#straight up giggling and kicking my feet at every little thing about shadow

[rouge-the-bat]

the way they made shadows eyes so expressive in shadow gens 🥺😍🥺😍😍🥺😍 the small movements of his eyebrows and him looking around!!!!! i LOVE it so much, this is exactly how he should be animated, his eye are supposed to be the most expressive part of him

[futureplayboibunnie]

Strong Enough

Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

18+ MDNI (y’all pls this is filthy)

- GIGGLING. KICKING MY FEET. i came back from spiderverse with JUST THIS MAN ON MY MIND. oscar isaac ur service is appreciated cause gah dayum.

- i had to write some super angsty smut abt him. i just had to, he’s so lana del rey vinylllll. i’m sorry if my spanish is crap (i had to use google translate bc my stupid ass took german instead of spanish in school- pls tell me if there were any mistakes. kiss kiss x)

warnings: dom!miguel, pnv, lotsa dirty talk (think i got carried away), angsty miguel, FANGS, sort of a soft end. AGGHH IM SO CRAZY ABOUT HIM WHAT THE FUCK.

enjoy bbygirls x

Miguel was furious as usual, his blood was beating like a drum with it, his mind buzzing akin to white noise. New anomalies, new foes but mostly a pesky kid who didn't know how to stay put and shut the fuck up- Miles Morales. He was seething- his eyes glowing a crimson hue violently assaulting against the hazel of his eyes. He looked like shit. Hell, he felt like shit. He was slipping, letting things get in the way, and he blamed you for it. Miguel doesn't slip. Miguel doesn't let things get in the way. Only until you came into his life and veered him off his intended course.

It was his hegemonic masculinity piping up like a hot breath down his neck. Miguel brought together the spider society- he was the solution to every problem, every anomaly, the answer to every spider. But he doesn't answer to himself. No, he didn't. You were the one that was overseeing Miguel's little society, hiding and checking in from time to time if the multiverse wasn't fucked up and every dimension was in a semi-stable state. Miguel was in control of the other spiders, he had to run his orders by you first even if you weren't at HQ half of the time. Being in a subservient position was exorbitantly and intensely frustrating and it made him highly hostile to anyone who talked to him.

You on the other hand had the jurisdiction to give him the authority- you gave him the damn idea, you were from his damn universe, but you couldn't deal with the politics and moral dilemmas that came with leading it. Also, you enjoyed toying with him. Fuck you found so much satisfaction in crawling through him, blowing at that over-inflated ego, those broad shoulders filled to the brim with hubris and pride. Hm, he was good at what he did though- actively scaring off anyone who dared speak against him. Except for Morales. You appreciated his pluck, it reminded you of yourself. Miguel was formidable but you understood why he needed to apprehend Morales- for some reason every time you were near the kid you started glitching out, it fucking hurt and messed with your brainwaves. You understood why he had to capture Miles but you didn't agree with how he was handling it. Miguel was sitting at his desk trying to figure out why this was happening and why this was happening to you but he came up empty. He didn't know what to think about it let alone do. It made him feel uneasy and he hated it. Cómo pedo solucionar esto? (How do I fix this?) kept looping throughout his head and it made him feel helpless and weak. Two words he would never associate with himself.

‘’Miguel.��’ Your voice echoed off the walls and shot straight to his ears, it was smoky and breathy.

"Y/N. Qué estás haciendo aquí? What do you want?’’ His usual low timbre makes your brows furrow involuntarily. ‘’Get out of the shadows.’’ He ordered and for once you listened to him, hopping on his platform behind him.

‘’Morales.’’ You stated deadpan knowing the reaction he was going to get, Miguel's eyes drastically narrowed and changed from a soft ambient scarlet to a scorching blood red. He turned his face a little to the side to glare at you.

"That kid touches anything in another dimension, I'll kill him myself.’’ He replied huskily. You weren't sure if you could trust his words. Yes, he was capable of it but you know deep down he wouldn't want to.

His moral compass strayed once, he won't let that happen again. Never.

"You wanna kill kids now? Is that how low we're going?'’

'We? There's we now?’’

You cocked your head at his question, your face remaining hard.

He stared at you in silent fury, of course he wouldn't want to resort to that but he had to do what he had to do. Miguel was surprised you didn't want to take him yourself considering he makes you glitch out. He hates you, God he hates you. But what happened to you...scared him. You'd been a part of this for so long, if anyone was going to hurt you it would be him- not anyone else. If anyone else did- Miguel dismissed the thought as quickly as it came.

Sometimes when he looked at you, he couldn't help but admire your callousness, your brutality yet your undying generosity to people who didn't deserve such a royalty. On the other hand, you were fucking gorgeous. He hated it. It was distracting. It was cruel. Though he couldn't help a little blip or mishap with his thought process- he was still a man after all. Miguel wondered what was under that suit. Wondered what you would like with nothing on at all. Wondered if you would still talk back with that snotty little attitude if you were choking on his dick instead. Though he wouldn't trust you not to bite his dick off in the process. Would you like his fangs? Would you like his claws? He shouldn’t be thinking such a thing.

‘’I should ask you the same question since he affects your stability también.’’ He replied calmly, slightly shocking you. ‘’No matter, I'll stop it. Alone.’’ He growled as he stepped off the platform, tired of entertaining this conversation with you. ‘’You've done enough damage as it is, now I have to fix it.’’

‘’I caused this damage? You realize how fucking stupid you sound. You control the spiders, I let you make orders.’’ You strike a harsh tone as you jolted in front of him to stop his path. Shit, he towered above you, all broad shoulders and disheveled hair. Although he undermined you like this, you wouldn't mind it in other situations...but at work, he was quite literally a piece of work and it made your blood boil. You both knew, you both could feel the palpable hatred swinging and beating again. ‘’And alone? I don't trust you not to kill him, Miguel.’’ You scowled, your eyes wide and piercing through him, halting him in his tracks. The gaze shared between you both was impenetrable, scorching, a battle against wills.

‘’I can't let you.’’ He shot back with a frown and grating red eyes.

‘’While I watch helplessly from the sidelines? I don’t think so. ’’ You challenged him white cold.

‘’I'm asking you, don't let me make you.’’ He gritted through clenched teeth, his fangs lightly protruding.

He was trying to scare you, it wasn't working.

‘’What is this to you? Playtime? To prove you're the strongest, to create fear wherever you go?’’ You pleaded with him orotund, inviting a yelling match to prove you weren't going down easy on this occasion.

You let Miguel do whatever he damn pleased like this was his own hunting grounds- but you won't let him lose his sanity.

‘’What? No.’’He replied shocked and confused at your presumed reasons why he was doing this. He just had to. He couldn't tell you the deep-rooted reason.

He didn't want to admit it.

Fuck, he couldn't admit it.

What kind of man would that make him?

What kind of leader? What kind of example would he be?

‘’Then what is it-?’’ He was trying to walk away from you but you snaggled onto his suit and brought him back to face you. ‘’Tell me.’’ You ordered stiffly.

‘’I have to do this alone.’’ His voice faltered a little and he was afraid that you might have heard it, that he gave you a glaring view of how quickly he was slipping through the cracks- how weak you've made him, how weak he was becoming.

‘’Why? Why do you need to, Miguel?!’’ You were almost yelling at him and no one other than you would get the privilege of living if they did that.

‘’Stop it.’’ He grunted like a wild animal.

"Then what-? What is it?’’ Your eyes searched for his as he was avoiding looking at your face, terrified that it would be written all over it. His heart was pounding.

‘’I'm not-‘’

‘’Not what?’’ You implored, pushing him further and further to the edge.

‘’I'm not strong enough.’’

‘'Strong enough? Oh yeah, and going after a kid will make you stronger.’’ You chided, eyes stiff cold, and judgemental.

‘’Yes, fuck. I-. No!’’ Miguel raked an exasperated hand through his hair, his palm was twitching and his talons were ready to come out. If only he could make you understand without telling you- but you were insatiable, a tick under his skin. Ready for another fucking fight.

Your eyebrows wilted as you said the words, so unbelievably paralyzed by his gall, his hubris, his never-ending need to prove he's the strongest, that he could do all of this. You knew he fucking could. ‘’That's what this is, some sort of bench press exercise for you? Some sort of work-out?!’’ Miguel grabbed you by the arms and his talons pinched at your skin through his suit, like he was trying to shake some sense into you.

‘’I can't lose you again!’’ He yelled at you, his face merely inches away from yours.

Your mouth popped open at his frazzled admission of honesty, his glowing red eyes faded as he stared at you, hoping for an answer he was sure you wouldn't give him. Miguel's harsh expression was lost with the wind when he hung his head to avoid that fucking look in your eyes. The one that made all the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders all the more fucking heavier, his hands raked down your arms as if he was soothing himself, and his breath became heavier as he closed his eyes to process the words he uttered. You glitching out every time Miles was near you is not an option he was willing to entertain: it was his job to worry about anomalies and canon events but on this occasion- he didn't. And he was admitting that to you.

It's not the fact that he's dangerous or an anomaly. It's because of you.

What kind of selfish would that make him?

Last time that happened he lost everything.

He would never make the same mistake again.

But look at him now.

Making the same mistake.

‘’I can't lose you. No otra vez....I'm not str-I'm not strong enough.’’ His head hung low as if the weight of the universe was saving him from completely falling apart.

You sighed in a mix of relief and pity. This is what it was all about? Pobre cosa (poor thing). Your eyes were wide with a magnetic pulse and your body was radiating a mesmeric need. He felt it. Your hands flew to his chest and slowly meandered to his broad shoulders, he was panting in exhaustion and regret but your fingers went to his chin and jutted it upwards so your longing stare could meet his. It was a scorching look between two tired and exhausted people. Miguel was working himself so hard and you just wanted to make him forget about it, just once.

‘’Miguel…’’

‘’Ahora me he dado cuenta de que no puedo hacer nada de esto sin ti.’’ (I've now come to realize that I can't do any of this without you). Miguel's eyes flitted to your lips, his voice low and husky...needy. ‘’But I'm a selfish man... y te necesito.’’ (and I need you). Your face looked blank, it's obvious you didn't understand a word he was saying. ‘’Whatever, you wouldn't understand what I'm saying anyway.’’ Miguel dismissed you as he let go of your embrace and attempted to head out.

Before he could move away too far, you exposed your wrist and webbed him, dragging him back to you. His eyes glinted with a surprise yet they were dark with need and arrogance. Miguel was in front of you and your pussy started throbbing. His senses went into overdrive and he couldn't hold back his will to not touch you anymore.

‘'He entendido cada palabra que me has dicho.’’ (I've understood every word you've ever said to me.)

He gripped your face and kissed you hard, it was furious and mean, and he tasted dangerous- just as you expected, just as you had been silently begging him to. Lord, you were sure you'd regret this but right now your body was alive. Miguel's massive hands pulled at your hair to open your mouth wider

'’Miguel...féllame, por favor.’’ (fuck me, please) you uttered breathlessly, his mouth traveling from your bottom lip, chin, and then neck. His lips then went to breathe raggedly in your ear.

‘’You've understood everything I've ever said under my breath about you?’’ He murmured, imploring you to make him understand. He thought he had the privilege of saying things secretly as no one understood his Spanish but him, so he could say things he didn't want to keep inside without anyone else knowing. But you pulled the rug out from under him, you've been fooling him. He hated it. The number of times he's mumbled how much he wanted you under his breath- fuck.

‘’Mhm.’’ You moaned as his hands flew to your hips and slammed you down on his desk with no finesse, planting himself between your soft thighs. ‘’I thought you would've caught me earlier than this chico.’’ You teased- the thought made him angry. His talons seeped out of his skin and ripped at your suit, exposing the bare skin of your waist.

‘’Y me he dado cuenta de lo mojada que te pones cuando estás cerca de mí.’’ (And I've noticed how wet you get when you're near me) The filthy words rolled off of his tongue like velvet. ‘’Don't think you have the upper hand here sweetheart.’’

‘’Even when I want you to fuck me, you still have to fucking argue with me.’’ You growled as your hands burrowed into his long raven hair

‘’Oh, but you like it this way.’’ He smirked in your ear, the cadence of his voice reducing your knees to that of fucking jelly.

"How do you know what I like? You never asked.’’ You flirted back, treading on dangerous waters with the man that is known for having paper-thin patience.

‘’Shut the fuck up.’’ Miguel clawed at your waist and then spun you around so the tops of your thighs were. digging into the translucent glass of his desk. All of a sudden, he placed his large palm just below your neck and shoved you flat onto the desk just with brute force. You were sure you were about to start salivating.

‘’Oh, mierda.’’ He breathed raggedly, his wandering hands ripping at your suit. ‘’Beautiful, dangerous, deadly. Pretending as if you're better than me... like you're not capable of killing.’’ He ripped at your suit some more, exposing more of your skin. Your breath trembled in anticipation as he bent down to whisper hotly in your ear, your ass already feeling his strong- oh. Shit. ‘’You drive my fucking crazy, you know that?’’ He ripped your suit until it was nothing but scraps. You were naked and desperate under him.

‘’Me vuelves loco.’’ (You make me insane).

‘’Stop fucking talking and just take me, Miguel.’’ You whined desperately as your cheek pressed coldly against the glass, your hair splaying all over your shoulders like a waterfall.

‘’Abre la boca.’’ (Open your mouth) He growled like an animal but you were too concerned with your wobbly legs and fraying patience, you replied with a stunned silence, almost jittering like a fool. A frown contorted on Miguel's perfect face, scrunching up his chiseled, picturesque features. His right hand gripped your hair pulling you up to him, his left hand brushed against your lips until he fully force-plunged two fingers in your mouth- saliva coating his fingers as you gagged and choked. Oh, he couldn't wait to get you on your knees- the thought provoked some visceral reaction within him.

‘’'That's it, good girl.’’ He grumbled the affirmation and it sent sparks shooting throughout your body.

Miguel rarely ever praised or complimented so this....fuck. ...this was different, you felt so damn special to him. The ever-so-broody Miguel O'Hara calling you a 'good girl' made an unstoppable moan rip through your throat. ‘’Oh, so you like to be loud? Seems like you can't shut up when you're getting fucked too.’’ He insulted adding insult to injury which just made you sweat.

‘’Is the venom from your fangs rushing straight to your head, Miguel? Or did you not hear what I said?’’ You spat with a distinct sharpness that he'd come to expect from you, he was glad to see he hadn't scared the personality out of you which he had the tendency to do to every single person he met. However, one thing he absolutely couldn't tolerate was backtalking- which you had a tendency to get away with most times but he thought this was the perfect situation to reinstate his rules. Miguel tugged on your hair again like his own personal leash.

‘’Puede que quiera joderte ahora mismo, pero no pienses ni por un segundo que no te haré sufrir en el proceso.’’ (I may want to fuck the shit out of you right now but don't think for a second that I won't make you suffer in the process) His voice was aggressive and heady and you were stiff with arousal, your pussy was aching for him.

‘’Por favor Miguel.’’ You begged softly and it made his gaze narrow and his fangs spike out of his gums.

At times like this, he was glad he had a suit that would come on and off as he pleased- right now he was sweating with need and he was thankful he was able to quickly rid of his suit. Miguel didn't think he would be this hard, but then again you did always have a knack for surprising him when he least expected it. His large palm smacked at your ass and he was happy to see a large indent of the outline he made. Like he had a claim on you.

‘’Miguel!’’ You whined like a bitch in heat.

He didn't listen to your plead, he didn't even tease you into it first, his rigid dick just slipped into your soaking wet heat and he'd never felt this pleasure...ever. You were seriously about to cry. He wanted you to. Your pussy molded around his dick, and you were afraid he wasn't even going to fit- but Miguel always finds a way. He felt so...fucking good. The dull ache inside of your stomach was twisting into a fit of knots and butterflies, he quite literally pulsated inside of you

"Tan apretado cariño.’’ (So tight sweetheart) Miguel's chest rumbled alongside his dirty words. Fucking hell, it was like you were vacuum sealed to his dick. He started rutting into you with abandon, without mercy.

You felt so good. He was so.. good...at this, as much as you hated to admit it. He kept pawing at your body, his talons creating the animalistic tension that much heavier between you.

‘’Mi vida...’’ He purred in your ear, going harder and faster with every pained moan that ripped through your throat like it was an incentive for him to keep going.

‘’So perfect for me. Squeezing me so well...Mierda.’’

‘’You want me?’’ You teased innocently as you twisted your head to look at him through doe eyes. His eyes were roaring red as his grip on your hips seeped into your skin harder.

‘’You know I do.’’ Miguel gritted through clenched teeth, baring his fangs. The sight just made you wetter. ‘’Let me show you how much.’’ He bent down and it felt like he was going to snap you in half, you were so close to reaching your peak. To add insult to injury, he bit down on the skin of your bare shoulder blade and blood dripped from his fangs when he pulled away- your moan in response was that of perfection. Fuck it hurt but it felt amazing.

‘’It's okay, mi vida, come for me. I won't tell.’’ Miguel cooed, showing a tender side to him as he kissed down your shoulder blade to your back. You obeyed his command and came onto him- violently, so fucking hard. A guttural groan rumbled from his chest and your honeyed pants brought him back to life- a cause and effect. He fucked you through your orgasm and allowed himself the privilege of finishing inside you.

Miguel pulled out of you, leaking against the back of your thigh in the process. The scene was filthy, completely obscene and you never thought this would actually happen. ‘’Stay still princesa.’’ He commanded and you actually listened to him. The pressure of Miguel's body left you exposed as your ears pricked up to hear a rustle of draws and a clattering of things behind you. You turned your head around and his hologram suit was back on, it hugged him so fucking tightly your knees were starting to shake again.

You felt his presence again as you felt a cloth clean up the leaks down your thighs. ‘’Muchas gracias, Miguel.’’ Smartass. You flirted and he just smirked back at you, helping you stand up straight and face him when he got you cleaned up. You gazed up at him, quite chipper if you were being completely honest. Maybe a good hard fucking from his was all you needed to straighten you out. His eyes were still greedy as they raked up and down your naked body.

‘’As much as I prefer you like this...here.’’ A hologram covered you and your suit was back on, fine lines and all- well, that's easier than what you have to go through every day to get it sitting nicely.

You gazed at the scraps of your suit that were on the floor. Jesus Christ, he fucked like an animal.

"Nice to know chivalry isn't dead.' You tiptoed so you could get closer to his face and kissed his cheek. ‘’Thanks for the fuck, Miguel. Also by the way, I'm still not letting you kill that kid.’’ You patted his shoulder sarcastically- toying with him even further. You just walked away from him and his platform, you left him in a stunned silence and a blank expression, he scoffed breathlessly as he turned around to see you saunter away so damn confidently.

‘’Princesa no tan rapida.’’ (Not so fast princess) He replied back with a broken half smile. He suddenly exposed his wrist and a web flew to your waist and he instantaneously pulled you back in front of him. The breathless expression on your face was something that needed to be showcased in galleries.

‘’Can't lose me again? Object permanence is a thing you know torombolo.’’ You joked and his brows furrowed slightly in response, his arms wrapped tightly around you.

‘’Don't joke about that mi vida.’’ Miguel's face had a sheen of concern and it made your stomach twist into butterflies. ‘’You could die.’’ His voice came across as more stern than intended but you didn't back away like anyone else would do- you accepted him for who he was.

‘’Oh, Miguel...Please, we'll figure it out. But that kid you're after is probably scared and alone- just like you were, just like I was and I don't want that to swallow him.’’

‘’But every time-‘’ You pressed your pointer finger to stop his lips from moving.

"Shush. I've always trusted you, Miguel, now I don't even think there's a point in me being your higher-up. If we work together, you don't have to be afraid.’’ You caressed his face tenderly and he got lost in the softness of your words and your ever so guileless eyes.

‘’Okay?’’ Miguel turned his head to kiss at your palm as an affirmation.

‘’Okay.’’

[theperksofbeingstupid]

spiderbit fluff or fright DÍA TRES!!!!!!!!! prompt: cannibalism. it turned out a lot sillier than some of my other cannibalism stuff <33 inspired by johannis' art!!!!!!!

Roier has been pestering him for weeks at this point. Every morning during breakfast, while they harvested the coffee beans, while they worked on their respective projects. For every meal, every free moment he has, he's giggling and jumping around Cellbit, tugging on his hair or pressing fleeting kisses into his skin.

And normally, Cellbit would be ecstatic to have his husbands undivided attention. But this has been far too undivided.

"Don't you have things to do, guapito?" he asks, running his hands through his hair. They're sitting in Cellbit's office in the Order. Working. Or at least, Cellbit is trying to work while Roier flops dramatically on the sofa and drapes an arm over his face.

"You don't want me anymore, I see how it is," he moans, squinting at him with eyes full of crocodile tears.

"I didn't say that," Cellbit sighs.

"Well! You meant it!"

"Guapi-"

"No! It's too late now," Roier sits up suddenly, "Here I am, keeping my ungrateful husband company. Taking time out of my busy day to plan a Valentines surprise for you, and this is the thanks I get."

"You're planning a what?" Cellbit thinks back on the last few weeks. Is it February already? He's been so caught up in going over adjustments to the Egg Hotel, expanding the Castelo, and lying to Cucurucho that he didn't even notice. And now that he thinks about it, Roier has been disappearing in the middle of the night suspiciously for days now.

