violence against reader??, Kylo Ren is not nice, choking, slapping, mentions of blood, bondage i guess (let me know if i missed anything!)

@elmidol: Kylo + “Tell them to fuck off.” okay so maybe i went off with this request... i literally couldn't help myself so i hope you enjoy!!!

The transparisteel of the throne room is always cold beneath your knees, you flinch anytime your thighs come into contact with it if you shift your position too much. It often left you with purpling bruises on your kneecaps, ones that never seem to fade anymore.

You accompany the Supreme Leader in any and every meeting he wants you in, which as of late, has been to every single one. If he asks for you, you’re there. At this point, you assume it’s just some form of punishment; because as much as you’re expected not to speak, you’re expected to stay awake and attentive.

Half the time you let your mind wander off into some fantasy. Sometimes it involves the Supreme Leader, remembering how he fucked you the night before, wondering if he’d do that thing with the Force again.

Other times it was about escaping. You were punished by him for both sorts of daydreams. Now you just try to keep your mind as blank as possible. Sometimes you almost manage to reach a meditative state if the meetings are long enough.

The air of his throne room is cold. Everyone else is dressed normally, of course. You don’t doubt that you’re the only one shivering in your own flesh. The thinnest scrap of useless silk cascades down your body, completely see-through and hides nothing of your body for anyone who dares sneak a glance in your direction.

Besides the scrap of material you think someone referred to as a dress once, the only other thing you wear is your collar and chain - a heavy, thick metal, one they definitely use on the ships and TIE fighters, you’ve concluded. It’s sturdy and basically indestructible to anyone who wasn’t Force sensitive.

The metal was branded ungraciously with anything but fancy letters or delicate swooping and curling. No, your Supreme Leader didn’t care to spoil you with niceties. Thick capital letters branded on to the front of the collar spelt out R-E-N.

Ren.

You're his. His thing, his object. Whatever he wants you to be, you became that. You belong to him. And you’ve long since accepted that. Once you stopped struggling, it became easier and at times… enjoyable.

You also think that the Supreme Leader’s become more comfortable around you as time has passed. He’s not as harsh with you anymore, not nearly as cruel as your first few weeks with him. He was nowhere near easy, or nice, or kind, or loving. He was none of that, but you were starting to like how sharp his edges were, how cold he could be.

It became a little game of yours; seeing how long it could take for you to crack him on certain nights, how long until he let you massage his shoulders, his arms, his thighs or let you suck his cock on your own accord. It’s rare but it actually works sometimes. Sometimes he lets you in.

If he’s tired enough, fucked out enough, or just had enough, he’ll let you do as you please, like a little fish cleaning up after the shark’s mess; he’ll let you have some scraps.

Sometimes, he hand feeds you the scraps. Like right now.

Your head is resting on his thigh as he sits back extremely reclined, leisurely, unbothered yet so, so bored. And his hand is on your skull, fingers scritching at your scalp.

It was intoxicating, he was intoxicating. You could fall asleep just like this -

But you can’t. The rule. The rule! You have to stay awake even though he’s visibly slacking right now, probably dozing off to some fantasy as he mindlessly scratches at your head.

You sneak a peek up in his direction only to find his eyes already on you. You nearly squeak as you look away, back at the people congregating in his throne room for whatever ‘important’ reason.

His eyes burn like suns, they welt and blister your skin and you try to clear your mind, making it a place of disinterest to him so he doesn’t feel the urge to go swimming in and around your thoughts as he so often does.

A quiet murmur resonates throughout the room, coming from no direction in particular, it’s just simply there. It’s the incoming of his voice through the Force, you know this now, you’ve become accustomed to it. It ripples towards you like tiny waves in a pond before you hear his voice clear and deep in your head.

“Come.”

His hand steadily leaves your scalp, coming to rest gently on his thigh; his way of asking you to come sit on his lap. He’s never asked this of you while in a meeting before, he never really cares to give you that much attention, fearing it'll give you an ego, make you think you're special or something.

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, uselessly debating over something you have no say in.

Having already wasted enough of his energy on asking you politely, the Supreme Leader pulls on your chain, sending you hurling up off the ground and straight into his lap. You make an ugly noise, one of surprise and fear as you fall into him almost gracefully thanks to the tiny invisible touches of the Force along your skin.

He steadies you against him with one hand on your waist and the other pulling your chain tight, pinning your back to his wide chest. You straddle only one of his enormous thighs - bare cunt pressed flushed to the rough material of his pants - and he keeps you there, holds you still while you try to regain your breath from being moved so quickly yet so effortlessly.

You keep your eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block out the several pairs of eyes that are taking in the scene before them, trying to tame your nerves and swallow down your shame and embarrassment. You're so visibly flustered, no doubt the Supreme Leader's getting a kick out of this.

You hear more rippling murmurs approaching you. Then a smooth leathered hand on your thigh, squeezing the flesh tight in his crushing grip.

“Eyes open, pet.”

You hesitate too long, still trying to regain your breath. That same hand on your thigh comes down hard, smacking your skin and letting the sound of slapped flesh and your wanton cry float through the room.

You try to curl towards him, to hide yourself in his broad frame but he holds you and your chain tight. His voice fills your head.

“You do as I say.”

You begin to answer him with a nod of your head but he cuts off your attempt.

“Out loud.”

You close your eyes and take in a deep, shuddering breath. Nothing could have prepared you for this unique type of degradation today. “Yes, sir.”

Only a few heads turn, no one daring to stare at you for too long. Like he had called you, you were his pet, that granted you some level of security.

The Supreme Leader makes some sort of contented sound with his throat. Whoever was speaking continues on with their speech while you finally manage to come down from such an overwhelming ordeal.

His hand stays on your thigh, tenderly massaging the flesh where he had hit you, emphasizing the sweet sting and letting it resonate throughout your body until it finds its way to your clit. The little pearl buzzes, needy for attention but you refrain from begging for mercy, for him to finish you off.

It's too easy for him to get you worked up. He must have been experimenting on you or something, like Pavlov's dogs or whatever. Anytime he touches you, even in the slightest, it sends you reeling for more, it turns you into some desperate whore, needy for whatever he would give you, whatever he deems you worthy of. Whether it was his spit or his flaccid cock in your mouth, you take it and accept it eagerly-

“Quiet.”

His sudden booming voice fills your head and sends you squeaking a silent apology back to him, your hips involuntarily jerking on his thigh. He pulls on your chain again, your back becoming flush with his chest, the length of your pussy dragging along his thigh leaving an embarrassingly sticky trail in its wake. You keen at the sensation, wondering if he was doing this to you on purpose.

“Doing what?”

You huff out a non-response, telling yourself you would roll your eyes right now if it wouldn’t get you-

“Punished.”

You audibly groan, rocking your hips onto his thigh on purpose this time. Fuck, he was so infuriating, so difficult to deal with. You’re thankful you’re just his plaything, not someone who has to deal with him professionally. He’s impossible.

You ignore the heads that turn in your direction this time and focus on the unsatisfying clench of your pussy around nothing. You know he feels it, feels the way your pussy is throbbing with its own heartbeat for him right now. He knows how desperate you are, he must…

Silence.

No response from him.

Maker, you could cry right now. He's usually so easy to rile up. So easy to frustrate, to annoy, to anger.

Yet he gave you no bruising grip on your thigh or waist, no warning for you to stop. Nothing.

