#those slate grey eyes

[myownwholewildworld]

THE WAY TO A GREAT WIDE SOMEWHERE

↪ a the mandalorian x beauty & the beast crossover

main masterlist | read on ao3 | easter eggs pairing: beast!din djarin x f!reader. summary: cursed to spend the rest of his days in Mand'alor, Din Djarin faces a threat that may break his peace: you. -or- a retelling of the beauty and the beast story. a/n: HAHAHA *manic laugh* HI! this has been a long time coming now. first and foremost, i'll start by saying that this whole brainrot was inspired by this beautiful moodboard by the very talented @almostfoxglove, please go see it because it's the main reason i wrote this fic. i have gone crazy trying to link both worlds so i hope some of you see/understand the easter eggs. feel free to come screech at me if you like it because i have been screaming into the abyss for weeks now. love you all, take care! <3 x warnings/tags (beware spoilers): 18+, mdni. set after the events of S2. grogu is BRIEFLY mentioned. if you're a SW purist, this ain't your fic, my friend. the stockholm syndrome is stockholming. beast!din. a fair bit of smut (you know all the usual warnings). sensory deprivation. kinda dom!din. monster fucking (this is a BATB crossover after all, sorry). death of a secondary character. reader is a blank slate. alternating pov. no use of y/n. italics means it's spoken in mando'a OR it's the beast's pov 👀 THIS IS THE WAY. w/c: ~24.3k. (HAHA SORRY) divider by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end 💖

11 ABY

“Take it with you. Don’t let anyone hav―” your father choked on his last words, a chesty cough wreaking havoc in his damp, bloody lungs. “It’ll take you to where you need to go. Find it. And destroy it,” he muttered as his grey eyes, crowned by bushy, white brows, bore into yours.

In your hands you held the device that had been passed down every generation in your family. It had been commissioned by Tarre Vizsla himself over a thousand years ago when he created the Darksaber ― a Pillio star compass to find not a physical location but his most valuable possession. For almost a millennium, your family had been the guardians of it.

And for as many centuries, your Jedi ancestors had been looking for the Darksaber after they had stolen the star compass from Vizsla. That Jedi blood was far too diluted now, just a remnant of what your family once was since none of you seemed to be Force sensitive. But the mission remained despite the passing of time, not so much the reason behind it.

Since your birth, this was all you knew: the thrill of the chase. Never settling down anywhere, never creating bonds with anyone outside of your tribe. You all were wanderers ― nomads who made home of no world. You knew no other life. It was what it was.

The Jedi star compass fit perfectly on the palm of your hand ― it was circular and slightly bigger than a locket. This one though was different, special even, because it was made of beskar, a metal alloy from Mandalore.

Your fingers caressed the lid, tracing the astromeridian lines with the tips, feeling each groove. Undoing the aurodium clasp, you opened the compass to find a plasma-encased supraluminite lodestone, perfectly centred. The plasma in this specific one, however, was not of a shimmering blue, but a deep, stagnant black. Its magnetism was so strong it buzzed, emitting a low vibrating noise.

You tapped the stone with your thumb, and the vibration pierced through your flesh and bone, travelling up your forearm and dissipating into your body before it reached your chest. You quickly removed your thumb, taken aback by the intensity of it all, eyes slightly widened.

“But father, you heard them. It’s already been destroyed. It’s over,” you whispered, tears trespassing the waterline of your tired eyes.

“They lie. Never trust one of them. Those power-thirsty ra―,” he coughed, pressing the wound that stained his clothing to stop the bleeding. You covered his hand with one of yours, the other still holding the compass. “I know we were close, we had to be. Promise me you’ll keep looking.”

“I promise, father,” you hushed, repressing the sob that threatened to tear your throat.

You laced your hand with his, unbothered by the blood, as you watched his eyes become dull, opaque and dead. His lungs exhaled the last breath while the grip of his hand on yours loosened.

You remained there for a few minutes, pain and grief gnawing at you, knelt by his deathbed, tinkering with the Pillio star compass. With your mother taken from you at childbirth and now your father perishing to an enemy, you had no blood relatives left. You were alone, stripped from the comfort of family.

You still had your tribe, but your connection to them was circumstantial. You grew up in their midst, but always felt like an outsider, a misfit who people felt forced to interact with because you were “the daughter of.”

It didn’t matter anyway.