"A nothing! Not anymore," Roier slides down the sofa and onto the paper-covered floor.

Cellbit waits patiently. One second, two, three, four-

Another loud, dramatic sigh from behind the coffee table.

Cellbit puts his pen down and rises from his chair, back creaking alarmingly. He crosses the room and stops with his feet inches from Roier's head on the ground. He looks down at him, hair all splayed out and bandana barely hanging on.

"I'm sorry, guapito," he says placatingly, "Oh dear husband of mine, how can I possibly make it up to you?"

Roier glares at him suspiciously. "Two pm sharp tomorrow in the blood room. Wear something nice." And with that he kicks off the ground and lands with his back to Cellbit, "Y ven con apetito, gatinho."

Which honestly, leaves Cellbit with more questions than answers.

Tomorrow arrives quickly enough, with Roier once more slipping out of bed in the middle of the night and returning an hour later to a disgruntled Cellbit. In the morning, Cellbit contents himself with a light avocado toast for breakfast while Roier hums happily and prances around the kitchen.

"Can I at least get a hint?" he asks, watching as Roier picks up and puts down a set of knives of alarmingly increasing sizes.

"Hmm?" Roier seems distracted. Whatever it is he's planning has a part of Cellbit on edge. A much larger part of him trusts his husband implicitly, however.

"Just wear something you don't mind getting dirty," he replies, and makes off holding one of their largest kitchen knives.

When two in the afternoon rolls around, Roier has been missing for a couple of hours already, and a sign spelling NO ENTRAR HASTA LAS DOS has mysteriously appeared on top of the blood room elevator. Cellbit can be excused for feeling a little nervous as he breaks it and drops down into their designated meeting spot.

He's greeted by a table set for two, candles lit and two glasses of wine resting on a deep red tablecloth.

Roier is sitting on the far side, smiling up at him as the walls bathe him in red and the flames cast shadows on his face.

"Happy Valentines, gatinho," he says, and then plunges the knife in his hands straight into his chest.

Cellbit's heart stops.

What the fuck.

"What the fuck, guapito!" Cellbit yells and scrambles forward, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach his husband- His husband who just stabbed himself, his husband who is not bleeding out, his husband who is laughing at him as he pulls the knife out calmly and sets it on the table.

"Que porra é isso."

"Calma, gatinho, calma." Roier lets out another laugh, "You should've seen your face!"

Cellbit feels like his brain is slowly rebooting. He reaches Roier and slowly sinks down to his knees beside him.

"O que- o que você está fazendo."

"Es tu sorpresa!"

Roier grabs Cellbit's hands and pulls him close, planting a kiss on his still parted lips.

"No te preocupes, gatinho. I'm fine! Badboy helped me work out a spell." He scuffs his foot along the floor and when Cellbit looks down, he can see lines traced on the ground in blood, forming a symbol along the whole room.

"What is-"

"Dinner!" Roier tugs Cellbit onto his lap suddenly, the table shaking violently and the wine almost spilling over the sides of the glass with the motion.

"Now eat," Roier says, staring unblinkingly up at him.

Cellbit swallows down his nerves, and allows his stomach to flutter in excitement. The smell of blood is intoxicating, and red always did look better on Roier.

He reaches forward slowly, fingers shaking as he presses them against the open wound on Roier's chest. It's hot, and the raw edges seem to burn his fingertips.

Roier's breath catches when Cellbit's hand slips fully inside, blood welling up and spilling down his wrist. He laughs giddily, watching as Roier's eyes dilate, pupils blown out so wide his eyes almost look black.

"Te amo, guapito," he whispers.

Roier tightens his grip on Cellbit's waist, nails digging into his skin under his dress shirt. "También te amo," he replies easily, words barely audible as Cellbit's hand closes around his still-beating heart.

Cellbit leans forward to press a kiss to his husband's cheek, "Obrigado," he smiles, and then rips Roier's heart out.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

TwstOBer Day 5: Dream

I don’t have time to do every single TwstOBer prompt 😅 so you’ll have to make do with the handful of miscellaneous ones I can manage, starting with prompt 5 (dream)!

“My singing can put babies to sleep.”

Trick or Treat.

Lilia shielded a small bundle with his body.

Plump and pink, it was swaddled in cloth and fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. A high-pitched wail emanated from the bundle, coming out in short spurts and squeaks. Bendy limbs and a squishy, scrunched up face flailed uselessly as he held the creature close to him.

Sparse tufts of silvery hair stuck up from its head, as though it had already aged to the golden years. Its cheeks were flushed the color of rosebuds from squealing and thrashing about, eyes screwed tight and mouth dangling wide open.

No, not it—he.

A human infant, lost in the dark and all alone.

“You’re frightened half to death, poor thing,” Lilia cooed. His voice, even at a whisper, easily swallowed the fragile, fragmented cries of the child.

The boy exploded into a fresh round of shrill sobs.

Lilia sighed, rocking him in his arms. His eyes were glowing rubies in the night.

Moonlight poured in from wide windows, making his shadow come to life and envelop the baby. Tendrils of darkness latched onto him, teasing his chubby face. A nightmare caressing its dreamer.

“Shhhh, shhhh… It’s alright.”

The half truth tasted ashen on Lilia’s tongue.

“It will be alright,” he corrected himself, making his mouth stretch into a gentle smile. “Lilia-chan’s here for you.”

The little one surely couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying. Humans were like that in infancy, as he had come to learn over the years. Helpless, hopeless. At the mercy of the elements, and others.

Yet the boy softened at Lilia’s reassurances, his tantrum tailing off into sniffles. He blinked, regarding the fairy with a curious look. Lilia was reflected back through irises set in the kaleidoscopic colors of the northern lights.

“You have beautiful eyes, and such lustrous silver hair.” Lilia prodded the baby’s chin with a pinkie. “It’s like you’ve walked straight out of a fairy tale and into my life, little one.”

The baby gurgled. Beneath the blanket, he kicked his feet like an ecstatic frog. His arms poked out of the fabric, reaching aimlessly—

—until he latched onto something.

His tiny fingers curled around Lilia’s pinkie. Grip weak, he stared up at the fairy’s shocked expression and giggled.

Another gurgle, then his face creased with a yawn. All tuckered out from bawling.

His lashes quivered, veiling auroras. Lids drifting shut, he tucked Lilia’s finger against himself, as though it were a cuddly toy to keep him company.

Lilia’s heart swelled.

“How does a moment last forever?” he asked of the darkness, his words arranged in a soft sing-song. “How can a story never die?

“It is love we must hold on to.” Lilia folded a corner of cloth inward, securing it under the boy’s chin. “Never easy, but we try.

“Sometimes our happiness is captured.” He slowly twirled and slunk down the corridor with his bundle of joy, his shadow trailing along the wall. “Somehow, a time and place stand still.

“Love lives on inside our hearts… and always will.”

They had reached the end of the hallway, and come to the end of the lullaby. The boy was now sleeping soundly, his breath coming out in small, warm puffs, head buried against Lilia’s chest. A line of drool trickled down his mouth.

And still he grasped onto Lilia.

Kufufu, how adorable.

Lilia bent down, planting a feather light kiss upon the child’s crown.

I wonder what he’s dreaming of.

[inkykeiji]

break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you

character: zenin naoya

genre: smut + angst

notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation

words: 9.5k

synopsis:

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.

It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.

Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!

It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.

And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.

“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”

Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”

And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.

“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”

Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.

“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.

It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.

It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.

Maybe.  

“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”

Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.

It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.

God, you’re beautiful.

It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.

And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.

“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”

Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.

“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”

“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.

It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark  hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.

But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.

He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.

And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.

It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.

Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.

Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.

It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.

He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.

Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.

Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.

And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.

It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you���d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.

No. Instead, you excel.

Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.

And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.

You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.

Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.

You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.

Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.

It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.

You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.

Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”

“I said no—”

“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.

Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.

“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”

“Well, they are, but—”

“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”

Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.

“Please, we were studying,”

The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.

“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”

“What? No, of course not—”  

“Then why are you lying to him?”

“I-I’m not—”

“And you’re doing it again?”

Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.

“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”

Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.

Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.

Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.

And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.  

“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.

Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.

      ✰          ✰          ✰

“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”

“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.

“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”

And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.

Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”

The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”

No.

No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.

No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.

Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.

He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.

He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…

Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.

In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.

Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.

And eventually, he goes a little too far.

    ✰          ✰          ✰ 

The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.

You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.

His princess.  

Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.

No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.

And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.

“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”

“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.

“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.

You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”

“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”

A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.

“N-No, I’m—”

“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”

The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”

That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”

Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.

“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”

And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.

“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”

A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.

And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.

Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.

Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.

And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.

Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.

So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?

Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.

And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.

And he fucking misses it.

He shouldn’t, but he does.

It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.

It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.

And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.

They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.

Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.

It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.

“Naoya-nii?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.

And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.

But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.

That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.

Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.

Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.

It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.

So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.

But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.

And he was stupid to think it would be.

    ✰          ✰          ✰

The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.

It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.

So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.

Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.

He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.

Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.

This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.

“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.

A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.

“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.

He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.

“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”

“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”

“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”

“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.

He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.

“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.

His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.

Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”

A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”

“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”

“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”

“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”

“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”

But I can’t stop.

But I need you.

But I love you.

Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.

“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”

“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”

“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.

“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”

He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.

And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.

And you’ve just found his weakness.

“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”

A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.

He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.

“There’s no cure,”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.

“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”

He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.

“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.

“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”

“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”

His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.

Because you’re the only one that can.

You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.

And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.

You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.

“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”

It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.

“And there’s nothing—”

Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.

“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”

The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.

He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.

Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.

Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.

Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.

You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.

The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.

Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.

“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”

“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”

The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.

Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.

“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”

“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”

His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”

A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”

It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.

“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”

The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.

Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.

“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”

“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.

“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”

It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.

The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”

“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”

Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.

“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”

“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”

“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”  

“Forever and ever and ever—”

“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”

Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.

“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”

“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”

Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.

His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.

A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.

You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.

“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”

And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”

The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.

And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.

And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.  

[qillmhi]

He likes that

2003! Raph x Reader

YAY I got another one! Slight NSFW action. The pic below is my all time favourite Raph moment😂

Raphael is one tough cookie. Always had and always will be.

He's brash. He's bold. Heck, his fists do most of the talking for him in basically every scenario that he finds himself in. He isn't afraid to show the bad guys just how bad he can be. For instance...

The Purple Punks has been quiet these past few days. Too quiet to be exact. Only to find out there's someone else taking them out. Although that would be good for the most part, his brothers would definitely agree. But Raph isn't very happy when someone else steals his prey. So just like any hot-headed mutant turtle would, he began his own investigation and tracked down the bozos that keeps on taking his fun.

Yeah yeah, say what you want but a turtle needs to bust some heads to unwind every once in a while too okay? Anyways, he started his own little hunting game. It took a while without Don's techno-geek machines but he found his way into an abandoned warehouse. Cliché. Now would he consider his options and call his brothers and prepare a plan?

Fuck no.

Obviously he came straight right in with his weapons ready to attack. He kicked the door and jumped right in, adrenaline pumping through his body. After that? To be honest, he didn't know what happened next. It was a blur to him.

And just like that, the predator became the prey.

Tied down to a chair, inside what looks like an interrogation room, making out, tongue and all, with a gorgeous girl on his lap.

Raphael felt his shell become tighter every time he heard those delicious moans of yours. (Damn that escalated quickly)

The kiss was hot and messy. He had no freaking idea who you are, how you manage to catch him off guard so fast or what type of interrogation you were doing, but damn did he like it. He liked the taste of your lips. He liked the way your hands sensually traced his arms and he is certainly enjoying the way your hips would occasionally grind against his.

It was addicting.

With whatever limited movement he was able to do, Raph pulled away from your lips and started attacking your neck with rough bites and kisses. You sighed dreamily when his lips came in contact with your skin. Everytime his tongue brushed against your sweet spot, you'd grip his shoulders tighter. The turtle in red smirked. He'd tease you by ghosting a kiss or lick your sweet spot on your neck but never gave you the satisfaction of actually touching you the way you wanted. You looked at his eyes and pouted despite drowning in pleasure. Raph loves that look on your face. Eyes pleading, cheeks as red as his bandana and neck littered with marks. His marks. You were just begging him to eat you alive, and who is he to say no to that?

"Ahh~!" You moaned loudly when Raph finally gave in and bit you there harshly. You couldn't help but grind against him even harder with the way he was abusing your neck. It was driving you crazy!

Raph cursed under using breath. He sunk his teeth into your neck again, sucking and tasting the sensitive flesh to leave more marks. Your nails were scratching his plastron, mewling in pleasure. Damn you were loud. And he liked that. He liked that he was the reason why you were making those noises.

"Ya' like that, sweetheart?" He chuckled lowly. His breath was sending shivers down your spine. God he was so hot. His brooklyn accent alone was enough to send your body to overdrive without even trying.

You bit your lip and looked down at him out of breath but begging for more. "Yes. I love it~!" You moaned out licking your lips hungrily as you looked at him in the eyes.

Raphael growled animalistically when he saw you bit your lip. He was the only one allowed to do that little missy! But the moment those words left your lips, Raphael felt his brain go blank. And as if that wasn't enough, you had the audacity to lick your lips with that look? Goddamn. You really know how to press a turtle's buttons. Oh how he wanted to rip out his restrains and take you right then and there.

Just as when things are getting even more heated, you felt the slight vibrations of footsteps on the sole of your feet through your shoes. They were light and quiet yet quick and swift, you almost missed it. They obviously belong to individuals who are masters in the art of blending in the shadows.

They're here.

Damn it. You knew you should have taken his shellcell before going in. But seriously, how can you resist when he's right there and all tied up exactly the way you planned it? Oh well it was worth it though.

You pulled away, making Raph confused why you stopped and was even more upset when you got off his lap.

"Hey! Where'd ya' think you're goin'?" He grumbled, slightly breathless as he tugged against his bindings.

You looked back at your angry turtle friend and giggled. Aw he looked so adorable when he's desperate! You walked back to him, placing your hands behind the chair.

"We have company... But it was nice getting to see you again Raphie!" You placed a small kiss on his snout "Don't worry cutie. I'll find you again soon~"

Raph had no idea what you were talking about. You guys have met before? He had no memories of ever meeting you.

"Who are you?" He asked. You didn't answer. Instead you gave him a quick one last kiss then parted with your now sexually frustrated hothead.

Before Raph could let a word out, you had already jumped out of the window. Raph struggled against his binds and almost as soon as he did so, his brothers came in kicking the door off its frame.

"Raph! There you are!" Donatello exclaimed in relief as he went to untie his brother. Leo looked around suspiciously, expecting some sort of trap or hidden enemies to come out. Mikey on the other hand was blabbing on how they should celebrate rescuing Raph by making him buy the special five layered pizza. But Raph couldn't care less about any of that.

He bolted up as soon as his restrains where loose enough and ran towards the window. He squinted his eyes at the dark alleys and streets but there was no sign of you anywhere.

"You okay, Raph?" Leo placed a hand on his shoulder.

Raph grunted "Yeah... peachy." He then reunited with his brothers, ignoring their questions about what happened. He was too busy thinking about his little minx to even care.

He was sure he'd ran into you again. And this time he will be the one to kiss you.

And there is no way he's letting you get away.

[triptuckers]

Drunken words - Kaz Brekker

Request: yes "Hi, I have just binge read almost all of your shadow and bone one shots and was wondering if you could do one where f!reader goes out drinking with Nina and when she comes back drunk she accidentally confesses her love for Kaz but doesn’t remember it when she wakes up and Kaz doesn’t mention it but he also loves her?" Pairing: Kaz Brekker x reader Summary: You wake up with a pounding headache and some very vague memories of the night before. Luckily Nina is there to help you remember Warnings:  mentions of alcohol/drinking, language Word count: A/N: mmm see this? this request right here? I like it 😌 thanks for requesting it! TAG LIST (grishaverse): @ayushmitadutta @mrs-brekker15 @dancingwith-sunflowers @thegirlwiththeimpala @parker-natasha @story-scribbler @romanoffstarkovs @daliareads @meiitanoia @itsnotquimey @sanktaesperanza @whymyparentscheckmyphone @aleksanderwh0r3 @ilovemarvelanne1 @marlenaisnthappy @brekker-zenik @just-deka @graceknxwlson @the-very-tired-mess TAG LIST (kaz brekker): @mufnasa @Janesofia7 @stairscortana @parker-natasha @illicitghosts @brick-by-brick553 add yourself to my tag lists here

Every last Friday of the month, you go out for drinks with Nina. It's a tradition you started a while back. You'd gotten back from a particular rough job, and Nina suggested to go and have a drink. The others were tired, so you were the only one to accompany her. Ever since, the two of you go out every last Friday of the month.

Sometimes you both make it back in time, sometimes you don't show up til morning. And sometimes you're leaning heavily on each other, giggling and laughing.

The crows didn't mind now, though they were a bit concerned at the beginning. But after you showed them that even drunk, Jesper is only a slightly better shot than you are, they trusted you to come back home alright.

On one Friday night, you and Nina stumble into the kitchen of the Slat somewhere around 2 am. You're surprised to see it's not empty.

Kaz is sitting in one of the chairs, and he looks up when you and Nina try to silently enter the building. You fail when you stumble and squeal as you hold on to Nina's arm to prevent yourself from falling.

Nina seemed to be less drunk than you are. At least she can stand on her own feet.

Kaz' eyes follow you as Nina drags you to the kitchen to get you a glass of water, hoping it would sober you up a little.

You hop on the counter and take the glass from Nina without protest. When you look at Kaz, you see he's turned his gaze away from you.

'Aren't you going to ask if we had fun?' you say, pouting slightly.

Kaz looks at you. You're wearing a dress that's only reserved for nights out with Nina. You're also wearing heels and though you'd styled your hair nicely before you went out, it's now messy as it falls over your shoulders.

'You look like you had fun.' says Kaz. 'But I'll ask anyway. Did you have fun?'

'Yesss.' you say, dragging out the word. You don't look up when Nina puts a new glass of water in your hand.

'You should come sometimes.' you say to Kaz.

He merely raises an eyebrow, and doesn't answer you.

'I don't think Kaz is the type of person who goes out a lot.' says Nina.

'But it's fun!' you say somewhat offendedly. 'If anyone needs to let loose every once in a while, it's Kaz.'

'How so?' says Nina, chuckling.

'His jaw is always clenched.' you point out.

'No it's not.' says Kaz.

You nod, smiling happily. 'Yea it is! Don't think I wouldn't notice, I look at you a lot.' you say.

'Do you, now?' says Kaz, not paying much attention to you, as you're drunk and probably not aware of what you're saying.

'Most of the time. All of the time.' you say. 'Just a lot, really.'

'You're drunk, Y/N.' says Kaz. 'You should go to bed.'

'Night's not over yet!' you say and you jump off the counter, spilling some of the water on yourself. 'We could still go out! You should join us, Kaz.'

'I think you should go to bed, Y/N.' says Nina.

You glare at her over your shoulder. 'Buzz killer.' you say.

Nina puts up her hands in defence. 'I'm just saying tonight I'm not going out anymore, I'm going to bed. And you should too.' she says.

When she walks past you, she gives you a new glass of water. You're not aware of taking it, but you drink half of it anyway.

'Nina, you should stay.' you say when she walks to the door. 'Don't leave me alone with Kaz!'

'Why not?' says Kaz immediately, his curiosity getting the better of him.

You turn to him, then back to Nina. 'Nina! Don't leave me alone with Kaz, you know I say stupid shit when I'm drunk!' you say.

She looks over her shoulder. 'You say a lot of things when you're drunk, Y/N. At least drunk words are sober thoughts.' she says as she walks away.

'Nina come back! I might end up exposing myself!' you say.

This makes Nina stop and turn around. She looks at you and frowns.

'Expose yourself how?' she says.

'I might tell Kaz I love him.' you whisper, loud enough for everyone to hear.

You see Nina's eyes go wide. Before you can say anything, or turn around to look at Kaz, Nina's marched up to you, grabbed a hold of your arm and is pulling you up the stairs.

In the doorway, you look over your shoulder at Kaz.

There's an odd expression on his face you can't quite read, you've never seen it before. He doesn't look at you as you start to walk up the stairs with Nina's help.

You barely register anything after that moment, the exhaustion suddenly kicking in. You fall down on your bed without even taking your heels off.

The next morning, you wake with a pounding headache despite all the water Nina made you drink. You push yourself up in a sitting position and rub your head.

None of the crows had been so stupid to wake you. Everyone knew the last Friday of the month was spent drinking, and the morning after it would be unwise to wake you or Nina before noon.

After stripping off your tight dress and heels, you take a hot bath, scrubbing all of the sweat of last night off of your skin.

You get dressed in comfortable clothes and head downstairs to get a big cup of coffee.

But when you want to enter the kitchen, you are met by Nina standing in the doorway.

'Oh good, you're up.' she says.

'Morning.' you say. 'How's your headache?'

'Almost over.' she says. 'Don't go into the kitchen.'

'Why not?' you say, frowning.

'Because Kaz is there.' says Nina.

'What, is he in a bad mood or something?' you say.

'No. But he hasn't said anything all morning.' she says.

'So he's normal.' you say, pushing past Nina.