His hand retreated from your thigh and now lounged on the armrest of his giant throne. His other hand doing the same. You feel the warmth radiating off of his chest leave you as he leans back against the throne. He was spreading himself out so wide and so far away from you.

You know he must still be wandering around in your mind, he has to be. There was no way he wasn’t doing this on purpose.

So you project.

You imagine all the ways he’s taken you, all the places and surfaces he’s bent you over just to relieve his tension, his anger, not caring if you came or not. You often did but it was never with any special care from him, just the pure shock and intensity of his fat cock, impaling you over and over again until you couldn’t help but cum all over him and sob from overstimulation, begging for more despite the pain, despite the blood-

The lights in the room flicker and whoever’s speaking stutters at the sudden distraction, but then continues on discussing… whatever it was they’re discussing.

You continue as well, remembering all the different way he’s punished you: for accidentally chanting his name as if in prayer when you’ve become so cock drunk and fucked out that it was the only thing that you could possibly think of.

Kylo, Kylo, Kylo.

You remember how he’s slapped you, hit you with the unforgiving and weighted metal of his lightsaber hilt. How he’s bruised you, burned you, marked you with his teeth, his lips, his weapon. You remember it all and you shamelessly rut yourself against his thigh, the building pressure in your clit making your mind blank to anything else except getting yourself off on him.

Fuck, you need him. You need him so badly, need him like the moons need their planet, like a planet needs their all devouring sun, a celestial body to rotate around or else they become meaningless, drifting off into space without a serving purpose.

Your body withers against his, your back threatening to arch off his chest if it weren’t for the death grip he’s got on your chain right now, keeping you in place like an obedient dog.

The lights continue to flicker. The muruming waves return and you scramble for what’s about to come next.

“Tell them to leave.”

His voice is steady yet it crackles with hopeful embers threatening to combust into something fiery and deadly.

What?

The lights in the room buzz loud and shine brighter than they ever have, like the stars in the sky before something magnificent happens. They shriek with strain until they burst, sending shards of glass flying throughout the room as they burn out, no doubt cutting people in the process.

A figment flies by your cheek and slivers your skin. You hiss at the contact, feeling something hot and thick roll down your cheek in its wake.

“Tell them," his voice booms, "to fuck off.”

“L-leave.” You speak, voice small, unsure and terrified. You’re not certain if anyone even heard you based on the minimal reaction you got. A few heads turn, surprised to hear the timid voice of the Supreme Leader’s pet.

Yet no one budges.

Your Supreme Leader’s hand snakes its way up to your throat, resting above your thick metal collar and crushes your windpipe in warning. You try again, this time, like he asked.

“F-fuck off.”

Someone, an idiot, dares to speak up with a voice quivering worse than your own, “S-Supreme Leader?”

“You heard her.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in hours. His voice is terrifyingly calm and sickeningly deep, you feel it resonate throughout your entire body, landing in the depths of your belly. You whimper pathetically, anticipating whatever storm is about to come.

Everyone stands, chair scraping against the floor and they file out through the giant throne room doors, letting the thick and heavy material seal you two away until your Supreme Leader is through with you.

#ummm why am i really happy with how this turned out #kylo ren x reader #reader insert #smut #kylo ren smut #kylo ren x you #kylo ren #my writing #request #elmidol

396 notes · View notes

roselarkiin · 3 years

Note

Brettsey + 2

So... this one didn't really turn out all that fluffy, but I hope it's okay!

#2 "The thought of losing you scares me."

In hindsight, running into a burning building without turnout gear or back up probably isn't the best idea she's ever had.

But she honestly doesn't see how she had any other choice.

Sylvie and Violet have just dropped their patient off at Med. Nothing crazy - a kid with an ulna fracture. A damn near routine call considering some of the things they see.

They're driving down 14th Street, on their way back to the firehouse, when they notice the smoke billowing out of the apartment building ahead of them.

Eyes fill with alarm as Sylvie slows the ambo to a stop. It's dark, and it's late, and there aren't any people around. Which in this situation is strange.

Sylvie can't make out the telltale sound of sirens approaching. There aren't any residents milling around the evacuation point either, like she would expect with a fire already this involved.

It's all so disconcerting.

Sylvie unbuckles her seatbelt, steps out of the ambulance, instructs Violet to radio main and find out which companies are on their way, see if they require sixty-one to stay on the scene.

She steps toward the building. The fire is at the other end of the complex, but the heat coming off the structure is almost unbearable.

There's smoke escaping from a few second story windows, and she can make out the flickering of orange flames from further inside the apartment.

Violet approaches at a jog, and Sylvie turns to face her partner expectantly.

"They weren't aware of a fire at this location," Violet says, the corners of her mouth turn down into a frown at the sight of the building. "They're assigning someone now."

Sylvie nods. Her brow creases, and she furrows her bottom lip into her mouth.

There's something really wrong with this scene. There should be alarms going off, alerting everyone to the danger.

She's seen her fair share of apartment fires in her time on the job, and it's usually chaos. All noise and people everywhere. This is the exact opposite. Eerily quiet with no one about.

These apartments aren't deserted. Surely someone should have made it out by now.

It could be another five, ten minutes before help arrives on the scene. She knows from experience just how much every second counts in a situation like this.

She can't just stand idly by, waiting for someone to arrive. She needs to get as many people out as she can.

"Violet," Sylvie starts and turns her head to look at her partner. "I'm not going to ask you to-"

As if she can sense what Sylvie is about to say, Violet cuts her off. "No way," she says, with an adamant shake of her head. "I'm not letting you go in there alone!"

There's a look of determination on the younger paramedic's face. One that tells Sylvie there's nothing she can say to change Violet's mind.

So she doesn't bother to try.

They enter the building, using their sleeves to cover their face as best they can.

Violet follows her orders, realizes they don't have time to argue, and goes down the hallway Sylvie tells her to. The one with less smoke. Away from the fire.

Sylvie might not be able to stop Violet from following her into the building, but she's damn well going to do everything in her power to keep her partner out of harm's way.

The hallways are dark and filled with smoke. Sylvie can barely make anything out or get her bearings.

She manages to find a door, bangs her fist against it until someone answers. It's easier after that.

Knock on the door until she wakes whoever's in the apartment, follow the wall along to the next door, and repeat.

Most can get themselves out of the building. The ones that can't, family members or neighbors are happy to escort them. It helps, means she can get to more people faster, without having to run up and down and out again and again.

By her estimation, she's able to clear about half the floor before she needs to get out. Before the cough and the ache in her chest becomes too much to bear.

She follows the last family down the stairs, meets up with Violet on her way out. They exit the building together and cough and sputter as they gasp for air.

She's hunched over, hands on her knees as she tries to catch her breath.

"Brett!" She recognizes the voice instantly, stiffens as Matt grabs her shoulders. Her eyes are closed. She can't see him, but she can hear the concern in his voice.

"I'm fine," she rasps, her voice hoarse. Tries to reassure him. She doesn't need to see him to know it hasn't worked. She coughs again.

She tries to brush him off. He should be running the initial search. Not here with her.

She's fine, really. Tries to tell him again, but she can't get the words out. Her throat burns.

An open water bottle is shoved into her hands. From Gallo, she thinks. He's an angel.

She takes a few mouthfuls, swishes the water around in her mouth, spits it onto the ground before gulping the rest of the water down. Another full bottle quickly replaces the empty one.

"Are you insane?" Matt shouts. The concern turns to anger. His hands on her shoulders tighten, shakes her a little. "What the hell were you thinking, Sylvie? Why would you do something so incredibly stupid? You could have got yourself killed!"