You might not have known why your family kept on looking for the Darksaber, but now you knew why you had to search for it. It was your father’s last wish and that was enough reason for you.

“We must go,” Ashton’s voice reached your ears, but not your brain.

When you didn’t respond, he slowly approached you, kneeling by your side.

“Hey, I know this is hard, but we are really running out of time,” his firm arm wrapped around your waist to help you stand up.

Your knees trembled like a newborn qartuum but managed to stay upright on the soles of your feet. Taking a deep breath, you nodded.

“We need to leave Nevarro. It’s just a matter of time until our covert is discovered. They’ll come looking for him,” your head tilted in your father’s direction, voice flat and emotionless now. Stretching your back, you put distance between you and Ashton. “You find somewhere safe in the Outer Rim to lay low for a while. I need to see this done once and for all.”

“This what, exactly? You heard the same thing I did. Gideon crushed it. It’s over. We can finally live our own lives, find a home, settle down,” he muttered, a gloved hand looking for yours yet not finding it. He sounded so hopeful.

“I know what we heard. But my father… he thinks― thought it may be a ruse. I have to try, Ash. I can’t just leave this life behind, as if everything I’ve done has meant absolutely nothing,” you replied between gritted teeth, frustrated.

“Don’t waste any more years of your life on a wild goose chase, please. Let’s go back to the others. We can―” his hand finally found yours, lacing your fingers.

You looked down at your intertwined hands. It just felt odd, out of place even. Ashton was nothing more than a brother in arms to you.

You shook your head no, pulling your hand from his, breaking the contact, and looked at him directly in the eyes.

“No, Ash. There’s no “we” here. You do what you must, and so will I, simple as,” you rejected the unspoken offer, seeing the hurt consuming his blue eyes.

“What makes you think you can do this alone? Thousands of people have tried for centuries,” he quickly tried a different tactic, but his reproach unfazed you. “Let me come with you at least.”

“No. Our people need you to lead them into this new lifestyle, Ashton,” you refused, not even giving his proposal a second thought. “And you just made it clear, this is not the life you want, but it’s the one I do. Now go.”

Ashton pressed his lips together in frustration, gobsmacked by your bluntness. He’ll be fine, he’ll recover, you thought to yourself when you saw the pain of your rejection finally dawning on him.

“Have it your way then,” and with that, he left.

The compass weighed heavy on your hand and in your heart. But you couldn’t afford distractions nor being delayed by people. Not this time.

19 ABY

Weeks turned into months. And months into years. Eight, to be exact.

The passage of time was unfaltering, but so was your determination. Despite the many dead ends, the several disappointments and the near misses, you never stopped looking for the Darksaber.

There were days, however, that it all felt like an impossible task, that you truly believed that Moff Gideon had destroyed it. You couldn’t accept it though, not when you had spent eight more years hunting it down. It still had to exist. Right?

It was hard keeping the spirits up with no company to hear you vent your frustration. You had started talking out loud to yourself, your voice bouncing off the metal walls of your spacecraft.

Some days you regretted rejecting Ashton’s offer. The man had been nothing but kind to you, loyal too. You had your suspicions about his true intentions, but you never really saw him as anything more than a friend. You hoped that after all this time, he would have found someone who reciprocated him. Ash was a good man and deserved better than what you could have offered him. What you both wanted were two completely different things, incompatible ― he wanted a quiet life, you had preferred an adventurous one.

Given the same option today, however, you were not so sure of what you would have chosen.

Toying with the star compass, you looked through the windshield of the cockpit. Jumping through hyperspace at the speed of light always put you at ease ― the flashing of light as you passed through it left a rainbow of blue hues. The static noise was so calming, you relaxed into your seat.

Your attention returned to the device on your hand. Opening it again, you eagerly watched the metal semicircle twinkle, reflecting off the colours from the Hydian Way. It had not moved for a while, so you had set the course in the direction it pointed towards.

Unsure of the way it was taking you to, you had learnt to just let it take you where it pleased. Like a bantha following its herd on the vast, arid lands of Tatooine, your life for the past eight years had been reduced to following the hands of the star compass, and nothing else. And now, like every single time before, you would wind up in the middle of the great wide somewhere. Or nowhere.

Even if your eyes hadn’t been lazily transfixed on the lodestone, you could not have missed the louder buzzing it was emitting. You rapidly sat up on your seat, your thumb hovering over the stone while your heart jolted up to your throat. As the humming increased, the black plasma inside swirled and radiated a white, shimmering glow.