She attempts to stop you, but you walk away from her, straight to the fresh pot of coffee. You pour yourself a generous amount of it, and then sit at the same table Kaz is sitting at.

He looks at you, but doesn't say anything.

'You good?' you say after a while. 'I'm sure that's the longest you've ever looked at me. Have I got something on my face?'

Kaz shakes his head.

'Then why are you looking at me like that?' you say.

'Do you remember anything from last night?' asks Kaz.

You squint your eyes, trying to remember.

'Nina and I played card games with some Zemeni tourists. They lost. Then we lost. Then we lost again. I don't think I threw up, though. I remember walking back to the Slat and going to bed.' you say.

'That's all?' says Kaz.

'Yeah, I think that's it.' you say. 'Why?'

'Just curious.' says Kaz.

'You're never just curious, Kaz, you always have a reason. What's this all about?' you say.

'Fine.' he says. 'I have a bet with Jesper, how much you would remember. It appears he needs to pay me.'

He gets up and without another word, he leaves the room. Your eye catches Nina's gaze and you shrug, turning back to your coffee.

'Did I do something stupid last night?' you say. Most of the times when you got drunk, you did stupid stuff. You wonder if last night would have been any different.

'Well.' says Nina as she sits down in front of you. 'That depends.'

'On what?' you say as you finish your coffee.

'You should talk to Kaz about that.' says Nina. 'He doesn't have a bet with Jesper.'

'Then why would he leave like that?' you say.

'Again, you should talk to him about that.' says Nina.

'What aren't you telling me, Nina?' you say.

You see her debating wether or not she should tell you.

'Tell me or I'll tell everything how horrible you dance when you get drunk.' you threaten.

'You told kaz you love him.' she blurts out.

Your eyes widen. 'Oh no.' you say. 'No, no, no, I did not. Fuck.'

'Well, you didn't exactly tell him. You told me not to leave you alone because you might end up telling him.' says Nina

You bury your face in your hands. 'Oh, Saints, this is bad.' you say. 'This is really fucking bad.'

'How so?' says Nina.

'He's still technically our boss, Nina. And there's no way he has the same feelings for me.' you say.

'You won't know unless you ask him.' says Nina.

'What would I even say to him?' you say.

Nina shrugs. 'Well you could sit here thinking about it, or go up to his office and talk to him.' she says.

You shake your head and rub a hand over your face. 'Fuck.' you mutter. 'You're probably right.'

'I always am, darling.' says Nina.

You finish your cup of coffee and get up. Nina gestures for you to start walking. You head to the stairs and walk them as slowly as you can.

Would he be mad? What if things would forever be awkward between the two of you? Maybe if you were fast, you could still take it back. You were drunk, you could tell him you didn't mean it.

You stop in front of the door to Kaz' office. You determinedly raise a hand to knock on it, but your fist only hovers mid-air.

'It helps if you actually knock.'

You jump slightly at the sound of a voice. When you turn around, you see Kaz standing behind you.

'Or you could just go in if you have a key.' he says, walking up to the door and pulling out his key.

You're at loss for words, watching as Kaz opens the door and head inside. You're still standing in the doorway when Kaz looks up.

'You can come in, you know.' he says.

You enter his office and slowly close the door. He did not seem bothered by last night at all.

'We need to talk.' you say.

Kaz looks at you and merely raises an eyebrow at you. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk and you sit down.

'About last night.' you say. 'Nina told me what I said. I didn't say it to you, but, well I might as well have. I was drunk and it was stupid, and I'm here to apologise.'

He looks at you and then he starts to smile. Your eyes widen a bit, you'd never seen Kaz smile. Let alone smile at you.

'Are you okay?' you say hesitantly.

'Y/N, I wasn't in my office when you got here because I was at your door.' says Kaz, his words taking you by surprise.

'Why?' you wonder out loud.

'I was going to bring you a glass of water, Nina once told me it helps when you're hungover.' says Kaz.

Your lips part in surprise. 'You were?' you say.

'That saying Nina said last night, drunken words are sober thoughts? Well, I'm glad your drunken self decided to speak the truth last night.' says Kaz.

You stare at him, not sure you heard it correctly. Kaz pulls a stack of papers toward him and begins to read through them. He doesn't tell you that you need to go, so you decide to keep him company while he works.

Who knew a night out with Nina could lead to something like this?

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rules Here’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit

[auty-ren]

Tainted Heart: Chapter 2

The Agreement (Western AU)

Pairings: The Mandalorian x Reader. Din Djarin x Reader. Outlaw!Din x Reader. (Reader is female/fab)

Rating: Mature

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of blood/injury. Cursing. The kid being adorable. The reader is his babysitter. Pet names. Teasing. Soft-core Smut (kissing, heavy making out, groping, dry humping, mentions of virginity/inexperience, a few touches, unintentional edging.)

A/n: Thank you guys for being so patient, I hope it was worth the wait! We’re finally seeing a little action. Enjoy babes. (gif by @javier-pena​)

Tainted Heart Masterlist | My Masterlist

The wool was rough under your fingertips, a heavy dull gray that almost burned under the harsh tint of the midday sun. They were heavy, soaking with water and suds as you lifted them from the wash pan, squeezing what excess you could out of the fibers. A coo broke through the static that had filled your mind, numb with the monotonous action of wet, wash, rinse, repeat. The child stayed strapped in the high chair, peeking at you through white sheets you hung to dry, his inquisitive hands stretching out when the breeze blew white cotton out close, but just barely grazing the reach of his fingers. He babbled again at the sight of you, squealing when you threw the curtains of laundry away and broke the makeshift barrier between you. 

He repeated the snarl you had given him, playful and disappearing between fits of smiles and giggles.

“Are you a monster, little one?”

He was meant to scare you, giving a growl that was far cuter than it was fearsome in his pretend game of monster.

“You’re too sweet to be a monster.”

He kicked his feet in excitement, gnawing at the bread you tore into pieces on the plate attached to his chair. He offered you a piece of it, forming unrecognizable syllables as he prompted you to take it from him.

You wanted to be selfish, to hide away with your newfound companion and keep him perched on your hip permanently. None of it should be temporary.

It had been years since your home felt so warm; since the fogged windows were lit with a bright, new life that fumbled over every surface. It was sticky, the feeling you had laying on your chest when you were woken to the sound of shrill cries; the ache in your tired bones all but faded at the tear-soaked smile that greeted you in the dim mornings.

Maybe you were just lonely, growing tired of the same life you lived each day when it was just you and Papa. 

Maybe you had mistaken content for boredom.

And now it was unpredictable, a welcomed unpredictability.

You learned the hard way not to leave the little one unattended, even for a moment; not for a few measly seconds. The broken porcelain of an old vase had been enough of a warning, luckily it wouldn’t be missed and after you had cleaned up the mess, you could hardly notice any wrong had happened. 

At least, your father didn’t notice. 

But the child was just curious and his cries as he sat horrified at the pieces of glass surrounding his feet had been enough of punishment for the both of you. 

This arrangement took too much convincing on your father's part.

He only wanted to protect you, but at this point, you doubt he was thinking straight. Your father had sacrificed too much to keep you safe; to carve out a simple life for you on the edges of the real world, to keep it from crushing your spirit the way it did his.

You assumed your father’s anxiousness about the situation stemmed from something you didn't think you could understand; loved ones lost long ago to the evil that had spread to your quiet town.

But there were some things that only time could heal and it seemed for him there was never enough.

He wanted to send ‘Mando’ packing as soon as the wounds stopped bleeding, and the sun lit up the morning sky.

But you convinced him otherwise.

There was no way he would've made it twenty minutes without hurting himself, more so since he had to care for a child. A child who you found very difficult to say no to, especially since he became such good company.

Mando could stay until he was healed. But there was work to be done.

Mando’s right arm had been wrapped in a makeshift sling, leaving his less dominant hand available to carry out whatever your father asked of him. Although you argued he shouldn't be working at all, both of the men disagreed with you. Papa decided it was only fair for him to work, to repay the debt he owed you.

You wouldn't call it a debt, but you kept that to yourself and let your father negotiate the terms of Mando’s stay.

There wasn't much argument, Mando would work odd jobs around your homestead, things that Papa was unable to do anymore, and things he hated to ask you to do; in return, he and his child would be allowed to stay until Mando healed. But there were conditions, terms that your father had laid out and would be considered law as he saw fit.

Mando would not be allowed to sleep in your home.

Your father made sure to bolt the doors once Mando had left after dinner, checking each of them before he could settle enough to try and sleep. A place was made for him in the barn, blankets and an extra pillow for him to sleep with, the least you could do for someone about to work your entire harvest for practically nothing. 

The child would be allowed to stay inside.

Papa had gone into the attic in the early morning after he agreed to let Mando stay, and pulled down the old crib that had been yours once upon a time. You aired and cleaned all of the blankets and toys you had sorted inside of it, hoping that maybe they could get one final use before they crumbled from age. He slept in your room, just down the hall from where you and your father stayed.

You didn't like the idea of separating someone from their child, but your father insisted and Mando made no objection otherwise.

Your attention for the past week was wrapped completely around the fingers of a grinning child, smiling and keeping his curiosity at bay when he grabbed at anything within reach. He used unsteady legs, you being his shadow for the entire day; picking up the small toys that were left in his wake of discovery. 

He was a healthy little boy, just barely big enough to explore some on his own, and he had the energy to prove it. There were only a few times he slowed enough to nap, sleep that weighed heavy on his eyelids as he crawled into your arms, puffing small breaths into the crook of your neck while he rested.

He refused to fall asleep alone, if his fingers weren't gripping yours with an unusual force he didn't allow himself to sleep; he just cried, wailed until you picked him up again, and finally settled when the sound of your heartbeat was within reach.

You couldn't imagine what this child has been through.

There were a few things only you and Papa had spoken about, conversations and theories about your guests, the stranger who slept in the loft of your barn, and his precious companion. Papa wasn't very sentimental towards them, he was gentle with the child and polite to Mando; but the sooner both of them had left, the easier he would sleep at night. 

He repeated the same thing before bed, his voice shaking and eyes worrisome in ways you had never thought would come from him. You didn't protest, just nodding your head and trying to soothe the lines seemingly etched into his brow. You drifted off as he squeezed your fingers in his, tighter than he ever had before, and pressed a worried kiss to your hand.

“Do not trust him.”

You hadn't told Papa about what happened between you and Mando once he had gone to bed, and you'd keep it from him so long as you stay sane. He would never know about how much you thought about it, how part of you wanted something like that to happen again, how you wanted to feel that blossom of heat in your chest ten times over.

Papa was under the impression the two of you had never spoken and it was best it stayed that way. 

He couldn't be a good man.

He had the scars to prove he was a fighter, most of the wounds old and standing out sharply against his skin.

You remember how they looked, how tender and soft the damaged flesh felt when you ran your fingers over it.

That doesn't just happen.

He carried a gun, and two more sat on the saddle of his horse. One fell from the pockets of his rucksack when you lifted it off the horse's back, the other a long rifle that was heavy and awkward in your arms.

You didn't tell Papa about that, you just hid them in the haystack of the barn and hoped he wouldn't find them.

But he was kind.

He hadn't spoken much, not to you. Maybe to your father but, he hardly looked you in the eye; his face was mostly hidden behind the brow of his hat and sometimes by the cloth he wore over his face when he worked.

Or he was cunning.

Maybe Papa was right, maybe the sooner they left the better.

You didn't want them to leave.

Mando wasn't like other men, he had an attachment; something you doubt most low-lives ever considered having.

And you wanted to know why.

The baby was squealing for your attention again, and he giggled loudly when you shifted him in your arms. Papa looked in your direction, watching the two of you sitting on the porch. You gave him a small smile, one he returned in genuine, with promise that reached the crinkles in the corner of his eyes. You busied yourself with taming wisps of the baby’s hair, for the hundredth time that day, soft curls that gently framed his face sticking out in every direction. He giggled again, his hands reaching out in curiosity as he curled his fingers into his palm and babbling away as you sat him on the porch floor. He took a few unsure steps, then taking the lead as if he knew exactly where he was going and you kneeled behind him ready to reach out when he lost his balance.

He made his way to the railing, stopping above the steps that led down to where Papa sat working.

He had bushels of food sitting at his feet; vegetables that had been growing in the fields you kept behind the house. It wasn't too impressive, just enough to suffice with a little leftover that was sold at the end of the season; but it took far too long to pick any of it when the time came.

After years of practicing medicine, your father had fumbled his way through becoming a farmer. Papa had already been working for a few days, and at dinner last night he gave Mando the task of starting the harvesting of the far-garden in the morning while he’d work what had already been picked.

Mando wasn’t much of a talker; he was polite, sometimes even kind when he spoke to you, but it was few and far between. He did everything asked of him, sometimes even more.

You had mentioned at dinner last night you were planning to wash laundry in the morning, gathering clothes and sheets and rags Papa unintentionally littered about the house. It was tiresome and took most of the day, the clothesline filled with garments that took hours to dry even on a summer day. The chill in the air wasn’t the problem at all this time, the heat was.

It was tedious to fill and heat the washpans, sometimes you’d think it better to ignore that step, but the constant cold on your raw fingertips told a different story.

You hurried to eat this morning, making sure the baby was fed and occupied, so you could begin filling the tubs for laundry. 

But someone beat you to it.

You found both of the tubs were sitting out by the clothesline, filled to the brim with steaming water and the laundry stacked beside them.

Papa had been with you all morning, he couldn’t have done it.

You wanted to thank him, but it felt silly to do so, your cheeks getting warm with the thought like some smitten schoolgirl.

You had seen him one other time today, when he came in for some lunch, his boots kicking up dust that tracked from the back door into the kitchen. His pants were just as filthy from digging in the gardens all day, but his sleeves had been pushed up his arms, and his hands were still damp from when he had washed them.

At least he's not a slob.

You don't think he notices you, standing on the far side of the kitchen, quietly watching as he removes his hat, pulls down the covering on his face, and sits next to the kid. He checks on him with a ruffle of his hair, the baby babbling away with a grin on his face as he watches Mando stuff his mouth with some of the bread and meat you sat out for him on the kitchen table.

He ate in silence, quick and rushed as if someone would take it from him before he could get enough to be satisfied. You stood at the other end of the kitchen, watching him eat and interacting with his kid. He said something to him, something so quiet you barely heard it but you saw the way his hand brushed over the curls on his boy's head; just like you had been doing almost every day you watched him. He finished as he drank glass fulls of water, over and over until the pitcher was nearly empty. 

His eyes are like saucers when he turns around to see you standing there, and his mouth opens and closes as if he was thinking of some defense.

Definitely didn't see you standing there.

You try your best to smile at him and move to ask him if he'd like more to eat, but he's gone. He grabs his hat from the table and mutters a thank you before slamming the door closed behind him.

It couldn't be easy with just one arm, nothing your father had given him was gentle and no matter how much he dismissed it, you could tell he was still in pain. Even with the medication given to him regularly, he winced at the slightest movement and was slow compared to your father.

You could barely see his silhouette, still moving out in the gardens and shadowed by the sun setting behind him. He takes a moment, sitting on his ass and looking up at the painted colors of the sky. Delicate pink and orange hues fill a blue sky, mixing until there is a symphony dancing above your heads, dusk settling over the land as everyone prepares for sleep. He stretches his neck from side to side, wiping his face with his sleeve with a huff and pulling himself back to his feet.

“He's a very sweet kid.” 

Papa’s voice interrupted your watching, your eyes snapping over to him taking a seat in his chair, patting his lap, and asking for the child to join him. He waddled over, reaching up with grubby hands and squealing as he was lifted in your father’s lap.

“Why don't you take some time and wash up for dinner.” Papa insisted, nodding towards the door as he settled the child on his lap. “I’ll call for you when it's ready.”

“Nonsense,” you sigh, standing up with a smile and turning towards the door. “Someone has to help you.”

“And that someone has to be you?” He’s grinning, nothing evil or malicious; mostly playful, with just a hint of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Your earlier intentions of dinner are forgotten as you lean against a wooden doorframe, the aged wood scratching at your arm when the sleeve of your dress is pushed up. You watch Papa coo at the child, patting his head with careful hands as the toddler yawned and laid against his chest. Your feet ache as you look down at the worn boots you wear, the leather cracked and crumbling from age at the soles of your feet; they throb as you roll your ankles, switching your weight from one foot to the next until some of the pain subsided.

 It’s just your breathing for a moment, the simple, rhythm rise and fall of your chest; occasionally dueted with the squeak of Papa’s old rocking chair.

“Looks like I'll need help taking this into town,” you gestured to the bushels sitting at the edge of your porch steps, cutting through the silence with a huff of your breath. “Kuill will be excited to see everything we've got for him.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

He took you by surprise, the change in subject hitting you with a force that had your chest seizing up. How pitiful you felt, your heart racing at the mention of a man who probably didn’t remember your name.

“No,” you offer meekly, hoping your father didn’t notice the change in your pitch. “Why?”

“He’s hardly spoken a word since he's been here.”

He rocks his seat back and forth in a steady motion, gentle as the baby in his arms drifts into slumber.

“Maybe he likes to keep to himself.” You shrug, moving to lean against the porch railing and face him.

Your father considered your reasoning, his brows knit with heavy thought and a frown set on his lips.

“Or he's guilty of something.”

There’s something you barely catch in Papa’s words, something like malice but with less bite as the words hit your ears.

“It's only for a few more days,” you pick at the splintered wood under your hand, the edges rough and pointed as they press deeper into your palm. “We'll manage.”

Papa nods his head, patting the baby’s back as he sleeps on his chest; his limbs stretching for just a moment before he settles back to sleep. You run your hands along the child’s back, soothing the tired grumbles that fell from his lips. Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss to your father’s temple, squeezing the free hand he had perched on the arm of his chair.

“You know they would've died if we hadn't helped.” You whisper it into his hairline with another kiss, turning to head back inside before anything else is said.

You keep quiet, somehow afraid of speaking nightmares into existence. They were safe for now, healing and resting what little they could on your farm. A stranger and his baby that dug tiny holes in your chest that you doubt were closing anytime soon. Part of you feared when the time came, you wouldn’t want to let your precious companion or his father go.

“I know.” 

-

An intake of breath is all he allows.

He says nothing, and his face is blank, staring in front of him with discipline as your father digs into his shoulder again. His wounds are still tender, pink, and fresh against his tan skin but he doesn’t even wince; there's barely a twitch in his eye, and the shaking push and pull of his breath is the only indication he felt any of it.

He does groan when your father pours alcohol over it, remnants of blood washing away from the openings in his shoulder, thrown away stitches sitting on the cloth with your father’s tools.

You didn’t ask how his stitches had broken, you could only assume it happened today while he was working, and it was almost dinner before you noticed the tint that had stained his shirt red.

You hold the child a little closer in your arms, turning his head and busying him when he reaches out for Mando. 

The painting hung mounted on the wall, just low enough it was about eye level with you and the child. You pointed to flowers caked in oil paints, their colors faded from years of the sun that breached the windowsill. He cooed as he followed your lead, tracing the petals with his fingers until he gave a big yawn.

You placed a kiss on the top of his head, the soap you used to wash him earlier still lingering on your lips as he laid on your chest. His blanket wrapped around him, the wool warm and green as you kept him snug in your arms.

“It’s time to say goodnight.”

You stayed at the threshold of the kitchen, Mando’s back turned to you as your father put new stitches into his shoulder. Papa paused for a moment, nodding his head in your direction until Mando turned his profile murmuring a ‘goodnight’ to the baby in your arms. He looked at you as he said it, something pulling deep in your belly as his eyes bore into yours; almost black in the darkness and twinkling from the light of your father’s lamp.

Papa cleared his throat, pulling your eyes towards him as you felt heat rush to your face. 

You hoped he couldn’t tell, that you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. When didn’t bring it up later, once the two of you were alone and everyone had gone to bed, you felt the pressure that built up in your chest dissipate. He went right to sleep, snoring loudly beside you while you laid wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling.

You're not sure what time it is, or how long you have been ‘asleep’ but everything blurs; your mind racing too fast for your drooping eyes to catch any sort of rest.

You laid warm beneath woolen covers as you watched the windows tint with fog, the barest hints of a cold breeze slipping between the cracks and leaving a chill in the air.

It must be very cold out in the barn.

You wouldn’t entertain the idea. Mando was a grown man, he didn’t need you to care for him or coddle him like he was a child.

Staying in bed was the right decision, but decision making was never your strong suit.

The doors to the barn looked wicked under the dim moonlight, tall and intimidating as you reached a shaking hand out to them. They groaned as you pulled open, the track they rested on squeaking and shrill in the quiet night.

You just hoped he was a heavy sleeper.

You carried the two blankets you had been washing just this morning, something Papa kept around for emergencies; thick, wooly blankets that were itchy and coarse on your skin.

They were better than nothing.

There was only one lamp lit, everything mostly covered in shadow save for the few feet of orange glow coming from the middle of the room. Hardly any sound in the air, nighttime completely dead save the occasional grunt and snort of the horses sleeping in their stalls. His belongings sat stacked in one corner, next to the makeshift bedding you had left in here just over a week ago. They were in a neat pile, a shirt and coat, his hat, the cloth he used on his face, and his holster.

He was nowhere to be found.