The relief she felt, having Matt there when she exited the building, is replaced with irritation. And she gets it. He's afraid. She scared him; she understands that. But there's no reason for him to be so patronizing.

She probably understands more about what he's feeling right now than he does.

Because the emotions he experiences in this moment are exactly what she goes through every time she stands on the sidelines while she watches him run headlong into a burning building.

Whatever he's feeling, though, she is not some child to be scolded, and she doesn't appreciate him yelling at her like she is.

She knows her limits. She would never push herself past what she knows herself to be capable of.

She's vaguely aware of the orders he barks to the other members of eighty-one, but he makes no move to leave her side.

In any other situation, she might find it sweet, but in any other situation, he'd be leading his team in the search. Not standing here with her.

His grip softens on her arm, moves to her back. It does nothing to comfort her. In fact, it just makes her feel worse. Like she's being suffocated. Though that might be the smoke inhalation.

Her eyes narrow at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. She's furious with him. For talking down to her the way he did, in front of their friends and colleagues. For treating her like she's some child he's been tasked to deal with and not his girlfriend. His equal.

It's embarrassing.

She doesn't yell back at him, as much as she may want to. She doesn't have the energy for that. Even if she did, she doesn't think her throat could handle it. And this is not the right place for this conversation.

Instead, she looks at him, head cocked slightly to the side, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You know, if this had been anyone else, you would not have spoken to them the way you just spoke to me," she says, with as much force as she can muster. It's not a lot, but it's surprisingly more than she thought possible at this moment. "You would have been singing their praises. Commending them for helping so many people, a job well done."

"Sylvie-"

"Go. There are still people inside. You have a job to do, Casey."

He looks confused for a split second before composing himself. She doesn't have a chance to dwell on it. She's pulled away to be looked at by the medics from ambulance ninety.

Suddenly, everything shifts back to the way it always is. Sylvie, at the ambo, watching Matt anxiously, as he runs into a burning building.

... ... ...

One of these days, Matt thinks, Sylvie Brett is going to be the death of him.

Maybe he'd lost it a little back at the scene. Spoke to her in a way that he shouldn't.

When they'd arrived and found sixty-one already on scene, he didn't think too much of it. It wasn't all that uncommon for the ambo to beat them to the scene, especially when coming straight from another call.

But when they exited the truck and neither Sylvie nor Violet were anywhere to be seen, a resident informed them the paramedics in question were inside, helping to evacuate everyone.

Sylvie was inside the burning building.

He'd just been about to run in after her when she exited the building, coughing and sputtering, covered head to toe in black soot.

All the blood rushed from his face, and his heart pounded in his chest so hard he felt it might explode.

He saw nothing but her, rushed straight to her, not entirely in control of his actions. He'd shouted at her, and he shouldn't have.

She'd looked at him with hurt in her eyes and calmly told him that if it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have spoken to them that way.

He thinks that look hurt more than if she had just yelled back. Because he knows she's right. Fucking, of course, she is. She's always been able to see right through him.

Seeing her standing there, covered in ash, terrified him. He could have lost her.

He'd flashed back to a time years ago, the only other time he's seen her like that. The Arnow fire. Where they'd lost Otis. Where he'd almost lost her. Had lost her, for a time, though only temporarily.

Then she was dragged away, and he had a job to do. He needed to focus. His people could get hurt if the task at hand didn't have his total concentration.

He thinks Sylvie's been avoiding him - he doesn't blame her because the next time he sees her, it's almost the end of shift. Eighty-one had two more calls after the apartment fire. Sixty-one had five.

Sylvie and Violet refused to take Sixty-one out of service. And he had to bite his tongue. As hard as it was.

They always just seemed to be passing each other. Never in the same place at the same time. As if some invisible force was working to keep them apart. It's killing him.

He finds her by their lockers. Her shoulders tense when she senses his presence. Imperceptible to anyone else. But not to him. Never to him.

He's explored and learned every inch of her body these last three months. Even the slightest change does not go unnoticed.

He steps further into the locker room. By some miracle, they're alone.

"I'm sorry," he says, quiet and all sincere. It never should have taken him this long to say the words. This is their first fight. If he can even call it that.

He'd been an ass. He knows he's going to have to grovel to make it right again.

He sees her shoulders shift, relax slightly as the tension ebbs away. Sylvie turns, leans against the open door of her locker to look at him. She gives him that same sad smile again. Not unlike the look she gave him last night. His chest aches.

"I'm sorry," she says as well, and she means it. From the way she says it, he knows she's not apologizing for running into a burning building. No, he gives her a soft smile, she'll never apologize for that. He doesn't expect her to either. Instead, she's apologizing for the scare she gave him.

He closes the distance between them, reaches out, and pulls her to him. She lets him, allows herself to melt into him. Her head rests against his shoulder, her arms wrap around his waist.

He's got one hand on her back, pulls her as close as physically possible. The other weaves into her hair, twists the blonde locks between his fingers.

They stand there, alone, not saying anything, holding each other tight. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against his as she breathes is a reminder that she's here and she's safe; nothing happened to her. It comforts him.

Sylvie is the first to break the silence. "I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it won't ever happen again," she murmurs against his chest.

He huffs, lets out a quiet chuckle, strokes his hand through her hair again. "I know."

Selfishly, he'd love for her to tell him that. But given the chance, he knows she wouldn't change anything that happened on the call. And if it came down to it, she'd do it all over again, without giving it a second thought.

He's watched her do this job for years. She's always given so much of herself over to the job. He's always admired that about her. He wouldn't want that to change just because of him.

"It's just," he breathes, lips pressed into her hair, "the thought of losing you scares me." His voice is rough, shakier than he intends it to be.

Sylvie leans back to look him in the eye. Moving her hand up his side to his face, she caresses his cheek. He leans into her hand, closes his eyes.

"I know," she tells him. "Because that's exactly how I feel every time I have to watch you run into a fire."

"Sylvie, that's-"

"Don't." She cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head. "Don't say it's different. It's not. At least it doesn't feel like it is."

He stops, clamps his mouth shut. He's been on the job for so long now that it's really just become routine at this point. Stupidly, he's never really thought about it from Sylvie's perspective. That she might feel the same terror he did.

He takes her face between his hands, kisses her forehead, cheeks, peppers kisses everywhere until she laughs and smiles back at him. Then he stops, looks around the locker room, checking they're still alone, and captures her lips with his.

He wouldn't normally do this, not so out in the open at least. They try to keep their relationship strictly professional while they're in the common areas of the firehouse. But after the shift they've just had, he doesn't give a shit who sees.

Sylvie smiles, breathes a contented sigh against his lips, relaxes further into him. She breaks the kiss a second later.

"You're a bit needy, you know that," she says, with a teasing lilt, tries to break the tension.

It works. He laughs. A loud, genuine belly laugh. The first in hours. He plants another kiss against her lips, pulls her back against him.

"Can you blame me?"

#brettsey #sylvie brett #matt casey #prompt fill #finally had the time and motivation to finish this #my inability to write a drabble is showing again!#tried something different with the style for this one #don't know if it worked or not 😬

75 notes · View notes

lambourngb · 3 years

Text

a skeleton of something more [2/6]

previously here. malex wip fic. a short serial leading up the premiere.

spoilers for the trailer and promo, will be instantly AU. If I’m going to the trouble of writing a malex fix-it for the season 3 opener, why not fix 2x13 too?