You put the blankets on his bedroll, hoping he would connect the dots whenever he came back. The hay crunch underneath your feet, even with your attempt at tiptoeing through the barn. You pulled the knitted shawl you wore tighter around you, shivering from the chill that seeped from cracked insulation in the walls.

You hadn’t even stood up before you jumped under the sudden baritone of his voice.

“Where are my guns?” 

The chill that ran down your spine wasn’t from the cold, but rather from accusation; deep, rich words that dripped from his words and held no real malice.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You offered over your shoulder, slowly turning to face him head-on.

His arm was still in a sling, fresh bandaging that stood stark white against his worn clothes. He looked almost handsome in the orange hue of an oil lamp; his eyes bright even with the exhaustion pulling at his cheeks, his lips pouting and curls sticking out at his neck as if you had woken him in the embers of early morning.

“I know you didn't take them,”

He walked towards you, each step he took followed by your retreat until your back landed against the wall with a thud. Your eyes never leave him, never daring to break your stare even as your hand scrambled for purchase on the smooth wood at your back.

“So where are they?”

You counter him, thinking you're clever with a smile and a half-concocted comeback, batting your eyes when his lips quirk in response.

“How do you know I didn't keep them?”

He laughed, amusement hiding behind the rich color of his eyes and biting with the sparkle of his teeth.

“I doubt you've ever held a gun in your life, sweet girl.” His voice lowered at your pet name, sinful words that swirled at the base of your spine until you squirmed.

“I know you didn't take them.”

You take a deep breath, your cheeks burning when his hand comes to rest beside your head, his body coming just a hair closer until you feel pinned beneath him.

“I hid them.”

His eyebrow arches, questions stuck in the back of his throat that filter into one word.

“Why?”

You fiddled with the loose thread of your gown, wrapping the line excess around your finger until it pinched at the tip. Your ears thumped with the sound of your heartbeat, loud and racing as Mando drug his hand from your shoulder, across your neck. He cupped your jaw, squeezing your face in his hand for just a moment.

“You afraid of me, sweet girl?”

His voice rumbled, deep from his chest as he drags every word from smirking lips.

“Don't call me that.”

Any bite you had laced in your words was betrayed by the way you leaned into his touch, sighing when his fingers scratched at the hairs on the back of your neck.

“Yeah?” 

His lips were gentle, chapped, and sweet against yours with a tender kiss.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

You kissed him this time, testing the waters with a playful nip to his bottom lip; earning you a chuckle before he consumes you. Your lips slot lazily together in a clash of tongue as you taste one another, slow and sensual until your fingers thread his hair, tugging until he growls into your kiss.

“Thank you,” His breath puffed on your cheek, warm and wet on your skin as he trailed kisses over your face and neck. “For taking good care of my kid.”

“He's a sweetheart.” You huff out the words around a smile, your fingers tugging on Mando’s curls.

You almost moan when nips at your throat, his teeth leaving a mark on the juncture of your neck until he groans at the salty-sweet taste of soap on your skin.

“And you're beautiful.”

He steals the breath right from your lungs, gasping in between the short moments when his mouth wasn’t molded against yours. His hand on the back of your neck kept you pressed to his chest, your fingers ghosting over the stitches you could feel through the thin material of his shirt.

His leg was firmly pushed in between yours, his body supporting most of you as he hitched your leg to rest over his hip. The muscle of his thigh flexing when you barely rocked your hips against him. The cotton material of your nightgown did nothing to hide the feeling of rough denim on the softness of your thighs, scraping and molding red indents from the back and forth motion your hips made.

You nearly shout when he snakes his hand in between your bodies, cupping your mound while his fingers work against the bundle throbbing in between your legs; sparks of electricity shoot down to your toes and into the tips of your fingers with the slightest of touches. You ache against him, your body moving with him and seeking an unfamiliar end, a delicious coil in your belly that wound tighter and tighter with every swipe of his two fingers.

You’re panting, muffling pathetic whimpers against his ear while he mouths at the deliciously tender spot on your neck. You can hardly hold your head up, your mind swimming in a thick, intoxicating fog until the world blurred around the edges. You feel the build-up at the base of your spine boiling over, almost all-consuming to the point it tingles every nerve in your body with anticipation. 

You grip his forearm until your nails leave pale, pink marks in your wake, and push him away to finally breathe again.

He is about the only thing keeping you upright, slowly he dropped your leg until you stood alone; his touches stopped, leaving a dull, unsatisfied ache that seeped into your bones. The sweat gathered at your hairline was annoying, tickling you to the point of discomfort until you swiped it away with the back of your hand.

“I don’t want Papa...”

You can’t think, nothing on the forefront of your mind coherent enough; like you were hopelessly lagging while your thoughts raged and laid stuck on the tip of your tongue. You squeeze your eyes shut, rubbing your temple with your eyes opened, and find Mando looking right back at you.

If your father woke up to you gone, you’re not sure what he would do, other than assuming the worst.

And you certainly didn’t want him to catch you in the barn, not like this.

“I-I don’t…”

His eyes were almost gentle, sharp and consuming as always, but kind behind the harsh set of his brow.

He brushes pieces of your hair behind your ear, his touch still burning as it did before but with half the intensity felt a few moments ago.

“Go get some sleep.”

You collect yourself, pulling the shawl on your shoulders tight as you tuck your hands underneath your arms. He steps back once you regained composure and watches you even as you walk away.

You only make it a few steps before he calls after you.

“Tomorrow?”

There’s a hint of something in his voice.

Tease? Promise? Flirt?

Something that pulls harsh at your little heartstrings he had wrapped around his finger.

“How'd you like to go hunting?”

Taglist

Permanent

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Mando

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Tainted Heart

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[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Mile Six

Summary: The Kings, and Queens, of Con take on the Central Texas Tough Mudder Competition and have a good time doing it. 

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Word Count: 2.3K+

Warnings: Language, suggestive themes

Author’s Note: So, this little thing was inspired by this post (x). I saw it and instantly went weak in the knees and thus this was born. I hope you enjoy my little musings. As always, I love to hear what you thought xo Alex.

Check out Alexandra’s Library for more works by yours truly!

Trees lined the wide expanse of the field, the grass below shimmering against the Texas sun that had settled high in the afternoon sky. A slight breeze blew across the space, rustling the edges of the leaves and sending a chill down the breadth of her wet body. 

“Your turn, Y/n,” the quirky voice of her team member had slipped past her consciousness as she watched the sun be eclipsed by a wisp of a cloud. “Y/n!” 

“Hmm, what?” The woman snapped her head back to the obstacle in front of her. 

“Go, Jensen’s gonna boost you,” Rob urged her forward with a hand on her shoulder. She shook off her daze, the exhaustion fogging not only her muscles but her brain as well. The team had officially hit the halfway point of the obstacle course and she knew that she was going to be sore for days. 

“Come on, baby,” Jensen smirked at her from where he was squatted against the tall wooden wall. He cupped his hands in front of himself and indicated for her to step one foot into his palms. Y/n halted in front of him as she placed her right foot in his hold and rested her hands against his broad shoulders. She glanced up at Jared and Rich sitting on the ledge, ready to help her in whatever way she needed. “You’ve got this.”

The mud-caked woman smirked back at the actor, who was still grinning from ear to ear. She rolled her eyes for effect but leaned in and pressed a quick peck to her husband’s lips before using her leverage on his shoulders to jump. Jensen responded easily, lifting her in one swift movement as if she weighed nothing and guiding her to step on his shoulder with her left foot. As soon as the ledge was in reach she wrapped her gloved hand around it and allowed Jared to take her other to assist. Every muscle in her body protested the action, but she pushed through until both legs were swung over the wall. She wasted no time in climbing down the other side just far enough that it was safe for her to jump the rest of the way. 

Cheers erupted from her team waiting on the other side, much like they had after every other obstacle they had overcome. Y/n ran straight into her best friend, Genevieve’s, arms and embraced her tight. Both of them knew they were kicking ass at this, having argued with their respective husbands about being able to keep up with the guys. They trained for months beforehand, building up their strength and nothing made them more gleeful than proving they deserved their spots on the team. 

The two relented their embrace as the three remaining team members clambered from the barrier.  They all exchanged high fives before setting off down the trail. It didn’t take long before they arrived at yet another pool of murky water directly in their path. The group wasted no time in heading straight into the muddy hurdle. Despite the rays of the early spring sun beating down unhindered, the water was bone-chilling slowly. A shiver ran up her spine as soon as it met her heated skin and she couldn’t be sure if it was refreshing or just shocking. Y/n could also feel her feet sinking into the thick mud at the bottom of the pit, making each step difficult and slowing their process through the course. 

Once on the other side, getting back out of the pit proved difficult, the sheer weight and stickiness of the surrounding sludge seeming to want to drag her back down with every advance. She finally made it out, running to the nearby grass to rub away what she could from her sneakers as her teammates joined her one by one. When everyone was back together, they once again continued on. 

They jogged a few hundred feet before the majority slowed down as the day began to wear on them. Rich pulled the recording camera from Osric’s head as he squeezed through the group. The spritely man stuck it in everyone’s faces, asking a myriad of questions.

“That footage is going to be hell to cut together in the end,” Gen turned to Y/n with a giggle. 

“I know that true,” she agreed before sending her only female counterpart a wink. “Watch this.” Y/n jogged ahead to be closer to the group and hollered. “Hey Speight, toss me the camera. I know what the fans are gonna want to see.” The guys all turned to look at her, confusion evident in their expressions. Rich frowned but obliged the woman’s request, who caught the small camera with ease. Her steps slowed to give the guys space, allowing her to fall back into stride with Genevieve. The woman rubbed the dried mud from the display as she steadied the recorder and pointed it at her target. Gen watched over her shoulder as her friend focused on the men’s backsides, one at a time. 

“This is the view Gen and I have had all day,” she narrated, emphasizing ‘all’ for her intended audience. As she came up behind her Texan husband, he peered over his shoulder at her, taking in where she had the lens directed. He rolled his eyes at her as she rounded the group and jogged to where Jared was leading a couple of yards ahead. 

“Now what are you doing?” Jensen furrowed his brow as she kept the camera pointed on them, now walking backward as the group continued to advance. 

“I’m getting ahead of you so I can get you all in the frame,” she explained, her eyes still trained on the display to ensure she was getting at least semi-quality footage. 

“You can see all of us, it’s a wide-angle lens,” Jensen retorted gruffly, earning a grimace from his wife. Her jaw dropped in offense to his comment, turning the lens on Jared. 

“Alright, I see Ackles got an attitude around mile six,” she huffed to the towering man who just shook his head with a grin. Y/n spun back around, now seeing the group gaining on her and Jared. 

“Turn it off, I’ll show you an attitude,” Jensen indicated the camera delicately balanced in her grip. His wife nearly choked on her breath, his unexpected words settling a heat deep in her belly.

“Oh, will you now?” The woman was quick to steady her composure and cocked a challenging eyebrow at the bowlegged man who now took up a majority of the display she was observing. The look set him off and he reached her in two swift strides, snatching the camera out of her hand and ducking to pull her over his shoulder before she could react to his movement. Y/n let out a shriek that faded into laughter as her husband gripped her legs against his body with both hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him quickly toss the camera to one of the guys, jetting off away from the path and the crowd. 

“Aw, come on, Ackles,” Jared’s voice faded as Jensen carried the woman to the nearby tree line. “Be quick!” 

Shade enclosed the two completely before he set her back on her feet. Jensen pushed her back a step until her body hit rough bark. He placed one hand on either side of her head, caging her against the oak. She took a deep breath now that her stomach was no longer restricted by his shoulder and looked up at her husband through her lashes her stomach fluttering as she took in his hooded gaze. 

“I feel like you want to say something.” A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of her lips which was instantly reciprocated by the actor. He raised a gloved hand, trailing his exposed fingertips light as a feather across her jaw and down her neck. His eyes were trained where his digit tucked into the collar of her destroyed tee and pulled it away from her skin. 

“You’re cold,” he noted, the smug upturn of one corner of his lips telling her he had noticed her condition a long while ago. Y/n followed his gaze, noting the faint outline of her nipples seeping through the sports bra. She cursed silently, having hoped the material would have done a better job at hiding her modesty throughout the day. 

“Maybe-”

“Maybe?” His eyes flickered up to hers, amusement hidden throughout the familiar verdant iris’ that she loved so much. Dragging out the moment, the woman chewed on her bottom lip and took the opportunity to enjoy the visage of her husband. His hair was a wild mess, pushed away from his face with a sweatband that matched the color of his shorts and tennis shoes. He was caked in mud from head to toe, much like she was. A lot of it had dried and caked to the skin of his face and his beard while his body was dripping with the foggy liquid and his sweat. Even through all of it, he was somehow still as beautiful as ever. Still Jensen Ackles. 

“Maybe I’ve just been enjoying the view,” she teased him, her hands gripping the stretched-out material of his shirt to pull his body flush against her own. He was warm and refreshingly cool at the same time. Y/n breathed in his musky scent, mixed with the fading aroma of his signature cologne. It was her favorite thing in the world, something reserved just for her and the times he spent ravaging her body. 

“I can’t take you anywhere can I?” The hot breath of his chuckle fanned over her face. He let go of his hold on her tee, the material shrinking slowly back against her wet skin. 

“Not when you are looking like a whole damn meal,” she purred before pushing up on her toes to press her lips to his. He froze at first, his brain taking a second to catch up to her before he responded in kind. His hands fell from the tree to cradle her head in place as he deepened the kiss. Y/n let her body relax against the wood as her husband sucked her tongue into his mouth, pulling a moan from inside her chest. He picked up the pace, devouring her in the shadows of the competition that was continuing around them. As her hands dropped to the elastic of his shorts, he begrudgingly pulled away and gripped her wrists to halt her movements. 

“Fuck, we can’t,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. His eyes were screwed shut as he breathed deeply. She exaggerated the pout on her face even though he wasn’t looking at her. 

“That’s unfortunate, considering your little problem there.” Y/n jutted her hips forward, coming in contact with the situation now in her husband’s pants. 

“Oh, I hate you so much right now,” Jensen pushed away from his wife, putting a respectable distance between the two of them. 

“Hey, you are not the only one suffering right now. Lucky for me, my panties were already soaked.” Before he could utter a word, she ducked away and back into the heat of the Texas sun. He watched her jog away, but not before she glanced back over her shoulder, a wide grin on her face. 

It didn’t take her long to catch up to the group, her and Jensen having not been gone as long as she thought. Her eyes scanned the crowd of people for Jared, knowing his tall frame would stick out to her first. And she was right, the mess of hair on top of his head towering over everyone else, guiding her to where they were huddled waiting for the group ahead to finish the next course. 

“Where’s Ackles?” Jared chirped as she moved through the people to come and stand with the Kings of Con. 

“He should be right behind me,” she snorted out the words in an attempt to hide the laughter bubbling up inside her. Jared narrowed his eyes at her as if he didn’t believe what she was telling him. Not that it mattered much, as her husband’s voice drifted towards them. 

“I’m here, I’m here,” he promised, only slightly out of breath from sprinting to meet up with them. “What’s next?” 

“‘Hold Your Wood’,” Jason answered as he turned to where a massive log was being placed in front of the lot of them. Y/n nearly fell over as the barely contained laughter spilled from her lips. She brought a hand to her face as the laughter turned silent and tears ran down her cheeks, the action muffling the squeals of delight that came with each breath. 

“Yes, it’s all very funny, babe,” Jensen frowned at his wife, the downturn of his lips only fueling the hysterics inside her. 

“What the hell is wrong with her?” Rich had the same look of concern on his face as the rest of the group. Even passersby were beginning to stare at Y/n where she stood shaking with laughter. 

“Wood,” was the only word she could force past her lips as she held up her hands, gesturing to indicate length. 

“Jensen had a boner,” Jared clarified for the group, ready to keep moving. 

“Dude!” Jensen smacked his friend upside the back of his head, sending his wife into further giggles. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Y/n finally was able to force a semi-coherent sentence. “Jay, you are just too easy.” 

“That’s what she said,” Rob and Rich shouted in tandem. 

Jensen rounded on Osric, who still had one of the action cameras attached to his head, and pointed at the lens. “You can cut that out.”

“No,” Y/n protested, grabbing her husband’s arms as he reached for the Go Pro. “Keep it in.” 

Forevers: @22sarah08​ @440mxs-wife​ @akshi8278​ @anathewierdo​ @asgoodasdancingqueen @atc74​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @briagallen​ @callmekda​ @dawnie1988​ @deandreamernp​ @deangirl93​ @deanwanddamons​ @ellewritesfix05​ @emoryhemsworth​ @foxyjwls007​ @hobby27​ @janicho88​ @jbsgirl4ever11​ @jensengirl83​ @lunarmoon8​ @lyarr24​ @mishacollins4evah​ @miss-nerd95​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @msmarvelouswinchester​ @polina-93​​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @squirrelnotsam​ @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​ @suckmyapplejacks​ @supraveng​ @tatted-trina6​ @thoughts-and-funnies​ @traceyaudette​ @tranquility-or-chaos​​ @waywardbeanie​ @winchest09​ 

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[honeypirate]

Another Yami one!

Yami x fem reader who wears a bikini and I think all people can wear bikinis regardless of anything. I wear one and I feel really goddamn good in it.

Anyway on to the story inspired by the underwater times.

“I’m going ahead early, y/n, you come with me”

Yami’s order had you popping up from the couch and throwing your pack over your shoulder. You usually went together in a team so this wasn’t new, his dark magic worked well with your shadow magic

“Captain” you say when the door closes behind you “my broom is broken, I was going to hitch a ride with Gordon, but since..” he just waves his hand behind him

“It’s fine” he says and you nod, heart starting to hammer against your chest.

You sit behind him and he laughs “get a little closer and hold on” he says and you gulp before scooting closer and putting your arms around his ribs, your hands placed flat against his hard chest.

You feel his breath hitch under your palms but then he coughs to cover it up before lighting another smoke. You bury your face into his robe to hide from his smoke as he takes off.

“When are you gonna fix your broom because this can’t be an every time thing” he says, smirk in his voice

Your hands grip in his shirt when he goes fast and you roll your eyes “don’t act like you don’t like this” you joke but for him it’s like you whispered it into his ear. he loses balance for a second and as he steadies you chuckle “it’s going to be fixed in three days and I can ride home with Grey. Don’t worry Captain, you’ll never have to be this close to me again”

He frowns but you can’t see it, his hands itch to take yours but he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if you’re just three years younger than him, it’s inappropriate because he’s your captain. But god damn you smell so good and feel so perfect pressed against him, so warm and sweet, he grunts “whatever”

After you get the intel you were searching for you head to the beach and quietly chuckle as Yami scolds the team for messing around.

“If we have a week.. that means we can swim a bit?” You ask with a smile as you look up at him and he shrugs “do whatever you want. I know you’re prepared”

You giggle with glee and quickly strip off your clothes and kick off your shoes, revealing a black bikini held together between your breasts with crossing strings, the sides of your bikini had the same on the hips as his eyes slowly look down your body before his eyes widen and his hand moves to cover his nose, looking anywhere but at you.

“Yami?” You ask and raise your eyebrows, hands adjusting straps on your hips as your eyes question him

“Nope” he says behind his hand and turns around, walking off and snatching Asta’s towel holding it to his nose as he leaves in a haste

“What’s with him?” You mumble and then roll your eyes, heading over to talk to Charmy instead.

After you swim for a while and feel like your skin is satisfyingly toasted, you dry off and slip your pants back on, opting to just throw your bulls robe over the top and shoving your shirt into your bag before throwing it over your shoulder.

Your shoes swing in your hands as your sandy feet pad down the sidewalk towards the smell of food, humming softly with a smile on your face. You head inside the bar and smile when you see a familiar back.

“Hey” you say with a grin as you sit beside Yami at the bar and he grunts his hello, avoiding looking at you as you put your shoes back on.

You frown and order a beer and a plate of food that ends up being too big for just you. You elbow Yami and he looks over for a moment and you gesture to your plate. That’s all he needed to turn on his stool and dig into your food, sharing as you it began to feel normal again as you fell into easy banter.

Until a man bumped into you and you spilled your beer down your chest and soaking your robe.

“Watch it buddy!” Yami starts but you grab his elbow and pull him back, your warm hand gentle on his bicep “it’s okay” you say and he freezes as he watches you undo and pull off your robe, leaving you in your bikini top. He calmly holds a tissue up to his nose.

“Are you alright?” He asks after a moment of avoiding watching you pat your chest down to get some of the beer off. “Just sticky”you say with a laugh and then down the rest of your beer, declining another when the bartender comes around.

Yami turns to leave, mumbling something under his breath but you reach out and grab his shoulder, gentle again, making his heart race “Yami!”

He turns back with raised eyebrows

“Did I.. did I do something wrong?” You ask and tilt your head a little as you gaze up with him with worried eyes and furrowed brows. He looks at you for a beat and then takes your hand, pulling you outside with him and into the empty alley beside the bar

“You’re a moron” he says as he takes the last drag of his smoke and flicks the butt. you gasp, eyes widening and your throat constricting a little at his insult but the sadness is swept away before it can settle as he continues “you’re a moron wearing that! looking so good! For holding my chest like that on the way here. For being so fucking!... perfect” his last word was softer than the rest, his hands falling to his sides softly at he gazes down at you.

your heart was racing, breathing hard and fast. Your fingers itched to reach out for him so you did, you cupped his cheeks and looked deep into his eyes “and what are you going to do about it, huh?” You challenge with a smirk and he rolls his eyes “Tch” is the only sound he makes before his hands are on your hips, pulling you tight against him as his lips claim yours.

You tug at his hair as his tongue enters your mouth, he tastes like beer and cigarettes and something sweet on his tongue that makes you want to keep tasting him. You whimper as he bites your bottom lip, growling as he goes back to hungrily kissing and nipping at your lips. He’s effectively stealing the last bit of your heart as well as all the air from your lungs.

he presses you up against the side of the bar and you moan as his lips work down your neck, “fuck you look so good in this suit, you look good always. Drive me absolutely batshit insane” he’s moaning as his lips nip and suck at your soft skin

“Yami. Yami. Before this goes anywhere I need to know what you want from this. One night? Just a make out? More? What do you want with me?” Your voice was breathless and laced with concern, he looks into your eyes and sees the confliction swirling in your sparkling gorgeous eyes, worried that he’d only want you for a moment but behind that he sees your adoration, respect, and love for him.

He stops and stands up straight, cupping your cheeks gently “I want..” he takes a deep breath “no I need. All of you. Always” his voice was thick with emotion and you smile up at him before gently pressing your lips to his “you have me then. Always”

[some-kindofgnome]

Kinktober #2: One Heck of a Twist: Mirio Togata

In which Mirio experiences two new things in the same night. 

Characters: Mirio Togata x f!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+ please!), aged up characters, oral sex (f-receiving), strong language, mirio being an absolute ray of sunshine, spoilers for The Empire Strikes Back

Notes: Congratulations! You survived day one! Welcome to day two of Kinktober 2020. Allow me to introduce you to my absolute favourite character to write. Seriously. Count how many times his name appears on my Kinktober masterlist. It’s a problem. Both characters are adults, even if they’re schmucks. 

Today’s prompt is ‘Eating Out.’ Bon appetit!

“I can’t believe you never knew that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father!”

Your exclamation is almost loud enough to draw looks from the rest of the crowd as you filter out of the movie theatre into the damp evening. The city’s glazed by a sheen of rainfall, but it’s as fine as mist and the chill is welcome against your theatre-warmed cheeks.

After finding out that Mirio had never seen Star Wars, you took it upon yourself to show him the original. And when he liked it, you found an independent theatre downtown showing a rerun of The Empire Strikes Back and made a date of it.

“How could I have?” He defends, grabbing your hand so you know he’s keeping it playful. “I’ve never seen it before.”

His hand is as warm and strong as ever, and you feel as safe holding onto it as you might if you were wrapped in his arms.

“Even so,” you continue, “that’s, like… the most common piece of movie trivia knowledge on the planet. How long have you been on this Earth for? And how long has Star Wars been on this Earth for?”

“Well, I know now,” he chuckles, tugging you a little closer by the hand as your shoulders bump. “And it was one heck of a twist.”

This whole holding-hands-in-public thing is kind of new to you, and you’re not quite past the butterflies stage. Then again, you’re pretty sure you’re never going to get past the butterflies stage with Mirio. He’s warm and masculine, funny and charming, but so kind it hurts sometimes. You’ve already been dating a couple of months and he still manages to surprise you all the time.

Take tonight, for instance.

“You must be the king of avoiding spoilers,” you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours again and feeling warm and fulfilled when your bodies connect.

You chat quietly the rest of the way home, walking close to ward off frost in the early fall darkness. For a romance that blossomed in the heat of midsummer, the two of you are weathering the changing seasons smoothly. Then again, you’re pretty sure nothing could ruin him for you at this point.

Silence settles coyly between you as the door of your apartment building draws closer. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night, but it was the first time you’d actually planned it in advance. The rush of nerves you first got when he showed up with an overnight bag is as fresh as ever, and by the time you get your keys out there’s heat creeping down your neck.

He stops you on the landing with a hand on your arm.

“Hey,” he rumbles, and when you turn back to him he’s standing a couple of steps down from you. He tugs you gently toward the edge of the landing and kisses you so soft it makes your toes curl. These days, every kiss feels like the first one all over again and you let your palms rest against his chest, falling into him.

“Let’s go inside,” you whisper once you’ve pulled away, pushing your forehead forward against his. You can feel the way his chest rumbles with his chuckle and you grin, push off his chest and grab his arm. You make it up the second flight of stairs in record time and he slips his arms around you from behind as you fish for the right key.

He changes gears seamlessly- shifting from sparkling eyes and sunny chuckles to pushing you inside and easily against the nearest wall, kicking the door shut and towering over you.

You ask yourself who the hell you were in your past life to earn this.

“I wanna try something with you,” he mumbles as he draws his nose tenderly up the side of your neck- just a little chilled against your warm skin. You shiver, hard, and you’re pretty sure you would agree to anything right about now.

“Okay,” you answer dumbly.

He responds in kind, slipping his hands under your denim-clad thighs and picking you up effortlessly- so fucking strong. You reward him by cupping his cheeks and kissing him silly while he feels his way into your bedroom, toppling forward onto the bed with you and caging you in until you force your mouth from his, breathless and gasping.

“First things first,” he says, drawing back. He unlaces your boots and lovingly pulls them off, taking your socks with him. He toes out of his own shoes and then he’s on top of you again. His weight and warmth is a world of its own, all-encompassing and complete.

His shadow passes over you, but instead of your lips he goes for your neck, sliding one knee between your thighs as he lets his mouth wander.

He’s already pushing you out of your jacket and nudging the neckline of your sweater down with his chin to nibble at your collar bone. You whimper, shoving your hands into the folds of his coat and wedging it off his shoulders, and he rears back in kind to shrug it off.

Mirio slips his hand up the side of your thigh, fingers just brushing your waistband. He hesitates for a minute, then pulls away again with a bashful expression in the dim light.

“My hands are pretty cold,” he admits. He blows sheepishly into his palms and rubs them back and forth a few times, then presses one to the crook of his neck. He bites his lip, thinking, then he’s on you again.

“Much better,” he purrs, and this time he’s not shy about sliding his fingers under your sweater, dancing them up your ribcage and selfishly thumbing the side of your bra. He uses his elbow to push the hem of your sweater up a little and his face finds home in your neck again.

“Can I?” He mumbles and you melt all over again.

“Go ahead.”

Your sweater comes off in a swath of cotton-blend, and he’s still wearing a t-shirt but you can feel the warmth of his body as he gathers you back into his arms. You’re so in love. So in love. So in love. It’s becoming a real problem.

“You’re so pretty,” he groans, and you giggle, slotting your hips as casually as you can against his. His body stutters against yours and his next breath comes out shaky.

Incredible.

“You said you wanted to try something,” you mumble. He’s holding you so close that your lips brush his hair as you speak, and you nuzzle a little deeper into the blonde mess. Happy to muss its perfect style.

“Right.” He jumps and pulls back, bracing himself on one arm to look down at you with the moon in his eyes. He grins, wolfishly, and suddenly your nerves are spiking again.

“Lemme go down on you.”

Your chest lurches. Hard. For a solid few seconds you don’t say anything, circulating the words inside your head to make sure they mean what you think they mean.

You hear the quiet echo of your name fall from his lips, and when your gaze re-focuses he’s peering down at you with such concern that you wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

“I… uh. Really?”

He laughs. Your cheeks go hot.

“Yeah, really.” He peeks up at you through heavy lids and if you weren’t already horizontal you might have swooned. “Been thinking about it a lot.”

“Okay.” You’ve gone dumb with shock, but he’s picking up the slack, kissing across your cheekbone and digging his thumb into the waistband of your jeans. He flicks the button open smoothly and drags down the fly. You plant your feet and he wiggles them off, grabbing the strap of your black underwear and tugging that down, too.

“Oh-kay,” you sigh again, fumbling with the clasp of your bra as he gets on his belly and slides his hands under your thighs. You push that last garment away and then you’re bare and his breath is there and it sends goosebumps racing straight up your arms and spine.

“God, you’re even prettier down here.” There’s no scrap of innocent charm left in his voice anymore. It’s all raspy baritones and husked little quips from here on out. He hooks one thigh over an elbow, dragging his fingertips over your hip before circling a thumb against your clit. It’s not much, but you’re drowning in him. You were ready to go by the time he got your jacket off.

“F-uck,” you stutter and your upper body gives out, your shoulders and head diving into the pillows behind you. He lowers his head and noses playfully at your thigh. You feel him smiling against you. Then he turns his gaze and just looks at you.

“Lemme taste you, princess.”

Then he licks.

“God,” you sigh, and where he was smiling against your thigh before, you feel him smile against your slit. He does it again, only this time he groans into you- letting the sound vibrate through his chest and all the way down to the tips of your toes. Your back arches clean off the bed and your thighs twitch. He digs his fingers into them, keeping you still.

“Keep going,” you urge, just in case he wasn’t abundantly sure that you were enjoying this, and he takes the note in stride. He settles into an eager rhythm, drawing his tongue up your slit a few more times before his tongue settles over your clit. If it was tender before it’s electric now, the easy flicks and swipes making you dig your feet into the mattress and slide your fingers into his hair.

Both hands comb through the gelled strands as you bite your lip hard and try to figure out what you’re going to do with all this pleasure. Your hips buck smoothly into his face as he keeps a steady pace, and your eyes are screwed shut but you know he’s watching.

His tongue swipes the right spot at the right time and your breathy little sighs shift from heady and high to guttural and clear, and there’s no way you’re holding back when it turns out he’s pretty fucking good at this.

“O-ohgod – there!”

You feel him pause for a heartbeat, but he’s quickly refocusing, repositioning to take the same angle as before. And where he swiped once he’s suddenly laving again and again, and his arms tighten around your thighs and it’s going to be tight but you’re getting there.

“More,” you plead. “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum. Right there. There, there, there, y-“

You babble, but as soon as it hits you the sound dies in your throat. Your climax tips over like spilled wine and everything goes white while waves of pleasure wash over you. You’re pretty sure you’re grabbing his hair and pulling hard, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gathering you in his arms and holding you tight, licking you over and over until you’re squirming underneath him, pushing his head away with a whimper.

Your eyes shift open. The clouds part. He sits up slowly, licking his lips as he eases into your field of view. There are waves of absolute bliss lapping at your extremities and you do not miss the way he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, sending a fresh throb of arousal straight through your spent body.

“So?”

He breaks the silence as he settles onto his side beside you, resting a hand on the column of your belly.

“So?” You laugh loosely. “When were you gonna tell me that your mouth’s good for more than just talking?”

He’s laughing again and nuzzling you, so loving and tender you might almost forget how thoroughly he just rocked your world.

“I thought it’d be better to show you.”

You turn your head and kiss him. He groans- you’re not shy about tasting yourself- and you roll over, dragging your palm down the front of his shirt. He’s a confident shit when you’re putty in his hands, but irresistibly adorable as soon as the ball’s in your court. You can’t wait.

“In that case,” you growl between kisses, “I think it’s my turn to show you something.”

[wevegottogetaway]

Thanks fo’ saving my ass (Part 2)

There is a part 3 coming, I think these two deserve the...culmination, but I wasn’t sure if I could have it ready soon enough. Stay tuned for more, hope you enjoy! x

Part 1   -   Part 3*

It starts with a resounding bang. A back curving over maple hardwood; taut muscle stretching soft cotton fabric; twin jades squinted in concentration; a shoulder blade protruding briefly for one swift determining movement. Red, blue, yellow, purple, orange phenolic resin scattering across green worsted wool like a dozen pinballs simultaneously kicked in various directions.

It ends with the deep echo. A ball falling into emptiness before meeting rock-bottom; the release of a soft withheld breath; firm flesh unflexing with satisfaction; two sets of glossy eyes meeting in a knowing look. "Nice break, Styles. Stripes it is," y/n happily comments once Harry leans back from the pool table.

Gibson’s is full of rowdy chatters, tipsy laughs and fulsome smiles. Strangers bonding for a night of undiluted carefreeness, clicking drinks after merry drinks in honor to their new ephemeral best friends. All sorrows have been forsaken on the coat rack at the entrance,  hung in insouciance, leaving nothing but good spirits to sit at the tables and loiter near the bar. Everything about this place is warm and nurturing, a cosy embrace after a tedious day, a home for the people that lets them nurse bottles and wounds alike, and sees them leave later on, cheerful, relaxed and healing. It took but a second for Harry to understand why y/n is so fond of the place and he was not surprised to find her on a first-name basis with the barmaid, the two of them catching up on life while she was preparing the drinks.

Now, fifteen minutes in, they’ve happily made their way to the vacant timeworn pool table at a secluded corner of the bar, drinks and grins in toe. The space is only lit up by a single lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting daedal shadows along the walls and across the table’s carpeted surface. The subdued light and music crooning in the background make for a suggestive atmosphere, air thick with limitless curiosity and enticing promises.

The corner of Harry’s lips quirks in a wry smile and a bold glint takes residence at the crease of his eyes; the telltale sign of a burgeoning idea brewing up in his cheeky mind. "What’dya say we make this a lil more interesting?" The offer is served with a raised brow, a hand on his waist, and one foot perched on its toes over the other as he leans against the cue.

From across the pool table, y/n is quite endeared at the sight but her response comes out in fake offense,"oh I’m sorry, am I boring you already?"

"Quite the opposite actually." His head tilts the slightest bit to the side, gaze unwavering from her face in a mission for persuasion.

Her lips grimace as she tries to suppress a betraying smile to no avail, "fine, I’m listening."

He grins victoriously at her inability to keep a straight face, his limbs dislodging from his casual pose. "We take turns," his motions at the space between them. "F’we pocket, we get to ask one question. No bullshit answer, jus’ the truth." His eyes are wide as he gauges her response.

"A question, huh?" she takes her time to contemplate the proposition just to watch him squirm in impatience. "Damn, for a sec I thought you were about to suggest strip-pool." She sends him a playful look as she walks the length of the table to step closer to him and have a better look at his chiseled features.

"I mean, m’totally down but might be a bit unfair on your part," his eyes briefly trail down her body in silent conveyance of her single-piece attire. He’s got much more material to shed before exposing skin than she does.

"Wouldn’t you like to know." The suggestive retort has Harry’s stomach churn with humid passion, the question of just how many layers she’s wearing exactly, playing with the most lascivious parts of his brain. "Not that it matters, you’d be butt-naked before you’d get a nip-slip."

"Overestimating yourself?"

"Just giving you fair warning," she shrugs in nonchalance running her fingers along the edge of the table, "so you know what you’re getting yourself into."

When she lifts her head back to connect their gaze again, she finds him biting at his bottom lip to contain his signature smirk, "no worries there, darlin’. M’all willing." He almost punctuates his retort with a salacious wink but decides to save it for a more opportune time. Something tells him he’s in for a long evening, not that it’s any cause for concern. Like he said, he is very much consenting to anything her heart desires to do to him.

"Good to know." Y/n quips back with a smile before leaning on her hand resting upon the pool table. "What’s your question then?"

For a moment, Harry forgets he just broke the rack and successfully sent a plain purple ball in one of the table’s pocket, taking him one step closer to victory and granting him one question as per his own proposition. He quickly gathers his reeling thoughts before settling on an easy inquiry, fingers fiddling with the desire to sketch every bit of her character. "Right um, do you have other hobbies besides playin- or should I say, winning pool?"

She wants to slap- or should she say, kiss the smug look off his lovely face, but her answers airs in the same level tone she employs at work, "yes I do."

It’s not enough for Harry’s archeologic curiosity though. He’s barely dusted off the ground beneath his feet to reveal the hint of new groundbreaking findings; armed with sieves and brushes, he is eager to dig a little further, "and what might those be?"

However, y/n is quick to rebuff him, "uh uh, that’s two questions."

Indignation soars through his straightened posture, as he cries out a faint ’what? no!’ and her own ego grows two size at her cunning deceit, "gotta up your game if you wanna keep that perky bum intact, Styles."

Earlier words resonate in the confines of his outfoxed mind then, you can kick my ass at that game of pool as promised, and he tries really hard not to think about the promise following them. Instead he counterattacks in obvious diversion tactic, "that’s twice you’ve mentioned my ass in the past 5 minutes, perhaps I should read into it?"

"I guess you’ll have to wait and see," she lithely deflects as she grabs her own cue with a determined look etched upon her face, "my turn now."

With powerful strides, y/n navigates around the table to position herself at the most promising angle for a score of her own. Once she has both her target and the cue ball in firing line, she tunes out every last bit of stimulus encompassing her; the muffled sound of the music, the sticky oxygen filling up her lungs with sensual tension, the charming presence of the beau intently ogling her every move.

It barely takes her a couple seconds of intense concentration before a sharp thump is bouncing off the table and piercing through the air. The shot is so accurate, clean-cut, vigorous yet graceful and elegant all out once, Harry finds himself mesmerized by her skills more than the subtle form curving out from her bent posture.

The satisfaction is evident in her traits as she straightens up to face him, a pleased rictus forming at her lips. She doesn’t let any suspense unfurl before she cashes in her prize, "so what’s up with the muffin deliveries? You a stress-baker or summat?"

It’s a puzzle that’s been boggling her mind for while now; ever since the first time she watched him gallivanting around the office, handing out kindness and freshly baked goods for the small price of a friendly smile; it’d been a reoccurring thing ever since. The recollection has Harry’s cheeks warm up to a bashful shade of vermillion at the thought of admitting the reason behind his action: he’d bake a basketful of cakes just so he could give her one without exposing himself. Being straight forward with his infatuation may have been unfeasible at the time, but there was nothing against inconspicuously indulging the sweet tooth he knew she had, right?

"I dunno, just like seein' people smile, and everyone likes a good muffin, right?" His answer teeters on the ledge between veracity and evasion, the genuine ‘they were all for you’ being replaced by a less naked truth.

Y/n nods at his answer and waits until he is about to aim for another shot to voice her musings out loud, "mmm, they are quite delicious." Her attempt to distract him turns fruitful when his ears perks at her sultry voice right as he pointedly knocks the white ball with his cue. It’s off by an inch but a near-hit doesn’t help assuage his frustration, "fuck."

"Oh bummer. Guess you’ll have to pass," y/n can’t help but to tease him.

And the pout on his lips does nothing to quell her amusement, "bollocks, you distracted me."

"I did no such thing," she denies before taking his place at the table. The odds are in her favor, a perfect alignment offering itself to sink the blue striped ball right into the closest pocket. And because y/n never misses a clear shot when she’s handed one, that’s exactly what happens. Tucking the cue back at her side, she mulls over the hundred questions titillating her mind and settles for another pass at him,"is this suit the most extravagant you own and if not, what are the others like?"

Harry scrunches up his nose at yet another dig taken at the expense of his clothes, his voice pitching a halftone higher than usual, "hey, s’nough outta you, leave my suits out of it." There is a pout puckering at his lips and y/n giggles at his theatrics when he brings his hands to his chest in a protective gesture. This man and his suits…

"Somehow I don’t believe you give a single fuck about people’s opinion on your fashion choices."

"Very true. But I do value your opinion." For a brief moment, humor and wit give way to vulnerable sincerity as the two of them lock eyes over the pool table. A shy smile graces y/n’s lips, her heart faltering at his sweet sentiment before Harry gently breaks the consuming stare-off, "well, if you’re lookin’ fo’ more extravagant, I actually have a canary yellow flared suit that goes with a violet dress-shirt." And just like that, they found their way back to confidential banter.

"Damn, now I have to see it."

"One day if you’re lucky," this time he does wink at her, and this time he doesn’t let her enchantress juju distract him from the task at hand. As soon as the balls vanishes from the table, the question flies out of his mouth, "do you really find my suits obnoxious?"

Y/n pauses at the inquiry and tries to read into his eyes. She inspects the bright emeralds for  any unsuspected insecurities and when she finds none, she sends him a simple smile, "I love them. I just enjoy too much your reactions when I give you shit about them." Her chuckle tugs at Harry’s lips, before she lets honesty flooding past hers, "you got such a great sense of who you are, Harry, it just shows in the way you dress. I admire that, don’t let that go."

Interiorly, he’s heart is jumping in somersaults at possibly the kindest compliment someone’s ever granted him, the fact that it came from her only sending his beating organ into more acrobatics. Exteriorly, he returns her tender smile and mutters a timorous ‘thanks love,’ before watching her pocket another ball.

This time she doesn’t have to mull it over, "why did you wait?"

"Huh?"

"When we kissed earlier, you said you’d wanted to do it for a while. Why didn’t you?"

Her words are bare of any reproach as they both lean on their side against the table, inches apart from each other. It’s a fair question; one that she doesn’t really own as the word could have easily tumbled out from his mouth instead. It’s him on the spot though, and while he didn’t quite expect to broach such hazardous matters over a game of pool, he appreciates the openness of their bond. "I dunno, you always seemed so attached to boundaries at work, always so professional, I didn’t think you’d want me to make a move."

"I secretly did," she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Goosebumps race down Harry’s arms as he takes in her confession and the way her teeth are  nipping her lips into a darker shade of pink. His eyes are drawn to them, the urge to close the gap and have her moaning in his mouth growing harder and harder to ignore, "fuck that’s sexy. You’re sexy."