**** THEN ****

After Alex closed Tripp’s journal, he met Michael’s gaze across the table at the Crashdown.

His golden-brown eyes were heavy with pain, the reminder of how his mother’s story had ended was still fresh between them despite the span of months since the fiery end of Caulfield. What had resulted in being the fiery end of them, even though Alex hadn’t known it at the time. The look of sleeplessness in Michael’s face reminded Alex, that outside of this small piece of Nora, he had the weight of Maria still in the hospital recovering from the pathogen Flint had released. The press of the Deep Sky ring in his pocket warred with the hesitation to place one more burden on Michael, would the abacus of their fragile friendship balance out?

He flashed to that last argument in Michael’s bunker, a disaster of his own making, thinking he could believe in his father, but thankfully harm was averted at Crashcon. That recent memory was motive enough for Alex to decide. Whatever happened next, he needed Michael on the same page with him.

As Isobel moved to leave the table, explaining to Michael that she needed to check on Max, Alex held Michael’s gaze deliberately. Then he folded his fingers down, until the last three fanned out in a downward W.

“After what happened with Maria, maybe you should come with me, Michael. You can help me shake some sense into Max,” Alex heard, tuning back into Isobel’s voice. Her eyes moved back and forth between them, a crease of suspicion wrinkling her upturned nose, as she stopped on him. “It’ll be a good distraction.”

Without looking at Isobel, Michael’s eyes remained trained on Alex’s hand. “No, thanks, I’m good here. I’ve had my fill of stubborn ass people who don’t want to listen to sensible advice from me, so I’ll catch up with you later, Isobel.”

She made a dismissive huff but did not argue, leaving with the barest semblance of a polite goodbye to Alex, but that was typical Isobel Evans. Michael waited until his sister was on the other side of the door, before speaking quietly, his gaze finally moving up from Alex’s hands to his face. “I haven’t seen you flash that sign to me in years.”

“Glad to know you haven’t forgotten it.”

“You, making the ‘wait for me, I want you now’ signal? Nah, that’s been burned into my brain over the years.” Michael said it with a faint trace of bitterness. “I guess news travels fast, Maria only dumped my ass this morning.”

Alex winced and looked down, swallowing the surprise and spark of hope that welled in his throat at that disclosure. It was better to concentrate on the unique talent he had of stepping on landmines around Michael, than wonder about what had happened with Maria. It looked like he was still good at causing harm without intention, judging by the stung bite in Michael’s voice. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have-”

“No, I’m sorry,” Michael cut off his apology firmly with a wave of his hand, calling a time-out. Alex waited, his teeth pressed into his lower lip as Michael rubbed his eyes with a weary half-smile. “I’m being an asshole right now, and that’s not fair to take it out on you. It’s been a shitty day already, and — anyway, … you definitely know how to get my attention, Alex.” He tilted his head, self-deprecation on his face, “for better or worse, you’ve always been good at that.”

It had been the sign they had developed whenever their paths had crossed over the years while Alex had been on leave in Roswell, but it had started that summer after high school. After Michael’s hand had healed poorly from Jesse, the last three fingers had been left frozen in a claw, it had been a shared fuck-you to his dad to use it to form their own secret communication. A three-fingered W, turned upward meant it wasn’t a good time, and he would find Michael later; turned downward, well, that meant it was safe to approach him, and it had often ended in a hurried blowjob in his car. Perhaps he should have used more care in using it now, but Michael wasn’t the only one running on the fumes of insomnia and stress. “Sorry, I needed to talk to you, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t leave with Isobel-”

“It’s fine, really. It’s not a bad memory either, remembering that we had our little secret language.” Michael wiggled his fingers in reassurance, his left hand still wrapped with a bandanna. “I can make that signal a hell of a lot easier now, too. But anyway, what did you need?”

There was still a voice inside Alex’s head that said ‘you’, no matter how long it had been. He shoved that down deep, along with his curiosity about Maria, and concentrated on his purpose. “Your advice on something, and then if it’s not too much to ask, your help.”

“Anything.”

Alex blinked, nonplussed by the easy acceptance.

Michael gestured encouragingly, “seriously, anything, just tell me what’s going on because the way you’re hemming and hawing, it is freaking me out.” Suddenly, all expression washed out of Michael’s face as a horrible thought occurred to him. “Did you get deployed or something?”

“Not exactly, not how you’re thinking,” he winced at the earned glare from Michael as he continued to stall while the words still tripped and fumbled around his mouth, heedless to the mounting frustration between them both. He sighed, and regrouped. Pushing the closed journal aside, Alex dug into his pocket and laid the signet ring on the table before Michael. “Let me start at the beginning, I found this in my dad’s things.”

“Jesse never seemed like a jewelry kind of guy to me.” Michael picked up the ring, examining it closely with a sarcastic smirk. “Other than parading around town with that wedding ring, when everyone knows your mom left him back during the Bush years, Dubya that is.”

“My father is all, was all, about appearances.” Alex placed the photo of the group on the table, sliding it over to him. “That ring marked his membership in this paramilitary group called Deep Sky. Every man in that photo worked at Caulfield, at one time or another.” He tapped his finger over the face of his father, then moved it to the right. “That’s my dad, and that is Ricky Long.”

Michael frowned, pulling the picture closer to squint at the faces. “Wyatt’s dad?”

“No, Forrest’s.”

“Nazi guy? Seriously?” He rubbed at his chin, the stubble longer than usual painting his jawline. Alex dragged his eyes away with effort as Michael considered that information. There was a reluctant understanding in his eyes, having recalled that Forrest Long wasn’t just ‘Nazi Guy’ to Alex, but someone who had expressed interest in Alex. Personal interest. “I guess that’s something you guys have in common then, dirtbag dads.”

He didn’t look thrilled to admit that to Alex, but it was a mark of how far they had both come as friends that Michael had said it anyway regardless. It was kind of him. It was the same type of empathy Alex had extended toward Michael, when he had expressed interest in Maria. Cut open, bleeding under his skin from all the ways he had squandered his own chances, he had said something similar to Michael once upon a time. That was what love was all about. Then he had kept saying it, until he believed it most days because wanting Michael to be happy was the easier ask.

It was a gracious sentiment that was entirely wasted by Michael when it came to Forrest Long.

“It would be, uh, something to bond over, if I hadn’t noticed that Forrest wears the same ring now.”

Michael’s eyes sharpened. “Family heirloom or do you think he worked at Caulfield?”

“I don’t know, but he is an ex-Army vet.” Alex tapped the photo of the members gathered together, “That was part of what I’ve been looking into, identifying everyone who worked at Caulfield right until the end. As for Deep Sky, I don’t know if it’s military service, Caulfield, or a family legacy that ties every member together, I just know that Dad kept in touch with those who were involved at the prison.”

“Makes sense, Jesse was able to get a hold of the atomizer and pathogen that Charlie developed from somewhere. For all of his strutting around at Crashcon with a uniform on, that didn’t look like it was an official use of government property.”

“Right, it definitely wasn’t, and before you tell me to leave it alone-” Alex began, remembering Michael’s response to the investigation into 1947. He had considered Alex’s actions back then to be an act of futility, something that could only hurt by being revisited. The past being the past, unable to be altered.

This time Michael cut him off, “No, I was wrong about that. I, um, I finally realized that just because I don’t see you connected to that place or the rest of your family, doesn’t mean you don’t. And while I wish that you didn’t, Alex, if digging into this gives you some sort of peace over it, then do it.”