The praise washes over y/n like a cold shower after a scorching day at the beach; startling shivers at first, golden skin tingling, and then all-encompassing relief. She loves how unfiltered he is with her, baring his thoughts to her just as they come, no editing, no secret agenda, no diffidence. Just her pure effect on him plastered across his beautiful face and candy-coating his words with a thick oozing layer of honeycomb syrup.

Leaning the slightest bit towards him, she tempts him with a near-kiss, almost dipping her lips in exquisite spongy fudge, but stops just as their breaths starts blending in one hot mess, "your turn," she purrs against his lips tantalizingly, before stepping away.

Harry looks like he is now the one in need of a cold shower, eyes pinched closed as he tries to compose himself, "right," he clears his throat. It takes him a bit more time to regain enough focus to make a successful go at the game, but once he’s got a good hold on the cue, a stable breath and a clear view of the shot, he takes it with ease and fortune.

As soon as he straightens up, he erases the distance between them, a determined look hardening the subtle lines of his face. "Did you ever think about me like I thought about you? At work, did you ever see me pass in the hallway and it took everythin’ you had not to follow me and kiss me senseless in the copy-machine room while no-one was watchin’?"

"Fuck. The thought might have crossed my mind once or twice," y/n confesses in batted breath. It’s clear the scenario isn’t so much a fabrication of his mind made on the spot as it is  a confession of his own experience, and the thought has the air in her lungs going scarce, as though she’s reached the apex of Mount Everest.

Harry isn’t fending off the heated tension much better, fingers twitching around his cue as he’d rather have her underneath his fingertips instead. He takes one look at the ceiling to stave his yearning some and draws in a deep breath."This is killing me," he whimpers while his lips skim over he skin of her forehead. "Go on, take your damn shot so we can be done with this game."

"It was your idea," she reminds him wryly. All of it, really; coming here, playing pool, playing 20 fucking questions, this heated hodgepodge of salacity and virtuous adoration is all his doing.

"I miscalculated."

"Poor you," y/n gently mocks is disgruntled attitude before scoring another ball, or as she likes to regard, another question, another opportunity to further tease at his already crumbling countenance, "what about you, Harry, do you ever think about me? At work… or otherwise?"

She already knows the first half of the answer and only voiced the double-entendre to rile him up, so she’s quite stunned when he whizzes, "too fucking much fo’ my own good."

The pained expression on his face is almost comical for y/n, she can’t resist probing at his despair, "me too." He groans at the flowing visuals he can’t ban from his filthy mind before she gestures towards the pool table in a gentlemanly way, "and that’s your cue," they both share a chuckle at her silly pun.

If Harry wasn’t so lost in a whirlwind of lustful thoughts, he would revel in the way their intellects seem to dovetail on all fronts; humor, banter, seduction, sincerity, nothing is lost in translation, they seem to talk in the same love language. From teasing digs and dirty innuendos to play on words or heartfelt confessions, they know exactly which frequency to tune in.

"Fuck, I can’t see straight," he laughs as he misses a shot for the second time, and y/n quickly takes over his spot around the pool table. Settle, relax, aim, breathe, shoot; another point to her flawless record. She turns to him, looking intently at his blown irises to stir up the flame already inhabiting them, "was it good?"

"Mind-blowing," he answers without unlocking their eyes, and the whole conversation is starting to get to her too. Her thighs rub against together, knuckles turning white around her cue as she tightens her grip and Harry has to bite his lips to contain a moan. He tries to distract himself by taking his turn in the game, and burst out in laughter when he pockets the ball and y/n cries out, "blue ball in the pocket! I feel like their might be a subliminal message somewhere but I can’t quite put my finger on it"

Once they regain their breath from laughing, tears of joy actually peeling from the corner of their eyes, they go back to staring at each other. It’s Harry’s turn to ask a question, and the anticipation had y/n fidgeting under his consuming gaze. She expects him to bounce back on the previous question, but to her surprise he decides to take a different route, "tell me darlin’, if I were to kneel at your feet and look up that pretty dress right now, what color your lil panties would be?"

The question sounds boyish really, yet instead of rolling her eyes at him, her core clenches around emptiness at the thought of having him between her legs right this moment, "can’t answer that, sorry."

"Oh come on love, you gotta say. Them’s the rules," Harry tries to coax the answer out of her but she’s not budging.

"Sorry, Harry. I’d tell you if there was anything to tell." His eyes widen at her lewd implication, the revelation of just how many layers away she is from being in the nude, coming into light. Damn, he would have gotten much more than a nip-slip.

"Fuck me, I need to sit down for a mo’."

She laughs at his dramatic response before picking up her cue, "you do that, in the mean time…" The rest of her sentence is cut short as she positions herself at the pool table, and the next sound cutting through the humid atmosphere comes from the ball falling into its target.

"Jesus, do you ever miss?"

"I don’t play to lose, Styles," she quips back. "Now, what’s your biggest fantasy? Aside from shagging in the copy-machine room, that is."

Harry takes one step closer, gently backing her against the table with one hand encasing her at either side of her waist. As he towers over her, his ardent look ignites a fire at the pit of y/n’s stomach, flame licking all the way up to her heart and down to her toes. Her core throbs before the words fall out of his supple lips like maple syrup on a stack of fluffy pancakes. "Right now? Bend you over this pool table and have my way with you."

"In front of all this people?"

"What d’you think is stoppin’ me from doin’ it right now?"

"Manners?"

The retort earns her a deep chuckle, as he shakes his head in disbelief, "fuck y/n, I lost my manners the moment you kissed me."

The raw admission sends a shiver down her spine, before she regains her full bearings and pushing his cue against his chest for him to grab, "your turn."

Barely moving from his spot nestled against her, he successfully sends the ball down the drain and doesn’t waste any time before asking in the same sultry voice, "favorite position?"

‘Why are y’asking?"

"Future reference," he announces confident.

"Well in that case, kinda like this…" she brushes against him as she bends over the table, ass jutted out on one side, before adjusting the angle of her cue and aiming for the pocket, "…when everything aligns and it just sinks…" bam, she propels the sphere in one strong hit "…right through." She finishes her demonstration with a score and a suggestive smile, only but one ball left for her to obliterate; the eight ball. "Are you ready to lose, Styles?"

"Dunno, is that your question?"

"Yes. I got everything I want to know already."

"Then I don’t fucking care about losin", s’not the game I wanna play anymore," he trails a finger down the skin of her back, goosebumps erupting at his touch. He is stopped by the tip of her cue pressing at his chest, slowly pushing him back from her space, and his hands meet this air in surrender. She’s got a wicked smile on her lips and a title to uphold after all, "last shot, make it count."

Harry takes the shot hastily, half expecting another miss, but the solid yellow ball disappears into the table’s corner in a vibrant crash. Eyebrows raised and shallow breath, he pivots back towards her, "please tell me this is turnin’ you on s’much as it’s turnin’ me on?"

"Yes," she rubs the exposed skin of his chest, eyes leaving his face to trail down his torso. "I’m just better at hiding it," she brings her lips to his ear, "physically or otherwise apparently." Then she leaves a loud smack on his cheek and goes around the table to sink the last ball standing in the way of her victory. In true y/n fashion, she completes a faultless round with one last graceful hit that leaves Harry transfixed by her dexterity.

"Damn, you are the queen of pool, I’m bowing down to you. Any final question?"

She lays the cue down on the table before coming up to him, "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Take me back to my place?"

His head falls back on its neck, eyes closing in deliverance, "fuck yeah." This whole night may have been the most intense and rousing foreplay he’s ever experienced, he can’t wait to deliver good on his own promise.

➪ Masterlist

[hesther-mcg]

blue dragons, part one + chapter eight

➥ pairing: eventual asami x oc 

➥ summary: the one where azula trains ursa, and gets the shock of a lifetime; or the one where a picky spirit makes himself known for the first time in ages  

➥ rating: angst i suppose

➥ warnings: mentions of past abuse 

➥ a/n: mnmxcnvxn this took forever to get out bc life is cray cray, haha srry folks but here we are!! this is quite an interesting chapter in my opinion, i really love the dynamic between ursa and azula and giving azula this opportunity means a lot. also this is an introduction to a certain blue serpentine spirit OoOoOoOoOo

also for clarification purposes, when ursa’s eyes glow, it looks like the avatar state but blue ya know

p1, chap seven  p1, chap eight  p1, chap nine  blue dragons m. list

Frustration itched at every nerve in Ursa’s body, and she let out a huff. She swiped at her bangs that fell in her face as she paced back to the bench on the far side of the training yard. Her glass of watermelon juice was almost empty, and an added weight fell on her already sagging shoulders. She downed the rest of it and returned it to its spot, perhaps a little harshly, and shook her head. 

A growl escaped her mouth and she screamed as she shot a large stream of fire at nothing in particular. Unbeknownst to her, Azula lurked in the shadows behind her. She had watched the Crown Princess -only thirteen years of age- train for a short while, her determination admirable and patience thinning. The older woman could see the mistakes that were made, minor in severity and easy to fix with a little guidance. 

It had taken a long while for her to acknowledge the likeness between her and her young niece; she hadn’t wanted to and had adamantly denied it. But one day things just clicked, and she realized that Ursa looking like her, and thinking like her, and being as powerful as her wasn’t as bad as she thought. 

Because her father was long gone.  

What had happened to Zuko would never, in a million years, happen again, and what had happened to Azula surely wouldn’t either. Her older brother had proved himself to be an amazing father, and Izumi never once lived a day thinking she hadn’t made him proud. He never spoke down to her for being a girl, he never got angry because she couldn’t make up for it with bending, and he never used her for his own personal gain. 

All of which were things Azula had been subjected to in her childhood, and had ultimately feared her niece would be as well, but was relieved to see otherwise. Their father, and his legacy, was long gone; and only when she accepted that fact could she truly accept her own growth and healing. And only when she accepted those could she accept that Ursa had all of her best qualities, and some of her not so best qualities, and if they were nurtured and guided correctly she could be like no one else. 

“My, my, Princess; have you been out here all day?” Azula inquired as she emerged from the shadows and took slow steps to the aforementioned Princess, hands clasped behind her back and head held high just like always. 

“Hey, Auntie Zula,” Ursa sighed as she bowed before rising again. “Almost; I’m going over some of the advanced moves I learned, and I’ve almost mastered them all but I can’t seem to get this last one.” She shook her head. “I’m doing exactly what my Master did, and it’s still not right. I know I’m better than this.” 

“You are,” the older woman responded without missing a beat. She paced in front of her young niece. “You are better than this, this is but a mere moment in your path to mastering the element. You’re incredibly skilled, Ursa, never forget that. Before too much longer you’ll surpass your Master and they will no longer be able to do you any good. I was going to step in after that, but I can see that now is as good a time as ever.” 

“Really?” One would have to be deaf to miss the eagerness laced in her question. 

“Of course,” Azula turned sharply in place. “I know exactly what mistakes you’re making; though, it’s not your fault. I hate to tell you this, Princess, but your Master is a doofus.” The younger girl giggled from behind her hand. “Are you a dragon?” 

The question caught Ursa off guard. “Huh?” 

“Are you a dragon?” She repeated slowly. The look in her eyes was familiar, she had seen it in her father’s, grandmother’s, and great grandfather’s eyes many times before. She’d seen it in the mirror only once or twice; it was a look of true seriousness, one you could only get when, you might not know what you’re doing, but, you know that whatever it is you can do it. She tried her best to mimic it in her own matching eyes. 

“Yes. I am a dragon.” 

“That’s what I thought.” Azula stated smugly. “Only dragons can teach dragons, Ursa, and since The Great Dragon of the West is no longer with us, I only see it fitting that I take over as your Master. After all,” she raised one hand in front of her, and blue fire floated in her palm. “We do have twin flames.”  

The pair shared a smile before Azula extinguished the flame and returned her hand to its rightful place, clasped in the other behind her back. Ursa placed one hand, fingers straight and palm pointed to the side, above the other, which was closed in a fist. She bowed deeply, “thank you for teaching me, Sifu Azula.” She rose back up and turned away from her Master. She faced straight ahead, ready for anything. “What should I do first?” 

Lady Azula smiled to herself. “Your punches and kicks were good, but everything has room for improvement. You’re not putting enough power into your jump, and then not putting enough power in the flames. Let’s break it down. Take your stance.” 

Ursa positioned herself in the stance she normally chose. Her grandfather had shown it to her, and she figured out that it was the one that worked easiest with her dynamic. Her left foot forward, right foot behind her. Knees slightly bent. Arms out before her, elbows slightly bent as well. Palms open, fingers relaxed. Ready to strike. 

“Remember, firebending comes from the breath. Focus on the fire inside of you, and breathe in deeply; allow the air to reach the flames. Let your chi flow freely, the reason our fire burns blue is because it is pure. Your river is unblocked, your chi’s are synced and your power flows through you. Pure, clean, untethered fire. You have the power, be the thing that controls it.” 

Deep breaths. Unlocked chi’s. Flowing river. The Princesses eyes had long since closed, and she envisioned all the things her aunt spoke about. 

“Reposition,” Azula coaxed quieter, seeing the concentration on Ursa’s face. 

The girl’s hands formed fists, clenched tightly, and her left arm straightened itself out. Her right fist drew back and rested right beside her eyes. 

“Now, punch.” 

It was like time moved in slow motion Her eyes snapped open before narrowing into a squint. Her brows drew together and her face scrunched up. She lunged her right fist forward, stepping into the punch with her right foot; bringing as much power as she could for the opening attack. Her fists lit ablaze, encircled with blue, and she punched a rather large fireball straight ahead. Her grunts were barely audible over the loud swoosh of the flames. 

Ursa dealt one strike after the other, slowly making her way forward, sometimes ducking to avoid a blow from an imaginary opponent. “Kick,” Azula commanded loudly. 

One last punch before she kicked her right leg in a half circle, flames following closely.  They lingered in the air and Ursa spun around and shielded herself from view with more blue fire. “Now jump!” 

A moment passed, a moment where the older woman’s breath caught in her lungs. Then, before any particular emotion could truly settle in her bones, Ursa leapt out from the wall of blue flames, a look of ferocity painting her features. She landed on her feet and sprung forward not a moment later; she took one step, two steps, three...

And on her final step she jumped high in the air, and Azula’s voice cut through the noise, “Roar!” 

Flames from her feet propelled her upwards, a gust of blue, and the same shot out of her hands. Her face scrunched up as her cry echoed around the training yard, a stream of fire shooting out of her open mouth. Everything was blue, all Azula could see was blue. And all she could feel was heat. 

But what really shocked her, what really made her brows scrunch together and her jaw drop, was the Princesses eyes, once a piercing golden brown, were now completely blue. The fire around her swirled and moved until it started to take form. The form of a dragon.

Of course. Of course. It made sense, everything about her fit the role. 

“The Spirit of the Dragon…” She whispered in awe. It was a phenomenon that she never thought she would be alive to witness, and she would never tell a soul about the tears that filled her eyes as she watched her great niece display her sheer power. 

When the roar died down, and Ursa’s flames shrunk, and she dropped to the ground, her eyes fell shut and her knees gave out. She caught herself with her hands and shook her head. With a couple groans, and a few deep breaths she was back on her feet. 

“Holy shit.” A voice broke the silence. Azula turned around only to see her older brother; Zuko’s mouth hung open and his arms were limp at his side. 

“That-” the Princess cut herself off to catch her breath. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she chuckled lowly. Her eyes flickered from her great aunt and great grandfather. She didn’t know how to feel about what had just occurred. On one hand, she knew that her family would never think any different of her for anything, they had always told her that nothing could ever make them not love her; but on the other, insecurity and fear seemed like the obvious answer. 

What if they thought she was too powerful? What if they feared she would be the demise of the Fire Nation? She didn’t even know what took over her, what if it was something evil? What if, what if, what if- 

“Ursa,” Azula broke her train of thought. She snapped back to reality, heart in her stomach, and looked at the older woman. “Do you know what just happened?” Dread pricked at every nerve in her body and she shook her head. Her fingers began to tremble and she clenched her hands into fists to hide it. 

“That was the Spirit of the Dragon, my dear. A powerful spirit of the very first dragon; it has possessed only few people throughout history, not nearly as much as the Avatar, but hasn’t made itself known in centuries. My, Ursa,” Zuko marveled. “It chose you, how incredible.” 

“I’m not-I’m not in trouble?” She stuttered. 

“Of course not,” Azula shook her head and made her way to the girl, hands reaching out. They rested on her shoulders and she leaned down so their eyes met. “I know what you’re thinking, and you don’t have to worry. What happened to me will never happen to you, I promise you that. Do you know what the Spirit of the Dragon means exactly?” The girl shook her head before her aunt continued. 

“The Spirit of the Dragon, like Zuzu explained before, is a very powerful spirit. It has joined with numerous people over the course of time, merging with them and bestowing knowledge and strength upon them like no other. It can’t just be anybody, however,” she paused and looked over at the bench. She motioned to it with her hand and the three of them traveled to it together, and they made sure that Ursa sat in between them. “The kind of people that the Dragon Spirit chooses are powerful, people who are destined to do great things in this world. The power to stand up to people, for people, and with people is incredible. It might sound simple, but most people can’t say they passed the test. You did.” 

“We’ve known since the day you were born that you held incredible powers and an even more important destiny,” the older man took over. “But we never could have imagined this for you.” He chuckled lightly and shook his head. 

Azula took that as her cue to continue. “But we’ve never, ever, feared that you would do something wrong, or that you would be too powerful for your own good. And no matter what happens, to you or to us, and no matter what you have to go through, we’ll always be with you.” 

Ursa nodded her head and wiped her cheeks of any tears. Her eyes were red and swollen, but her hands no longer trembled and her shoulders only slightly shook as she calmed down. 

“Now,” Lady Azula stated, her tone back to the normal smooth and sharp drawl. “Are you a dragon?” 

“Yes.” Ursa looked at her and tried with everything she had to convey just how much she meant it. 

“Who are you?” The question cut through the air sharply, and a moment later the younger girl's eyes changed colors again, both glowing a bright blue. 

“I am Crown Princess Ursa of the Fire Nation, Heir to the Throne; I am the Dragon Princess and I have the power of the first dragon’s spirit!” 

➥ tag list: @talas-starlight  @ewanssdjarins  @appa-gaangnam-style  @strawberisapphic  @avatarsnips​  @graciefullygracie​

[seemslegitflapjacks]

Chapter 8; Sketchy Shit

The year had been going on for a while. I honestly can’t tell you what happened since last time, but I’m having a blast. Ever since I’ve been hanging out with Randy and the team things are turning up for me. I’m finally back where I stood at my old school. Popular. It’s dumb, I know, but, it’s just so awesome. People don’t fuck with you, you have friends in every class, and everyone knows your name.

Right now, I’m sitting in the gym. I was talking with my friends until the coach threw her keys at me.

“Woods you open up the locker rooms.” She ordered as I gave her a quick nod in return, standing up as I hopped down the bleachers to go down the hall.

Today was stormy, the rain was so loud and hard it sounded like a waterfall overhead. The sky was an angry bluish-black color, lightning lit up the sky now and again, rolls of thunder chasing after it.

I didn’t like going down to the locker rooms, because once you opened the double doors that led to the hall they were on, it was pitch black. According to Randy some kids had busted out the bulbs with a basketball and the school never bothered to fix the lights. I couldn’t see anything in front of me, the only light I had was the weird glow from the slit windows on the doors back behind me. I felt along the left wall, quickly finding the door to the girl's locker room. I messed with the keys, trying to get the one that went to the door before I stopped. hearing a noise within the locker room.

I slowly turned the key in the lock, peering my head in. The sound came from the far back of the room. I stepped in, slowly making my way through the darkroom, the bangs of thunder rumbling the building a bit. That’s when I could make out the sound, it sounded like a baby crying. My heart dropped into my stomach, I didn’t want to go any closer to where the sound was, but my feet disobeyed my head as they pulled me forward to it. It was like I wasn’t even in control. My heart was slamming against my ribcage as a sick feeling came up my throat. I stopped in the hall of the showers, pulling back the numerous curtains until my eyes trailed to the right of me.

I saw watered-down blood running off into one of the drains, the sounds of the baby now closer than ever. I tore my eyes to the curtain, the deadly curiosity getting the better of me as I pulled the curtain back.

What I saw was horrifying, I almost threw up.

On the floor of the shower was a bloody infant with its neck twisted at an unnatural angle, bloody cries of agony coming from it. Terror surged through my body as I got the fuck out of there, screaming.

I stumbled out of the hall, having dropped the keys in the showers, all eyes turning to me. The gym teacher marched over, grabbing me by the shoulders.

“Hey, hey Jeff what's going on?” She asked, trying to make me turn to face her.

I didn’t know what was going on, everything was too much, I couldn’t handle all of this shit at once. My body was shaking, It was like I was a deer in headlights.

“Woods! Get it together!” She hollered, striking me across the face, bringing me back down to Earth, albeit very painfully.

The gym went silent, the teacher sending back one of the other kids to get the keys I dropped. I felt so embarrassed, I wanted to cry and bolt. She took me to the sides and sat me down on a bench, a few guys coming past me, giving me awkward looks. I’d probably do the same after seeing a screaming kid get bitch slapped by a teacher.

I sat there for a while, trying to cope with what the fuck I just saw. It had to be me losing my shit and not taking my meds. Ghosts aren’t real, it had to just be me seeing stuff. It was probably just the way the room was set up and how some shadows fell. It was just so weird, and scary. Even if it was in the shadows, how could I have heard crying? Why did the baby look so real? All these questions were making my head hurt...

“Jeff, sweetie you ok?..” I heard a soft voice ask, looking up to see the gym teacher.

“No ma’am..” I admitted, the woman sitting down next to me with her hand on my back.

“What’d you see back there?” She asked, looking over at me.

“You’re not even gonna believe me Coach G..” I mumbled.

“Any answer’s an answer sweetheart.” She told me.

“I saw a baby..” I whispered.

“You’re gonna have to speak up a little bit sweetie.” Coach G told me, leaning in with her ear so she’d hear better.

I hesitated, before letting out a sigh, answering again, “I saw a baby, a dead one.” I told her.

Coach G went silent, I looked over, the color drained from her face completely. She was almost as white as the tennis shoes she was wearing.

“Coach G? Are you ok?” I asked, concerned.

“Nobody’s ever told you about the incident?” She asked, her motherly brown eyes becoming cold and unnerving.

‘What incident?” I returned, a bit scared.

“Well, back in 2009, there was a girl, she’d been pregnant and had her baby in one of the showers. She didn’t want it, so she snapped its neck. Not too long after she died from bleedin’ too much.” She explained, a grave expression on her face.

I sat there, my face losing its color in fear. I’d just seen the ghost corpse of some girl’s dead newborn. I felt sick to my stomach, what the absolute fuck?

After that class, I fucking dipped, to say the least. I wasn’t spending the rest of the day in school knowing full well there was some creepy shit going on. I quickly texted Keith, asking him to help me ditch, to which he thankfully agreed. I waited in the pool room, raindrops slamming onto the skylight roof above. I leaned up against the wall, staring at the water, the buzzing of the lights overhead accompanying the thunder and lightning.

I waited there for a while, closing my eyes, opening them once more, only to see a floating body inside of the pool.

I screamed again, running for the door, slamming my hands against it as I forcefully shoved it open, running outside into the unforgiving storm. I didn’t even have to wait before I saw Keith’s car pull around the corner. I ran over to sit, barely giving him time to stop as I swung the door open and got in, slamming it shut.

“Jesus Christ, what’s up with you dude? You look like you just saw a ghost.” He laughed, locking the doors as he pulled off.

“Cause I just fucking did Johnson.” I snapped, shaking.

“Hey, calm down, you’re cool now dude.” He told me, reaching over with his free hand to pat me on the shoulder.

I exhaled a large sigh, looking at the road ahead of me as Keith drove us. The windshield wipers pushing back the water now and then. The silence setting over us again, my eyes trailing to the gloomy scene outside.

All I could think about was what I saw back at school. Was Coach G trying to pull my leg? Was that body in the pool even a body? Was I just being a forgetful bitch and not taking my meds? I groaned softly, leaning my head back as my eyebrows bent downwards in frustration.

I saw Keith glance over to me in the corner of my eye, gently patting my forearm with his hand.

I felt my hand snatch him, holding his palm captive within my own. Keith was taken by surprise, but I didn't care. I was so scared, confused, and upset. My heart slowing down as he gently began to caress the top of my hand with his thumb. The two of us sitting in a nice silence for the rest of the rainy drive back.

Once we got to his house, I kicked off my shoes, greeting a few of his absolutely weird pets before I trailed upstairs into his room.

I flopped myself face-first onto his bed, breathing in the comforting scent of his room. Cigarette smoke, black coffee, and teenage boy. I grabbed the blankets, curling myself up in them as I heard Keith coming up the stairs and down the hall.

“Ma maison est ta maison?” He laughed.

“Oui.” I chuckled, Keith, launching himself on the bed, landing on top of me. “Dude get your skinny ass off me!” I laughed.

“Hmmm, no you’re a nice pillow bro.” He snickered.

“I’ll pick you up, no cap.” I threatened.

“Bet.” He smirked.

“Bet,” I repeated.

“No balls.” He poked.

“None.” I giggled.

Keith tried to shoot a reply back, but I beat him to his words. I pushed my arms up underneath him as I picked him up bridal style, standing straight up.

“Told you I could do it.” I gloated.

“How-” He spoke, confused.

“I go to the gym,” I answered.

“Roid midget.” He mumbled, yelping as I dropped him back down on the bed.

“I’m not a midget,” I whined, Keith, staring at me in the eyes, before smacking me with a nearby pillow, bringing me down onto the bed.

We lost our shit laughing, smacking one another with the pillows on his bed, Keith got me a few times in the face.

After a while, we both got tired. I flopped on my back, calming down as I finished laughing, tears in my eyes. Keith laying his head down on my stomach.

“You have like, no business being so fun to be around dude.” He told me.

“You ain’t got no business being so funny either,” I replied, my arms resting at my sides as I stared up at the ceiling.

We laid together for a short while until we both fell asleep to the sound of the raindrops dripping onto his bedroom window next to us.

[hazel-writes]

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female OC

Summary: Aristeia, an ambitious and self-reliant journalist on Tatooine, crosses paths with a Mandalorian after a harrowing encounter with Imperial remnants.

Word Count: 5,000

Warnings: canon-typical violence, death

A/N: Oh my gosh, I finally did it. After months of reading some absolutely incredible Mando fanfics, I took the plunge and started writing my own. I'm so excited to share this with all of you!

This fic starts during episode 1x5 and will loosely follow the show's timeline (I will be taking many creative liberties). The first chapter is from Aristeia's point of view, but I'll be going back and forth between her POV and Din's afterwards. I jump straight into the action in this fic, so if things seem a little crazy at first, don't worry, all will be explained soon :)

This is my first time writing for our favorite space cowboy, so any and all feedback is welcomed! If you want to keep updated on this fic between updates, check my bio for other places you can find me. Also, a Spotify playlist to accompany this fic is coming soon!

Without further ado, please enjoy this chaotic mess of a chapter! ♥︎

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Aristeia sighed as she weaved her way through the busy streets of Mos Eisley, Tatooine. It was almost sunset and most people were heading home after long days at work. A layer of dust rose around the feet of those attending to last-minute errands. She watched as a woman bought a large red fruit from one of the street-side vendors. A soot-covered teenaged boy stood by the neighboring building, stocking up on mechanical supplies. Near his feet, two sunburnt children fought over a small toy. The scene was normal to her: ever since settling on Tatooine years ago, Aristeia had slowly grown accustomed to the slow and gritty flow of the planet.

As she continued walking, she kept her head down, eyes always focused a few steps ahead of her feet. However, whenever someone neared, she would look up briefly to offer them a small smile. Most of the time they ignored her, scowled, or rolled their eyes, but every now and then, someone would return her gesture. Those moments made the effort worth it.

Unlike the people who meandered around her, Aristeia was just starting her work for the day. She kicked up clouds of dirt as she made her way to the recently-abandoned mechanic’s shop. She used to frequent it back when she had a speeder, but after the owners passed away, it had unfortunately turned into a popular site of criminal activity. A few days back, she had intercepted a transmission that mentioned a meeting at the location, and as a journalist, she had to be there to see what was going on. Armed with a small notebook and stylus, she was prepared to document the whole thing.

Turning the corner of a dusty alley, which was littered with miscellaneous tools and sheets of scrap metal, the old mechanic’s place finally came into view. Its exterior architecture was similar to that of the rest of Tatooine, however its dark and doorless entrance led to an underground network of small rooms. With every step Aristeia took towards the building, her anxiety grew. Unlike her other investigative stakeouts, she was going into the mechanic’s blind. The transmission didn’t reveal a whole lot about the nature of the meeting, which she knew meant it was of special importance. These were the kind of meetings that could provide her with a groundbreaking story. They were also the kind of meetings where someone could get hurt.

Aristeia had never been good at fighting – physically, at least – but she did give herself credit for not having died so far, especially in her line of work. Put a blaster in her hand and she’d probably shoot her own foot off. However, put a pen in her hand, and she was a force to be reckoned with.

Aristeia had been writing ever since she was young. It started with little stories: she would go into a crowd of people, find a quiet place to sit, and observe each person that passed by. She would notice what they were wearing, how they carried themselves, who they were with, where they were going, and then she would make up the ‘why’: Why were they dressed like that? Why did they walk like that? Why were they with this person or that person? Her imagination would stitch together the missing pieces of their backstories, creating life narratives of people she had never even met. She did the same thing now from time to time. In fact, people watching was imperative to her role as a journalist.

As Aristeia grew older, she and a few friends decided to start a local newsletter that got sent out to residents of Mos Eisley every month. It was by no means a ‘professional’ establishment. The writers were all residents, many of them barely adults, who wanted to keep their friends and family informed about any activity that could threaten the freedom they had fought so hard to gain after the fall of the Empire.

A group of giggling children ran around the corner, pulling Aristeia out of her thoughts. She watched as they kicked around a near-deflated ball with bare, dust-covered feet. Sighing, she turned back around to peer down the steps of the abandoned mechanic’s. It was just beginning to get dark and the suns had nearly reached the edge of the horizon, casting eerie shadows on the stairwell walls. She looked for any sign of movement in the space below and when nothing seemed to be stirring, she made her way down the packed-dirt stairs and entered into the main room.

The area was small with not very many places to hide, immediately making her anxious. She had never been a fan of tiny spaces. But this was too important of a mission for her to give up now. She looked to her left and spotted a large plant, which obviously hadn’t seen any light or water for quite some time. However, its pot and leaves could be big enough to hide her if she was able to fit behind it. It’s not like she had very many options to choose from.

A noise from above forced her into action. She darted behind the plant as fast as she could, curling herself up against the corner of the wall. The sounds of heavy footfalls met her ears. There were at least five people making their way into the room she was in. From between the leaves of the plant, she could make out the forms of two stormtroopers and a tall, lanky man in a gray uniform. Imperials.

After the fall of the Empire, most people on Tatooine had celebrated immensely. They believed they had finally achieved freedom. It was hard for Aristeia to share their excitement, knowing how many lives had been lost on both sides. She also had always been a realist, never letting herself get too comfortable when everything seemed to be coming up roses. She had been tracking the movements of rogue troopers around the city for a while, trying to figure out who they took orders from and where they were located. In recent weeks, she had intercepted a few transmissions referencing what the Imps called ‘the asset’. Just one day before, she had caught word of a meeting scheduled to take place in the room where she was now hiding. She knew she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get more intel. Once she had enough information, she planned on writing a massive expose, informing all of Mos Eisley to her discoveries.

A raspy voice broke her train of thought: “Have you found the asset?” Peering around the plant’s leaves, she saw that it was the man in gray who had spoken.

“No, not yet,” a Klatoonian replied gruffly. “We tracked the ship to this city. As far as we know, the Mandalorian still has it.”

A Mandalorian… Aristeia shuddered. There wasn’t much in the galaxy that she was terrified of anymore. Sure, she often felt scared. In fact, she was scared most of the time; it’s part of what kept her alive for so long. But there was very little that truly terrified her. Mandalorians were one of those things.

She shook her head, forcing herself out of her spiraling panic. Focus on the facts, she thought – it was a phrase she repeated often when overwhelmed with her work. Focus on the Facts. The Imperial man’s mention of the Mandalorian was new info to her. All she knew from previous transmissions was that the Imps needed the asset for some sort of experiment. She didn’t understand it too much – she was never very good at science.

Aristeia reached into her bag, pulling out her notebook and stylus so she could document her new discovery. As quietly as she could, she opened the front cover of the journal, flipping to the next blank page.

As she did so, her finger caught on one of the pages, slicing a thin cut across the pad of her pointer finger. Kriff, she whispered, accidentally dropping her stylus as she moved to nurse her injured finger. She realized her fatal mistake too late.

“What do we have here?” she heard a voice drawl from above her. The Klatooinian, who had taken a few steps toward Aristeia, peered around the edge of the plant before looking back at the Rodian. “Is this one yours?”

Aristeia scowled at the suggestion. “No, I most certainly am not.”

The two men chuckled, infuriating her even more. “Why don’t you come out so we can take a better look at you?” the Rodian suggested with a devilish smirk.

“Yeah, cause that sounds like it would end well for me…” she mumbled, trying to think of a way to escape the predicament she had gotten herself into.

The uniformed man and his two stormtroopers stayed quiet throughout the ordeal, seemingly bored by the other mens’ interaction.

“She must be terminated. She has heard too much,” the man in gray finally chimed in.

At this, Aristeia started to panic. She was in deep bantha munk this time. Sure, she had been in tricky positions before – it was kind of a requirement of living on Tatooine – but this was bad.

“I didn’t hear anything, I swear! I was just…” She stood up slowly and looked around the room, trying to find an alibi. “...admiring the plants?”

She mentally facepalmed at her attempt of a lie, something she was never very good at. It helped her in a journalistic sense, as she always did her best to remain objective in her articles. She recognised the power that came with telling the truth, especially now, in the wake of an empire founded largely on lies. However, in this case, she could’ve used a good fib. Admiring the plants, really? she scolded herself. After a moment of silence, the uniformed man directed a curt nod at the stormtroopers, who then advanced on her quickly.

Springing into action, she attempted to kick the chestplate of the trooper closest to her, but missed, only managing to clip his knee. Nonetheless, it threw him off-balance, sending him stumbling into his fellow trooper. She took the brief opening to run as fast as she could towards the stairs that led back up to the main street. She got halfway up, mere feet away from freedom, before a large hand yanked her back down the steps harshly. She fell backwards, scraping her elbows and knees on the hard dirt before hitting her head on the floor, hard.

She couldn’t see anything but blurry spots of white and orange as strong and grimy hands pulled her across the floor, back to the troopers. The one she kicked earlier returned the favor, sending sparks of pain through her abdomen. Footsteps approached and a heavy boot landed between her shoulder blades, forcing her against the floor. Another second passed before she heard the charging up of a blaster from above her head.

Aristeia closed her eyes, cheek pressed to the dirt, accepting her fate. She forced warm memories into her mind, not wanting her last thoughts to be of the man whose heavy boot currently pinned her to the ground. Her mind danced from memory to memory, finding it hard to focus on any one image for too long: a familiar, tender hand ran its fingers along the curves of her face; trees towered over her like arrows aimed for the stars; a single candle cast a warm glow over pieces of parchment; a sweet smile, one she probably would never see again, beamed through the darkness...

A burst of blaster fire sounded from above her head. As if shooting her once wasn’t enough, she thought, before realizing that it wasn’t possible for her to make sarcastic quips if she was dead. She opened one eye, then the other, only to stare right into the lifeless face of the man in the gray uniform. It was a sight she was sure would stay with her forever.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.”

She finally looked up, not recognising the deep modulated voice that sounded from above her.

A shining wall of silver met her eyes, his blaster pointed at the Klatoonian. A Mandalorian, she thought. Waves of terror flooded Aristeia’s body. It was almost as if the universe had plucked him straight out of one of her nightmares and dumped him deliberately at her feet. She was familiar with the Mandalorians, more than most, but seeing one after so many years still managed to send shivers down her spine.

Focus on the facts. Focus on the facts. she repeated to herself.

Something about the way the armored man carried himself made her realize that this wasn’t just any Mandalorian: this was the Mandalorian, the one her attackers had been discussing moments earlier.

His presence seemed to fill the whole room. She found her eyes involuntarily moving up his figure, taking in the pure power that emanated from his armored form. Her gaze landed on his face, or where his face should’ve been. Instead, all she could see was her own terrified reflection in his dark, deadly visor.

When the Klatoonian didn’t make any effort to move, the shiny man looked down and gave her a barely perceptible nod to the side. She knew exactly what he was telling her to do.

As fast as she could, she rolled to her right, hearing blaster shots fire above her as she did so. She scrambled back towards the plant she was hiding behind earlier and watched as the armored man fought the others. While the Mandalorian was distracted with the Rodian, the Klatoonian aimed his blaster towards his silver chestplate. Aristeia considered shouting to the metal-clad man in warning, but didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. To her horror, she watched as the Klatoonian pulled the trigger.

The Mandalorian, however, sensed what was coming and ducked. The blaster beam rebounded off of a large metal sheet that stood propped up against the wall behind him and hit the Klatoonian square in the chest. He fell to the floor, lifeless. To Aristeia’s surprise, she heard the Mandalorian curse, seemingly frustrated by the death of his attacker. The stormtroopers took his moment of annoyed distraction as a sign to run, bolting back up the stairs before the Mandalorian could stop them.

Aristeia’s senses slowly started to come back to her, as did the pain in her stomach, hands and knees. Unsure of the Mandalorian’s intentions, she scrambled on the packed dirt, trying to find the notebook she had brought with her. She finally found it tucked between the wall and the nearby plant pot.

She turned to see the armored man, having knocked the Rodian unconscious, finally focus his attention on her. She grabbed the stylus that she always kept clipped to the side of her notebook, the one that had caused all this trouble to begin with, and held it out in front of her as threateningly as possible.

The Mandalorian casually put a hand on his hip and popped one of his legs out slightly. His helmet tilted to the side incredulously. If she wasn’t so scared, she might have laughed at his almost-lazy posture.

“Hey, they say the pen is mightier than the sword, right?” Aristeia shrugged nervously, still directing the stylus towards the silver mass in front of her.

He ignored her comment and dipped his helmet towards the bodies on the floor. “What were you doing with them?”

She debated whether or not to tell him. His low, warning tone made it seem like she didn’t have much of a choice. So far, he hadn’t made any move to hurt her, despite the fact that he had every opportunity to. Even now he kept his distance, almost like he was trying not to startle her any further. That, or the stylus really had scared him.

“I’m a journalist,” Aristeia responded. “I was trying to get some information for my next story when they found me.”

She shifted on her feet when he didn’t respond right away.

“Story?” he finally repeated, almost like he was skeptical of the word.

“Yeah.”

She knew it must sound silly. Her stories, and journalism as a whole, probably weren’t on this man’s radar. A lot of people thought that her profession was impractical and meddling, but obviously the work she did was important enough to gain the attention of the Imps.

Whatever the Mandalorian was thinking prompted him to mumble something, turn on his heel, and start back up the stairs. Aristeia was left speechless, her hair settling back into place after being disheveled by the sudden billowing of the Mandalorian’s cape.

She looked around the room at the bodies littering the floor, remembering briefly that the troopers had escaped. That alone almost ensured her certain death. They had seen her face – it was only a matter of time before they would find her. Already regretting her decision, she heard herself calling out to the Mandalorian who had reached the top of the stairs: “Wait!”

He stopped his movement, pausing briefly before slowly turning to face Aristeia, who now stood at the bottom of the stairs. She looked up at his figure, which from her angle looked more commanding than ever, his silver armor backlit by the setting suns.

Finally finding her words, she spoke. “Please, I… I need to get off this planet. You have a ship, right? The troopers who ran, they’ll tell the others, they’ll come after me.”

She hated how desperate she sounded, but she didn’t know what else to do. Her friends barely had enough money for speeders. Most of them had never even been off the planet. All she knew was that she needed to leave, and soon.

“Why would they waste your time on you?” the Mandalorian asked, probably unsure how a girl armed with a stylus could possibly pose a threat to the Imps.

She ignored his underestimating tone before replying. “Because I overheard what they were talking about. Once they find out who I am, they’ll kill me.”

“And who exactly are you?”

Kriff, she thought. If the Mandalorian found out just how invested she was in her recent investigations, he could use that against her. “Well… I’m Aristeia.”

The Mandalorian voiced a frustrated sigh. “And?”

“And…”

She was about to answer when she spotted a blinking red light out of the corner of her eye. Upon further inspection, she found its source: a tracking fob held in the Mandalorian’s left hand. Of course, she thought. He’s a bounty hunter. The Klatoonian must have been his bounty – that’s why he was upset when he was accidentally killed in the crossfire.

Aristeia felt her heart rate spike as she devised the best way to backtrack on her previous request for help.

She slowly made her way towards the Mandalorian, subtly attempting to get back up to street level. “...and I really should be getting back to work, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just head back up those stairs now.”

The Mandalorian, unfortunately, noticed the unusual change in her disposition.

“What’s the sudden rush?” he asked as the arm carrying the fob shot out to stop her escape.

“No, no, it’s nothing! I really should go. My… husband is waiting for me,” Aristeia lied. The Mandalorian just stared, his arm remaining in place. “He gets upset when I’m late.” She offered with a fake smile, trying desperately to alleviate the tension. When he still didn’t move, she continued. “He’s very big. And uhh… He’s a sheriff!” she added, for good measure. The Mandalorian cocked his head slightly to the left in response, as if seeing how far she would take her lie. “And he has lots and lots of weapons. A whole armory with guns and knives and other… spiky things.”

“Spiky things?” he asked, almost amused.

“Well, yeah.” she replied, but it came out as more of a question.

“Well, you know what I think?” he said, taking a few sauntering steps forward. His posture oozed confidence – one hand was hooked on his belt, just in front of his blaster, while the other hung casually at his side.

Aristeia took a small step backwards. “W-what?”