Alex looked down, feeling the weight of relief that Michael understood. After his father’s body had been removed, after the questions and lies had been spun, he had spent the entire night sleepless over having been made into an effective weapon to force Michael’s compliance. Helena had known where all the weak spots were thanks to Flint, and had armed herself with a depowering agent. Once Flint was recovered, there was nothing stopping him from employing a similar tactic in the future.

“If anyone’s going to destroy me, it might as well be you.” Michael had once declared with a bold carelessness that had infuriated and terrified Alex at the time, but that was nothing compared to now having a lived experience to back it up. His mind had easily used the memory of Maria’s collapse after the faintest exposure at the Crashcon and had exchanged her with Michael, being torn apart molecule by molecule, by an invisible threat.

Give him an enemy that he could see any day, especially one that bled.

“I’ve been fighting so long, I don’t know what peace looks like anymore.” Alex held out his hand for the ring, and Michael gently laid it in his palm, brushing his fingertips over Alex’s skin. A lifetime of controlling himself kept the reaction off his face as he rubbed his thumb over the raised emblem of Deep Sky. “But I have learned recently that when something seems too good to be true, it is.”

Neither of them mentioned Jesse and his performance from the last few months, but Michael frowned again, “Wait a second, you think Forrest targeted you on purpose?”

“A member of a secret paramilitary organization just happens to ask me out after I was involved in the destruction of Caulfield? You really think that’s a coincidence?” Alex raised his eyebrow skeptically at Michael, before looking out the window to watch the pedestrians on the street.

“I think you’re the hottest guy in Roswell, so I’m not surprised he asked you out.” Michael flushed a little when Alex turned back to stare at him in surprise over the flattering comment. “Seriously, you’re a catch, but I will agree, it’s not a good look that he’s got that ring. But maybe it’s crap he wears because of his dad, and he’s got no idea he’s parading around?”

“You’re being awfully generous.”

“Isn’t that what you want? Because last time I checked, you were the one telling me that I should have faith in people, even if they give me no reason to.” Michael flattened his hands on the table, drawing Alex’s attention to the bandanna on his hand again. That damn fight kept echoing between them to Alex’s dismay, but Michael didn’t let him linger over it, “While I stand by what I said about Jesse, ‘cause he messes us both up, all I know about Forrest Long is that he is way too interested in Nazi history and he has good taste in guys.” Michael wetted his lips, nervously to tack on, “I also know that I trust you, and your instincts, so if you say there’s something not right about him, then I believe you.”

“There’s something not right about him,” Alex repeated seriously.

“Then I believe you, so what do you need me to do?”

“He wants to get close to me for some reason, probably related to what I know about aliens, so I’m going to let him. And I need you to back me up in case something goes wrong, and maybe use that lock pick you have in your brain?” Alex waited until Michael nodded in agreement, feeling the swell of gratitude at his support. Anyone else would probably think he was being paranoid, or that this was a delayed reaction to his father trying to kill them, but Michael, for all of his previous counter-arguments, had never truly believed in the good of humanity. Maybe in a few days, Alex would feel guilty in relying on that. Maybe in a few days, his suspicions about Forrest would be eliminated.

“He’s involved in running the open mike night at the Wild Pony with Maria, so I thought maybe I could perform a song or something? He drives a Prius, and while he’s listening to me sing, you could slip out mid-song and insert this into the code reader of his car.”

On the table was a small device that mimicked a thumb drive, small and black. It was the type of technology that Alex had used in the Air Force, tracking terrorists abroad. It had taken a fair amount of searching to purchase the equivalent stateside to have on hand. Michael picked it up curiously, turning over his hands.

“It’s designed to download the GPS history of his car,” Alex explained, before rubbing the back of his head in thought. “That’s how I uncovered what my dad was up to, first by tracking his movements. If I let Forrest take me home, I can gain access to his laptop and phone.”

Michael furrowed his brow in concern, “You’re really willing to go that far? And what if he is involved in something shady, what then?”

“My father and brother both used me to get to you, there’s really nothing I wouldn’t do to keep that from happening again and if it means playing along with this guy, letting him lead me to the members of Deep Sky? Then I will.” If anything, his words only deepened the concern on Michael’s face, but Alex had been committed for a long time. Since the red level threat. Since the short ride to the recruitment office. Maybe as far back as his guitar going missing in the music room.

“I’ve slept with guys for worse reasons.”

CONTINUED HERE

#Malex #roswell new mexico #malex fic #alex goes undercover #not forrest long friendly #getting back together #Season 3 speculation

77 notes · View notes

lailoken · 3 years

Text

‘Dark and Demon Dogs’

“Haunting the coastline from the Wash to the Deben and beyond, and inland along the Peddars Way into the Brecklands, on marshland roads and mudflats, through the Fens and into the Broads, pads the ancient terror known as Black Shuck. For many hundreds of years the legend of the ghostly black hound has been kept alive and is probably the best known of all East Anglian spectres, still appearing to people today. He is typically seen as a huge, great, black shaggy hound, with blazing red eyes and dragging rattling chains behind him, instilling terror into all he comes upon and considered a portent of impending death or doom by most. Although generally called Black Shuck, he is known by many other names too; the Galleytrot, Old Scarfe, Owd Rugman, Shug Monkey and the Hateful Thing being some, although some form of Shuck or Shuggy is most common. Nor is he always a large black hound, appearing as anything from the size of a Labrador (shrinking into a cat!), a white rabbit in Thetford, to a calf or a donkey and even a monkey on a few occasions. Sometimes he was invisible, only his fierce breath, padding feet, fearful howls or the clanking of his chains giving evidence of his presence. Sometimes he could be seen without his head, but always with his glowing eyes appearing in the middle of where his head should be. One tale from Garveston in Norfolk goes;

‘They du speak of a dog that walks regular. They call him Skeff and his eyes are as big as saucers and blaze wi' fire. He is fair as big as a small wee pony and his coat is all skeffy-like, shaggy coat across, like an old sheep. He has a lane, and a place out of which he come, and he vanish when be bev gone far enough.’

Another informant from the village of Clopton, Suffolk, reported, 'a thing with two saucer eyes', on the road to Woolpit. It would not move out of his way but grew larger and larger as it breathed: 'I shall want you within a week'. The man died the next day.

One Christmas day in the middle of the 19th. Century, Black Shuck pushed against a small, blind boy who was standing on Thetford Bridge with his older sister. The little boy plaintively asked his sister to send the big dog away, but his sister assured him that there was no dog anywhere near them. However, the terrified boy insisted that there was, and that it was trying to push him into the water to drown him. The sister then felt the poor boy being carried away from her; she realised then that what he could feel, and she could not see, must be the terrible Black Shuck that she had heard so much about. Just as her little brother was about to be pushed into the water, she dragged him back from the edge and, hand- in-hand, they rushed off back to their waiting parents at home.

Villagers in the Waveney Valley round about Geldeston call it the ‘Hateful Thing', or the 'Churchyard or Hell-beast'. One old village woman claimed that she saw it one night on the road between Gillingham and Geldeston. She tells the story in the following words;

'It was after I bad been promised to Josh that I saw the Hateful Thing. We met Mrs S. and she started to walk with us. I beard something like a dog running pit-pat-pit- pat-pit-pat. "I wonder what that dog wants", I said to Mrs S. I was walking between Josh and Mrs S. and I lay hold on Mrs S's. arm and she say "It's in front of us; look, there it be." Just in front was what looked like a big, black dog; but it wasn't a dog at all; it was the Hateful Thing and it betokened some great misfortune. It kept on until we came to the churchyard, when it went right through the wall and we saw it no more'.