“I think you have a bounty on your head.”

Kriff, she thought. He’s good.

Aristeia took another step back, but the Mandalorian closed the distance quickly. She held up her hands placatedly.

“Look, I don’t… know if there’s a price on my head. I’ve always just assumed . Over the past few years, my friends, the other journalists here, they’ve been going missing. It was pretty obvious that the Imps didn’t want us sharing their activities with the whole planet. Recently, things had been pretty quiet, at least until they started freaking out about this whole ‘asset’ thing.”

The Mandalorian’s posture straightened and his towering body leaned towards hers menacingly. When he spoke, his voice lacked all the nonchalance it had earlier and instead radiated a seriousness that chilled her to the core. “What do you know about the ki- the asset?”

Aristeia, regarding his sudden change in demeanor, stuttered in response: “N-nothing really – Shouldn’t you know?”

“Nothing really?” he repeated, completely ignoring her question.

“Just what I’ve heard over the coms.” Shoot, she thought. Shouldn’t have said that.

“You have access to their coms?” he asked, a sliver of surprise peeking through his gruffness.

She did. It was one of her biggest accomplishments since arriving on Tatooine. One evening, she had been at her desk, listening to random transmissions on an old faulty comlink her mother gave her years ago. She would do this every night, never once picking up on the voice she was desperately waiting to hear. Instead, she usually caught onto feeds from people nearby: small business dealings, calls to family working out in the dunes, even the occasional secret teenage correspondence. Aristeia enjoyed listening to the small snippets of the others’ lives; it gave her hope in a world that she seemed more and more disconnected to with each new day.

But on this night, she had intercepted a transmission that was far more concerning than her typical listening content. Two voices, one that she now knew was the man in the gray suit and another who she assumed was a stormtrooper, crackled over the comlink. Within a few minutes, she not only knew that the Empire wasn’t dead, but that they were also situated right on her doorstep . After making this discovery, she made sure to keep her com set to that specific feed, which is how she ended up finding out about the meeting that led to her current encounter with the Mandalorian.

“Sometimes I have access,” she responded to the Mandalorian’s question with a nonchalant shrug. She basked in the power that this information seemed to give her over him. “It depends on how close they are, the wind levels, and if my tech is even working that day-”

“Where do you live?” he interrupted hurriedly.

Aristeia suppressed a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Where do you live?” he repeated slowly, though this time it came out as a more of a modulated growl.

She laughed nervously. “No way, you seriously think I’d tell a bounty hunter where I lived? That’s like breaking every single rule of common sense. I mean, come on, think of this from my perspective.”

His posture relaxed minutely and he released another sigh, this one less frustrated than the previous. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now.”

She recognised the truth in his statement, but that didn’t mean she was willing to go out of her way to help him. For all she knew, he could take the coms and turn her in afterwards. Aristeia tried to get a better read of him, but unlike most people she met, she couldn’t. She didn’t have any guesses as to who he was, what his intentions were, or why the ‘asset’ was so important to him. In a universe of starry galaxies, he was a black hole.

“What do I get out of it?” she asked, trying her best to sound confident. She countered the slight relaxation of his own stance with the newfound boldness of her own. “Helping you, I mean.”

The Mandalorian scoffed beneath his helmet. “I saved your life, I think that’s qualifying enough.”

“You were just going after the Klatooinian.”

“And if I hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

“Wow, consider me comforted.”

He sighed, clearly agitated by her retorts. “If you show me the coms, then I won’t tell the Guild about the little notebook operation you’ve got going on down here,” he said, waving a gloved hand towards the bag that carried her journal.

“And now I’m being blackmailed. Fantastic.” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Aristeia stilled, evaluating her options. She could either ignore the Mandalorian and risk having him reveal her, and her work, to the Guild, or help him and hope he returned the favor. Neither option was ideal.

“Fine ,” she relented. “Just give me a second.”

Aristeia took the Mandalorian’s lack of response as a signal to go ahead, and made her way back into the darkness of the room that now reeked of death. She tried to think back to the days when she would come to the mechanic’s to repair the many malfunctions her speeder frequently sustained. She always enjoyed the loud and hectic bustle of the establishment. Its owners were kind and would always let the neighborhood kids hang out and watch them work on one project or another, occasionally even letting them help out. Those times seemed distant as Aristeia approached the body of the fallen Imp.

“Hey, you wanna hurry it up down there?” a gruff voice sounded from above.

“Really?” Aristeia replied, astonished at the Mandalorian’s near-childlike impatience.

“I thought you had some husband with a large collection of spiky things who doesn’t like it when you’re late?”

Hearing him repeat her previous lie out loud made it seem even more ridiculous, but she ignored him and continued to move towards the gray-suited man.

“What are you doing?” he called from above, seemingly untrusting of her retreat back to the main room.

Oh my stars, she thought, surprised by her own annoyance at the Mandalorian. Her initial fear had evolved into irritation at his constant attempts at intimidation and control. She couldn’t let her guard down though – she could lose her leverage at any moment and then who knows what he’d do with her.

Aristeia reigned in the sarcastic comment she was about to make and instead answered his question with a restrained sigh. “Seeing if they have any information.”

“In case you didn’t notice, they’re dead. They can’t help you.”

Obviously, she thought with a roll of her eyes, but didn’t say so out loud.

“Yeah, but their pockets can.”

Aristeia stared at the man in gray. Even though the blaster bolt to his chest all but guaranteed his death, she still approached his body warily, as if it could come back to life at any moment. Avoiding his hollow gaze, she dug through his pockets, searching for any more information that could prove useful to her future articles. All she found was a handwritten note containing some sort of coded language she didn’t recognise. She folded it carefully and put it in her own pocket for safekeeping before heading back towards the Mandalorian.

By the time she joined him at street level, the suns had already set. He took a few steps forward but paused when he felt her hesitate behind him. She felt weird leaving behind the mangled bodies of the men in the darkness below.

“We should move the bodies,” she said cautiously, her eyebrows furrowed in confliction.

“No time,” the Mandalorian replied simply, turning back towards the street.

“Please,” she pleaded, looking to her left where a group of children played in the distance. “I- I don’t want any kids finding that.”

He silently followed her gaze and stood completely still for a moment, as if debating his own response. Aristeia tried, and once again failed, to get a good read of what was going through his head.

“Fine,” he finally said. “I’ll get them in the morning.”

She would’ve liked them taken care of sooner, but it seemed that there was no room for negotiation. To be honest, she was surprised he agreed to her request at all. Something was different about this Mandalorian, and she couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing.

“Which way?” he asked, referencing her house. The one she stupidly agreed to take him to, Aristeia thought.

“Uh…” She paused briefly, but it was a moment too long for the Mandalorian’s liking. “This way,” she finished, pointing down an alley to her left. She hiked the bag she carried higher up on her shoulder and took a few steps forward before feeling a hard tug on her arm.

“Hey, I wouldn’t recommend trying anything. It wouldn’t end well for you,” the Mandalorian said threateningly. His visor stared down at her coldly and she suddenly grew extremely frustrated by the fact that she couldn’t see his eyes. She felt vulnerable under his gaze and didn’t like it one bit.

“Let go of my arm,” Aristeia replied, her voice low and serious. His grip remained strong. She stared daggers up at his helmet and it was the first time since meeting him that she was truly angry. “I said, let go.”

To her surprise, she felt his grip loosen and she promptly tugged her arm away from him. Her posture radiated confidence, but the fear in her eyes betrayed her. Without a word, she spun around and continued heading in the direction of her small house, not sparing another look behind her to see if the Mandalorian was following.

He was.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Masterlist || Next (coming soon!)

[hazellvesque]

no strings attached

Why spend the holidays alone when an alley cat insists on keeping you company? After all, what are friends for?

aged-up Marinette/Chat Noir; platonic (???) affection | cw: alcohol consumption 

[merry christmas and happy holidays to everyone, but especially to @verrelle​ as this is your @mlsecretsanta​ gift from me! enjoy some marichat christmas fluff!]

Read on Ao3

* * * * * 

Despite the frigid temperature outside, Marinette had opted to spend the evening on her balcony sans scarf and gloves. The heat of the homemade cocoa did more than enough to warm her from the inside out. The fact that it was spiked probably didn’t hurt, either. In fact, she felt positively cozy, now that the previously-burning sensation in her throat had dulled to a pleasant radiating heat.

She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her pajamas. Rather, she’d tossed one of her fuzzier blankets over her shoulders like a cape, wrapping herself up just enough to be able to bear the weather but still head inside and go straight to bed once she felt herself get tired enough. 

She unlocked her phone and glanced at the time. 12:07am. 

“Joyeux Noël,” she muttered bitterly. 

As a child, Marinette had spent this hour of the holiday drifting off in front of a warm fire, the savoury and sweet tastes of roast turkey and her father’s bûche de Noël from Christmas Eve still on her tongue. In more recent years, she’d crashed at Alya and Nino’s apartment after they’d insisted on inviting all of their collège friends to celebrate together. At first, it had been for Adrien’s sake, so he wouldn’t have to spend his holiday alone. Later, it became tradition to offer their little home to whoever needed company during Christmastime.

This year, Alya and Nino had opted for a more private celebration: a romantic week-long getaway, just the two of them. Marinette wouldn’t be shocked if Alya returned from their trip with a shiny new rock on her finger. Nino had been dropping some agonizingly obvious hints that he’d be popping the question soon, and Alya insisted on being “surprised” even though the couple had been discussing marriage for years and it was only a matter of when, not if, that would be the real surprise. 

Marinette tried her best not to let the dreaded lonely shadow in the back of her mind consume her thoughts entirely. The pit in her stomach was excitement for her best friend. Not jealousy. Not envy. Of course not. 

For the first time in her life, Marinette was alone for Christmas. And although she insisted that her friends and family not worry about her, and that the holiday wasn’t really that big of a deal, she still glanced out wistfully at the twinkling lights of the city feeling envious of everyone who had someone special to spend the evening with. 

Maybe she should have gotten back on the dating apps, like Alya had suggested. Or maybe that was the tipsy brain talking.

She took another burning swig of her drink, trying not to hiss as it went down. The bitter aftertaste told her she’d made this batch slightly too spirited, but it was too late to fix that now. 

A curious, nagging feeling wriggled in the back of her mind. Like she was being watched.

“What are you doing?” she asked the winter air. 

Its response sounded strangely like a familiar young man slinking up behind her. “Practicing my stealth,” Chat Noir said. 

Marinette took another small sip, not bothering to even glance back at her visitor. “Well, you’re lousy. Keep practicing.” 

Leather-clawed hands slipped around her waist, pulling her back ever so slightly so that her back was flush against Chat’s front side in a playful hug. 

“That’s no way to talk to someone who came all this way to see you on Christmas. It is past midnight now, isn’t it?” he whispered in her ear, then glanced down at her mug. “Is that hot chocolate?”

“And peppermint schnapps,” Marinette turned to face Chat, waving the mug under his nose teasingly. “Both of which are pretty lethal to kittens, last time I checked.”

Chat released her, making a pathetic pouty face as he rounded her, taking his usual precarious perch on the edge of the railing. “Do you want to explain why you’re drinking alone?” 

“Because Alya’s probably getting married soon and this is going to be my sad reality for a while, so I might as well get a head start,” the words flowed out of her mouth before hitting her brain. Evidently, the peppermint schnapps were doing their job a little too well already. “...And I wasn’t expecting an interruption.” 

“An interruption? Or much-needed company?”

“I don’t know, yet. Depends on what kind of company you’re providing. Shouldn’t you be protecting the innocent and whatnot?”

Chat cast a lazy glance out at the quiet city. “You know how it goes,” he shrugged, “not a creature stirring, except maybe a mouse.”

“Ha ha,” Marinette deadpanned. 

When was the last time she last summoned Mullo and used her multiplication powers? Months, maybe even a full year ago now. None of the akumas lately had called for it. During recent battles, Chat had been more than enthusiastic when recommending help from their old friends, insisting that, even though years had passed, people like Max and Kim and Kagami wouldn’t mind donning their magical jewelry for a night and jumping back into the fight. 

Marinette understood that feeling completely. She’d missed seeing them, too, though she’d be much less happy to admit it. 

The two of them had nearly run the gamut of their superpowered assistants as of late. Only a handful of their old collège friends were left in the city, and half of them likely wouldn’t be as enthusiastic to play dress-up-and-kick-ass anymore. Chat had probably been anxiously awaiting his opportunity to suggest getting help from Marinette and the mouse miraculous, only putting it off because his Lady had insisted Marinette couldn’t be trusted with the secret identity. She’d kind of dug herself into a hole with that one, though she couldn’t exactly admit it to anyone. 

“What’s ironic?” Chat asked.

Marinette blinked. “Huh?”

“You just said ‘how ironic’ under your breath, but you were kind of mumbling,” Chat cast a quizzical look at her mug. “Are you sure you should still be drinking that?” 

“I’m fine,” Marinette said, but as the words left her mouth, she could feel just how dizzy she’d gotten in the last few minutes. “Maybe this is a bad time to mention that this is my second cup of the night?”

Wordlessly, Chat took the mug from her hands and drank, instantly recoiling at the taste. “Well someone’s got a heavy pour.”

“Yep,” Marinette reached for her drink, but Chat lazily held it above his head, just out of her reach. 

Chat shook his head. “Nope, I’m finishing this for you, you’re cut off for the night.”

She tried to stand on her tiptoes and instantly felt the world shift off-kilter beneath her feet. Okay, fine, maybe she didn’t need it. 

“So what kind of company were you needing tonight?” Chat asked, raising an eyebrow as he took another drink. “Since your satisfaction evidently depends entirely on what services I provide.”

Moving away from the railing, Marinette pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. She meandered towards her lounge chair and plopped down, legs crossed. “I didn’t mean to say it like that,” she giggled. “You make everything sound so...” 

“Exciting?” he offered.

“Suggestive,” Marinette finished. “But you’re such a relentless flirt that you probably don’t even realize you’re doing it.” 

Chat’s presence on her rooftop had become an incredibly common sight over the years, and his visit tonight was especially comforting. She hadn’t expected him to find time to stop by during the holidays, operating under the assumption that he had family or other loved ones he’d rather be with. 

Over time, their conversations ran the gamut from petty gossip to deep therapeutic bonding, but they rarely if ever crossed the line past platonic interactions. Sure, the odd innuendo or joke would slip every once in a while - mostly from Chat’s mouth - because what else would you expect from two perpetually single friends? 

“Quite the contrary,” Chat Noir took another big gulp, “I am fully aware of the things I say, and everything I do is with complete sincerity. It's not my fault you don’t take me seriously.” 

Marinette wrinkled her nose. “Well, you’re always so casual about it, it’s hard for me to tell if you even really mean it.” 

“Should I be more blunt, then?” 

“Try me.”

Chat rolled his shoulders back and took another massive swig, draining the mug before setting it down. “Only because you asked,” he said before bounding across the balcony, shortening the distance between them quicker than Marinette could blink. He landed in a crouched position very nearly in her lap, their noses inches away. 

His voice lowered, but his eyes never strayed from hers. “For one, it’s hilarious to me how much of a lightweight you are. Your inhibitions are on their way out the window after a drink and a half, and it’s much more fun for me this way because now you’ll laugh at my jokes instead of rolling your eyes at me.”

“I didn’t think you ever wanted me to react to your flirting,” Marinette shot back. “All things considered, with you being head-over-heels in love with Ladybug and all, you seemed perfectly fine with me rolling my eyes and ignoring you.” 

Chat sat back on his heels and sighed wistfully. “You two do have that in common. Maybe that’s why I find you so endearing.” 

A sarcastic laugh escaped Marinette’s lips before she could hold it back. If he only knew. More than anything, she wanted to take a snapshot this moment so she could bring it up again someday when there were no more secrets. Just to play that last statement on loop, so they could laugh about it together.

“Marinette,” Chat whined, but the smile on his face told her he was only joking, “I’m trying to cheer you up here, the least you could do is play along a little bit.”

She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. “Okay. Sorry. Playing along, right.”

“Right,” he said, “On to my second point. As I was saying before, what can I do to make your night better?”

“Who said I was having a bad night?” 

“Call it intuition,” he leaned in close again. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you’re drinking alone on Christmas and pretending not to be sad about your best friend possibly getting engaged. Classic signs of a forlorn heart.” 

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Which is exactly why I’m here to provide my services,” Chat sat cross-legged in front of her, his position mirroring hers exactly and reminding her of children gossiping at a sleepover. “What is it that friends usually do when someone is heartbroken? I can trash talk whoever it is that’s got you feeling this way. I’ll tell you how they’re totally not worth your time and they’re not even that cute and you’ll find someone someday who’s going to make you forget that other person even existed.”  

“I don’t know if there’s any one specific person causing this,” Marinette admitted.

That was partially true. Although Adrien had been the cause of many nights full of what-ifs and sad unfulfilled daydreams, it had been years since her crush was at the forefront of her mind. Rather, his presence lingered in the background, really only rising to the surface when people would ask her why they had never ended up together. 

And she didn’t really have an answer to that question. They had become excellent friends over the years, but she still choked on her words every time the subject of her feelings came up. Try as she might, she just couldn’t quite spit it out and face the embarrassment of rejection if he didn’t have any interest. She’d finally managed to stop stuttering around him. The last thing she wanted to do was ruin all of that now.

No, her loneliness now was more of a dull, persistent ache that had a plethora of causes, and she was sure once the holiday season was over and the overwhelming pressure of needing togetherness faded, she’d be just fine. 

“Well,” Chat said, “I can also go the more sincere route and just hug you and tell you everything’s going to be alright, even if I don’t know that for sure.” 

“That would be nice,” she said, then after a beat: “But I’m already so comfy here that I really don’t want to get up.” 

Chat frowned. Marinette stuck her tongue out at him.

“Fine then,” Chat said, “scoot over.” 

She did as he asked, and even though the lounge chair was definitely only designed for the width of a single person, he moved to sit next to her so that their shoulders and hips were pressed together. Unraveling herself slightly, she offered half her blanket to him, which he gratefully draped over his own shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her waist and rested his head on her shoulder, effectively wrapping her in a side-hug.

“Still comfy?” he asked. 

“Mm-hmm,” she responded, leaning her head on top of his. 

Chat had always been the affectionate type, and in years past, he usually reserved most of it for Ladybug. Lately, though, he’d been just as touchy with Marinette, and she suspected it was out of a combination of both their growing friendship and his own personal need for affection. 

Seeing as she was equally as touch starved, she wasn’t going to complain. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a good while, the chill of the night air almost unnoticeable with warm drinks in their stomachs and the shared body heat radiating between them.

“I have another idea, but I don’t know if you’ll get mad at me for suggesting it,” Chat said quietly.

Marinette sat a little straighter, turning to look him in the eye. “I could never be mad at you, Chat Noir.” 

Chat’s mouth fell open, then he caught himself and smiled bashfully. “Well, just to be clear, I’m asking this out of complete friendship, and I’d hate to enforce your belief that I’m a relentless flirt. It really is because I care about you, and I know how lonely you must feel, and I know something that might help ease that feeling a little bit.” 

Marinette tilted her head, questioning. 

He took a deep breath, his clawed hands toying with the frayed edge of the blanket. Was he nervous? 

“May I kiss you?” Chat asked, his quiet voice nearly lost to the breeze. Marinette wasn’t even sure she’d heard him right. It was hard to tell if the faint redness of his cheeks was from the embarrassment of his suggestion or from the cold.

She’d kissed Chat Noir before, of course, although he didn’t know that. And admittedly, it had never been a bad experience. He was arguably her closest friend, and she didn’t doubt for a moment the sincerity of his statement. The way he looked at her now was nothing like the lovestruck way he gazed at Ladybug when suggesting the same thing. 

Marinette nodded slowly. 

They were sitting so close it wouldn’t have taken much effort for him to simply lean forward and close the gap between them. But Chat Noir was never one to do things simply. 

He brought a gloved hand up to Marinette’s face and slowly traced his thumb across her cheek. Marinette shivered at the touch but did not pull away. Her eyes fluttered shut as he brought his lips to hers. 

Marinette felt her nerves fizzle away as she relaxed into his touch. Chat was unbelievably gentle, tilting her chin up to capture her lips perfectly between his.

He let the kiss linger for only a moment longer before pulling away. Their deep breaths were punctuated by the puffs of condensation from their breath floating between them.  

“Merry Christmas, Marinette,” said Chat.

“Joyeux Noël, Chat Noir,” Marinette replied.

Gracefully removing himself from the seat, Chat draped his shared half of the blanket back over Marinette’s shoulders and dropped another kiss on her forehead. He smiled as he backed towards the balcony railing, already reaching behind his back to grab his staff.

“Go inside and get some rest,” he insisted. “Try and enjoy the rest of the day. I won’t be a stranger.” 

“I know,” she said assuredly. 

He hopped up onto the rail and prepared for his exit.

“Oh, Chat Noir?” Marinette called out to him.

He turned back to meet her eyes.

Marinette beamed at him. “Thank you. For being a friend.” 

Chat returned her smile with a wink. “Anytime.” 

As his dark silhouette vanished into the night, Marinette decided resolutely: if her usual friends and family weren’t around, Ladybug might just need to make a new holiday tradition of her own - one that included spending time with her partner.