In Norfolk, Neatishead Lane, near Barton Broad, is a favourite walk of Shuck, as is the cliff path from Beeston, near Sheringham to Overstrand. This recalls the old adjuration in the legend of St. Margaret;

‘Still be though still,

Poorest of all, stern one,

Nor shalt thou, Old Shuck,

Moot with me no more.

But fly, sorrowful thing,

Out of mine eyesight,

And dive thither where thou man

May damage no more.’

A more humorous tale involves the grounding of Noah's Ark on Mulbarton Common, south of Norwich. Scoffers had better not go to Mulbarton. When one village elder was heckled on the point, he replied with some heat;

‘Thass trew! Trew as I stand bere. Where else could it ba' grounded? Aren't this the highest bit o' ground for miles around? When Ole Nick see the Ark be got inter a poont (punt), an' curled his tail up under the thwart and come rowin' around jest as Noah had opened the winder to let the dove in. And Nick sings out: "Mornin' Cap'n Noah. Nice mornin'arter the rain". But ole Noah he sees Nick's tail a-curled up under the thwart an' be sings out: “I know you. You're Owd Shuck! You goo to Hell". And bangs the winder down'.

However, perhaps the most famous accounts of the legend are to be found in Holinshed's Chronicle', an ambitious history of England which was updated to include contemporary events, and a pamphlet entitled A Straunge and Terrible Wunder' written by the Rev. Abraham Fleming, Rector of St. Pancras Church. Both accounts were published in 1577, shortly after the events recorded therein. According to Holinshed's Chronicle;

‘On Sundaie the fourth of August (1577), belween the houres of none and ten of the clocke in the forenone whilest the minister was reading the second lesson in the Parish church of Bliborough (Blythburgh), a towne in Suffolke, a strange and terrible tempest of lightening and thunder strake through the wall of the same church into the ground almost a yard deepe, drave downe all the people on that side above twentie persons, then venting the wall up to the venstre, cleft the doore, and returning to the steeple, rent the timber, brake the chimes, and fled towards Bongie (Bungay), a towne six miles off. The people that were stricken downe were found groueling more than balfe an boure after.......". At Bungay the storm "wroong in sunder the wiers and wheels of the clocks, slue two men which sat in the belfrie, when the other were at the procession or suffrages and scorched an other which hardlie escaped.'

However, Fleming gives the account as starting in Bungay church and includes the infamous Black Shuck;

‘Sunday, being the fourth of this August, in ye yeer of our Lord 1577, to the amazing and singular astonishment of the present bebolders, and abhsent bearers, at a certain towne called Bungay, not past tenne miles distant from the citie of Norwiche, there fell from heaven an exceeding great and terrible tempest sodein and violent..... There were assembled at the same season, to hear divine service and common prayer, according to order, in the parish church (St. Mary's) of the said towne of Bungay, the people thereabouts inhabiting, who were witnesses of the straungeness, the rarenesse and sodenesse of the storm, consisting of rain violently falling, fearful flashes of lightning and terrible cracks of thunder, which came with such unwonted force and power, that to the perceiving of the people...the church did as it were quake and stagger, which struck into the hearts of those that were present, such a sore and sodain feare, that they were in a manner robbed of their right wits.

Immediately hereupon, there appeared in a most horrible similitude and likenesse to the congregation then and there present, a dog as they might discern it, of a black colour; at the sight whereof, together with the feareful flashes of fire which then were seene, moved such admiration in the minds of the assemblie that they thought doomes day was already come.

This black dog, or the divel in such a likenesse (God he knoweth al who worketh all), running all along down the body of the church with great swiftnesse, and incredible haste, among the people, in a visible fourm and shape, passed between two persons, as they were kneeling upon their knees, and occupied in prayer as it seemed, wrung the necks of them bothe in one instant clene backward, in somuch that even at a moment where they kneeled, they strangely died.'

After reflecting somewhat on the wrath of God, he continues;

‘There was at ye same time another wonder wrought; for the same black dog, still continuing and remaining in one and the selfsame shape, passing by another man of the congregation in the church, gave bim such a gripe on the back, that therewith all he was presently withdrawen together and strunk up, as it were a piece of lither scorched in a hot fire; or as the mouth of a purse or bag, drawen together with a string. The man albeit he was in so straunge a taking, dyed not, but as it is thonght is yet alive; whiche thing is mervalous in the eyes of men, und offereth much matter of amasing the minde.

Meanwhile, the Clerk of the church, who had gone outside to clean the guttering, was thrown to the ground during a violent clap of thunder; and at the same time, the wires and wheels of the church clock were 'wrung in sunder and broken in pieces.' Inside the church, the Curate exhorted to prayer and 'comforted the people' until the frightening manifestation of the black hound had passed away, leaving behind it marks on the stones and church door 'which are marvellously renten and torne, ye marks as it were of his clawes or talans.'

According to Fleming, next, on the same morning, in the church of Blythburgh, about twelve miles from Bungay;

'the like thing entred, in the same shape and similitude, where, placing himself upon a maine balke or beum, whereon same ye Rood did stand, sodainly he gave a swinge downe throngh ye church, and there also, as before, slew two men and a lad & burned the hand of another person that was there amang the rest of the company, of whom divers wus blustled. This mischief thus wrought, he flew with wonderful force to no litule feare of the assembly, out of the church in a hideons and bellish likeness.'

The marks of his talons, burned into the inside of the north door of the church, can still be seen today.

Interestingly, archaeologists have recently discovered the skeleton of a massive dog that would have stood 7 feet tall on its hind legs, in the ruins of Leiston Abbey in Suffolk, close to both Bungay and Blythburgh. The remains of the massive dog, which is estimated to have weighed 200 pounds, were found just a few miles from the two churches where Black Shuck killed the worshippers. It appears to have been buried in a shallow grave at precisely the same time as Shuck is said to have been on the loose in this instance.

Coming forward in time, there is a legend of a black dog too, at Blickling Hall, Norfolk. In the 19th century, alterations on the Hall were being made by Lord and Lady Lothian, by the demolition of some partitions in order to form a dining-room;

‘I wish these young people would not pull down the partitions', said an old woman in the village to the local clergyman. Why so?' 'Oh, because of the dog. Don't you know that when A. was fishing in the lake, he caught an enormous fish and that, when it was landed, a great black dog came out of its mouth? They never could get rid of that dog, who kept going round and round in circles inside the house, till they sent for a wise man from London, who opposed the straight lines of the partitions to the lines of the circles and so quieted the dog. But if these young people pull down the partitions, they will let the dog loose again, and there's not a wise man in all London could lay that dog now'.’

This tale is interesting in that it links the occurrence or appearance of the hound with a practical knowledge of geomantic function and is the only tale told of its kind, as far as I am aware. It also links the Black Dog with the liminal area of the lake, which, as we have seen earlier in the chapter, is a gateway to the Other/Underworlds, guarded by supernatural beings; it is possible that the Black Dog may be another one of these guardian entities.

The common name for the black hound, Shuck, is generally considered to derive from the Old English scucca or sceocca, which means a devil/the Devil, a demon or a goblin (the 'sc' in OE being pronounced as 'sh'). There is also the likelihood that it comes from the East Anglian dialect word 'Shucky', meaning shaggy or hairy, a marked characteristic of most descriptions of the Hound. The first known use of the term comes from the Norfolk Chronicle or Gazette, in 1805, in an account by the Rev. E.S. Taylor of Martham as follows;

‘Shuck the Dog-fiend: This phantom I have heard many persons in East Norfolk, and even Cambridgeshire, describe as having seen as a black shaggy dog, with fiery eyes, and of immense size, and who visits churchyards at midnight.’

However, the term was obviously already in use beforehand, but for how long beforehand, no one knows. In regards to the appearance of the phantom in, at or near to churchyards and graveyards, there is another old tradition that is worth noting here. It was customry in years gone by, to bury a black dog in any new graveyard, before any other burials took place. The dog was intended to act as a guardian for the dead who were laid to rest there, and to protect the entrance to the Otherworld, ensuring that none came out – or went in – that were not supposed to. This practice goes back many millennia and is still rumoured to continue today in some areas; the dog is said to be buried in the North, or North-East of the graveyard, the traditional direction of the Dead and the Underworld.

Attempts to explain the origins and nature of the Black Hound have been many, some prosaic and some fantastical. He is said to be the memory of one of Odin's battle hounds, brought over by the Viking raiders in the 9th century. Whilst this may sound appealing, Odin did not have any war or battle hounds, but was accompanied by two wolves, a description never applied to Shuck. It is possible that he is the remains of a 'fetch beast', conjured by the Norse shamans to clear the pathways for their invasions, but there is no remaining evidence for this, however attractive; but the pathways theme is pertinent and I will come back to that in a moment. In the Anglo- Saxon classic, 'Beowulf', previously referred to in the case of Grendel's Dam and the Merewives, the monster Grendel himself is termed a 'scucca' and referred to as master of the fens and moors, some of the very places said to be haunted by Black Shuck in more modern times. He is also linked in popular imagination with the Devil and witchcraft, considered to be the Devil in animal form. Whilst there are recorded cases of the Devil appearing in dog or hound form in Suffolk, the descriptions of Shuck's appearances does not seem to fit any of these. He is often linked with Churches and graveyards, as we have seen, as well as crossroads, being described as coming from, passing over or into, or finishing his perambulations at one or the other; this also links in with the fact that the most recorded instances of sightings/encounters of the hound are on paths, roads, trackways, etc. as mentioned above.

It is these latter aspects of the Black Hound that I think give us the biggest clue to his nature and function; this is either as a guardian of the 'ghost roads' - the energetic and spectral pathways across the Land that guide the spirits of the dead on their way, or lead the spirits of living witches and magical practitioners to locations of power or gatherings of their kind or as a 'psychopomp', guiding the deceased on their last journeys to the Otherworld. It has often been remarked that Black Shuck is nearly always seen walking/padding along or beside a path or trackway and that his presence either heralds or initiates a death or near death experience (sometimes also averting disaster if it is not the person's time to die). It seems highly likely that this Hound is a product of the Living Landscape, given form and function, and imbued with the energy to guard/ guide those souls in need over the liminal point between life and death that we all must pass at some point. That he is given such a form by tradition and local culture only goes to show a living tradition stretching back hundreds, if not thousands, of years, as dogs and hounds have been seen as guardians of the gates of the Underworld for millennia, particularly and especially by the succeeding cultures that have inhabited East Anglia and the rest of these Isles. That he is feared, seen as a/the Devil, shunned and reviled, is only indicative of the lack of understanding of most people of the natural Laws and Ways of the Land and their separation from them.”

—

The Devil’s Plantation:

East Anglian Lore, Witchcraft & Folk-Magic

Chapter 2: ‘Mermaids, Giants and Spectral Hounds’

by Nigel G. Pearson

#the Devil’s Plantation #nigel g. pearson #East Anglian folklore #British folklore #Celtic folklore #spectral hounds #black dogs #black shuck

64 notes · View notes

enjeolmii · 4 years

Text

10 questions - p.sh

synopsis: to ask questions isn't too bad. but to end up doing something you never expected from the intention behind every question? way better!

genre: fluff, slightly suggestive

word count: 2.4k

warnings: make out sesh (not written in depth), lots of teasing but it’s all playful you nasty

"Next question! Did you like anyon-"

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing? I'm supposed to go next." Sunghoon blocks you with an audible tap on the soft mattress, tsk-ing at your smooth but not slick enough scheme to get more answers from him.

It's a Saturday - the day of the week when assignments, works, chores, and duties are temporarily thrown down the window. On these days, you and Sunghoon go on a carefree date. It's a routine you made once a week to maintain your relationship amidst the setback caused by lockdown, and it was going great.

At a time when real interactions between people became an inappropriate thing to do, and everyone turned to technology as a resolution, you made sure that everything is done by Friday, despite it being so dreading, just so that procrastinating wouldn't be a problem dragged over the next day. And when those pressuring times occur to you, you would send each other texts, exhorting to go easy on yourselves. That's why Saturdays are the only thing you wait for every week. You weigh it up as a chance to see the only light that keeps you going, the one that helps you see clearly the path you are taking in this obscure world.

So here you are with Sunghoon in your bedroom, sitting on the bed and leaning on the wall beside it, covered in your blanket as you cuddle under the warm, comfy covers. The day has been an uneventful one. If not for him reminding you of the conversation you had prior in the week, where you asked him to gather questions he had for you, you would have slept the whole day over without accomplishing anything.

"Fine, what's your eighth question?" You admit, frowning at his attentive remark, and he snickers.

He lifts his phone and scrolls through the questions he has saved in his notes. "Have you ever had a dream about me?"

Your eyes roll around with a finger on your chin, recalling the scenarios you had of him. There were many, some surrounding the time when he decided to confess to you, and most of them came from the fantasies you had of him. Those dreams scare you more than the stare of a fiery lion. It almost even feels illegal to think about it because you aren't well over twenty. Though they were just outlines of you and him kissing innocently, you always end up making out at the end of the story.

You weren't one of those twelve-year-olds who've had their first kisses already. Your mother kept a close eye on you in situations like this, so you would rather make out with your pillow than hear her nagging your ears off. Because of that, you grew up as a child unbothered by her love life, and the mere thought of kissing someone in real life makes your hair stand up. That's when you knew he brought out a lot of changes in you.

You swallow the lump of saliva in your throat. "Yeah, I have." You answer truthfully but still cautious of the words you put out.

"Really?" His head perks in your direction. "What did I do?"

You got a little nervous knowing he would undoubtedly interrogate you on this. But thankfully, you were prepared with a streamlined answer. "That's three questions, genius," You say, reaching for his head to give it a light smack, from which earns you a groan. "Save your chances for better questions."

"What do you mean? It's a good one. What did you dream about? I want to know."

"Okayy~ Next question. Where is that..." You switch the topic hastily, hands occupied with finding the question you were waiting to ask him through your notes. "Found it. Did you like anyone before me? If so, who are they?"

"That's two questions, though?"

"Nope. Not if you put them together." You smile at him cheekily, and he throws his head back in astonishment, mouth wide open, spewing out breathy wow's.

"You're playing it dirty, I see. Well, I had two other girlfriends before you." He brings his pinky finger out. "One was my sixth-grade classmate, and the other one was my best friend from the rink." He shoots his mouth off to chaff at you yet again.

A stiff frown crawls on your face as you nod at him sarcastically. "Oh, wow. Impressive." You hum in wonderment, silence unfurling in the suddenly insipid room.

Sunghoon knew you weren't easily irritated by these circumstances. If he were talking to a random girl on the street, more often than not, you would only think of them as one of his fans from the arena, nothing more. Even if he had to accomplish things with a girl in his class, you trusted him very much with your relationship to doubt him in his actions. And so, seeing you hush after a talk like this...

Of course, he would take it as a chance to play with you.

"Aww, is my precious little y/n jealous?" His voice sharpened one octave higher as he pats your head with a pout and mock sadness in his eyes. "What do I do? I kissed them, too."

You were okay with him having two other ones before you, but at the mention of a kiss, your figure skews his way. You weren't sure if he was hoaxing you or not, but to say so honestly, it troubled you. This wasn't the intention you had with your question. All you wanted to get out of it was something to tease him about when he says he has none, yet it was still you who got ragged of your own query.

However, that's beside the point. Was it necessary to point out those last words? It wasn't you to be agitated over something as dispensable as this, but of all things, why did he have to attack your weakness?

Sunghoon's sounds of laughter tear you away from your thoughts. "Got 'em~" He pulls a finger at you in another fit of laughter, seeing you in a state of total shock.

"What the heck? It was a lie?" You pull away firmly from his body, hitting him on the shoulder with force enough to make him wobble on the bed.

"You fell for it." He provokes you, head bouncing up and down in silent titters, and you smack his hand away, leaning back down on his shoulder.

"No, I didn't," You feel him nod abut your head, seeing mentally what teasing expression he has plastered on his face this time, but you only shrug it off. "Which part was the lie, though? You kissing them or being with them?"

"Can't answer that. Save your chances for better questions, cutie."

"Touché," You scoff. "What's the next question?"

"Well, since we came to the topic of kissing... When was your first kiss?" He converts his stare to a peer of glistening fervour. Though not as subtle as he would have probably wished it to be, you could sense the perceptive intent he was hiding behind his tone.

You render motionless. Never did you tell him anything about your dreams, nor would you ever have plans to tell him. It's a product of your wildest imaginations to feed your untold desires. It's what helps restrain the ungodly in you, but it also fuels you with the need to see what it actually is like. It's a continuous internal war going on in you, its purpose being to stop you from creating trouble for yourself. And now that you finally have him here, not going to lie, it's kind of embarrassing to acknowledge the profuse amount of dreams you had of him, moreover that he stole your first kiss... Except it was in your dreams, literally.

"I never had any," You answer, trying to stay as cool as possible. "I'm a good child who listens well to her mother, so don't think no one tried to hit on me once. I turned a lot of them down." A small smile trudges its way onto his face, but the way his eyes were fixated on you remained untypically the same.

"I don't know if I should be happy that you picked me out of all of them or be sad for those 'poor hearts' you broke." He draws an air quote along with his words, and you shake your head at him. "Don't worry. I won't tease you on this one. I just wanted to know." He mumbles quietly through a simper, moving to rest his head on yours.

Hearing that he'll cut you some slack relieved you, but one thing about his utterance caught you off guard. "Why do you want to know that?"

"That's the only way I'll get to know you deeper, Einstein," He retracts his head and nudges you on his shoulder, causing you to bump your head against its edge, a grunt following you. However, while you were still in the midst of justifying the whack he did on your head, he spins his vision to you in an adventitious celebration. "Oh- that's your tenth question, then!"

"Wait, hold on!" You haul over to straighten your posture, the creaking of the bed barely audible from the loudness of your opposition.

"It's my turn again." His eyes grow invisible from his cheeks, pushing it up into a smile. He just never gets tired of making fun of you. How you wish you could do the same to him. If only punching someone straight in the face denotes no wrongdoing, you would have done that ages ago.

"Bitch, why did you answer that?" You call him, blaming him with the irritation that you weren't able to control yourself.

"You ask, I answer. Isn't that how it goes?" He grins at you matter-of-factly, and you tousle your hair around in frustration.

"Ugh, you're crazy," You send glares up his way. "Whatever. Your last question, throw."

As if that was a signal he has been waiting for, Sunghoon shuts his phone and tucks it in his pocket. "How does it feel to kiss someone?"

You were confused. You just said you've never kissed anyone before.

A dry giggle leaves your mouth after much processing. You knew you shouldn't have trusted his words. No matter what you do, he'll find the cracks and holes to slip in his every jest. "I think you got the wrong person, kid. How do you think I'd know?"

"Hmm..." He drones, the ticking sound of the clock suddenly increasing in volume with every minute passing by. "Should we try it, then?" He suggests.

"What?" You were taken aback, a sudden chill sweeping through your body like a surge of cool air gashing through the enclosed room. What is he going on about?

Inch by inch, you feel him gravitate towards you, your torso backing up from his inclining frame until the warmth you caused on the cold wall completely presses against your back. Like the fire of a gun's bullet on a steady path, your heartbeat raced in a trice. His eyes stared at yours, tracing down to your parted lips as he led his other hand across your body, trailing up your arms to your shoulders, just until it reaches your jaw. Your breath hitched, lips shutting tightly as you gulp down at the presence of his queer boldness.

It's like the scenarios you formed in your head where he pins you against the wall, lips hovering yours with soft breaths that tickle your skin. Him studying your face with obstinacy to make you his, doing whatever it is that would make you happy. Nevertheless, he made sure to be cautious of things you wouldn't want him to do. He still respected you.

He's doing just the same thing, and it's getting you set on thinking whether this is all a dream taking too long to reach its climax or if your dreams are miraculously made into reality. But his next set of words were enough to tell you the clarification to your uncertainties.

"Please don't be mad." Without warning, his lips found their place on your light, pillowy ones. It felt like he was pouring out all emotions he's been holding in until now. He always controlled himself whenever you're around because he didn't want to disappoint your mother. But with this instance is a chance to do something he has long been dreaming of. He wasn't about to lose it.

The way his head tilts to the side to get a more comfortable position, eyes closing and immersed in the pleasure of your lips against his, got you clasping onto your blanket to ease the havoc he's causing in your guts. You froze at the contact. As if time had halted and the world stopped spinning, everything seemed to slow down at that moment. Maybe it was the sweet scent of his bergamot fragrance. Maybe it was the tightening of his grip on your jaw, or perhaps the longing you had for him that's enticing you in this position.

It's not every day that we get to see our dreams come true, and for one, it's a matchless feeling, especially when the dream is worthwhile. Slowly, you give in and close your eyes in the warmth of his touch. His lips parted to bite at your lower lip, and you overtly open your mouth to let him in.

"Do you think you could answer it now?" He questions you, but you couldn't comprehend what he was saying. You were too caught up in your own feelings during the whole session; you almost forgot what happened before it was done. Just when you thought he’d stop pulling out all the hidden quirks of yours, he caught you once again. And it didn't take long enough before you recollected yourself.

"Right. It's way better than I could have ever imagined." You smile at him, giving rise to the same smile as you.

"If this is how it will usually end, maybe I should start gathering more questions for you." He proposes, his head wheeling over to you with sheer excitement.

"Uh-huh... Just make sure you don't catch anything from the streets before you come over." You reply with a cackle, getting off his lap and sitting back down on the soft mattress.

It was supposed to be a dull and boring day. But with another chance that you two meet comes another something to remember forever. And you can't help but grin from ear to ear.

263 notes · View notes