Only once had you seen it do something like that before, right before finding out that the Darksaber was supposedly destroyed by Gideon. You thought yourself so close to your objective in a stroke of sheer luck, you all had rushed towards the direction it marked and found absolutely nothing.

With blood drumming in your eardrums and heartrate spiking, you faced the panel of your starfighter and touched a few buttons in a trained dance of movements. Then you pulled a lever, and a sudden jerking motion stopped the spaceship on its tracks, easing out of hyperspace.

Back flattened against the back of your padded seat, you squinted your eyes to see where you were. It took you a good moment to recognise the worlds in front of you. But that couldn’t be, made no sense at all. Furrowing your brows, you looked down at the scope in front of you.

No, you were not mistaken. That was Mandalore and one of its moons, Concordia. The compass was vibrating so loud now, you had to close the lid to contain it. Did a double take on the scope, then back out to space.

You knew the story of what had happened here fifteen years ago ― Mandalore had become uninhabitable after the Night of the Thousand Tears. The Empire had made sure of it by brute force and unfair use of fusion bombs and rays, which reportedly left the surface of the planet crystallised and its atmosphere poisoned. No one who had ventured had ever returned, or so the legend went.

The compass hummed louder, still pressed between your hands, as if compelling you to decide, and to do it now. It couldn’t be that the Darksaber had found its way back to its homeworld. It completely defied common sense, the laws of space itself.

Concordia, on the other hand, was more promising, you thought. The best choice out of the worst possible options. Safest too. Probably.

Setting course towards the moon, the spacecraft slowly trudged forward. A loud sputtering sound coming from the thrusters almost made you jump, quickly followed by the incessant beeping sound of an alarm.

“Thrusters stabilizers compromised. Negative power couplers overheating,” the robotic, monotonous voice advised you.

Then your astromech droid, a yellow trimmed R3-D3 unit, started screeching so loud through your headset, you had to remove them.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, taking complete manual control of the helm.

If the couplers didn’t cool down, you only had minutes until these completely overheated, causing an explosion.

Weighing your options, you let go of an expletive. Mandalore was closer, but you feared that the moment you entered its atmosphere, your starfighter, and you inside it, would combust to death. Concordia was further, which meant the possibility of exploding before reaching it was very high.

You were fucked either way. Both were evils, none the lesser.

“Alor (boss), something has entered the atmosphere,” Nau’ul, his protocol droid, announced in perfect Mando’a, with a metal finger pointing out the window.

Din’s brows knitted together, not that anyone could see with his helmet on. His attention drifted to the direction Nau’ul was indicating. The wrinkles between his eyes pronounced as his head tilted.

A small spaceship had breached the atmosphere of Mand’alor, appearing through the greyish clouds with a burning tail following it as it rapidly plummeted towards the surface, leaving a smoky halo behind.

With muscles tensed, Din got up from the chair and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, trying to catch a better glimpse of the type of aircraft that dared to break his peace.

It couldn’t be the New Republic, and he hoped to hell it wasn’t an Imperial ship either. Everyone thought Mand’alor was a thing of the past, a barren planet harbouring no life.

He had thought so too before finding himself adrift in space, injured within inches of his own death. Crippled as he was, his Razor Crest survived the bumpy ride and even bumpier landing, all thanks to the droids aboard. The same droids that had managed to nurse him back to health. Or, close to, anyway.

Through the visor of his damaged helmet, Din eagerly saw the spaceship disappear between the dense foliage and slab stones, nearby the Mines. He waited and hoped to see a column of dense smoke towering above the vegetation, but that vision never materialised. There had been no crash, at least not a major one. Which meant that, whoever was commandeering the ship, had probably survived.

“Fuck. Where’s Mrs. Kri’gee?” he turned around to face Nau’ul.

The protocol droid lifted his arms above his head, running towards the door, panicking.

“Mrs. Kri’gee! Mrs. Kri’gee! Where are you? You’re urgently needed! Report immediately!” the high pitch tone of his robotic voice almost pierced his eardrum.

Din stuck a gloved fingertip in his ear canal and wiggled it to ease the pressure building up in there. Nau’ul was too dramatic and too loud for being a mere droid.

He had not even turned the corner into the main hallway of his decrepit abode, that Mrs. Kri’gee appeared in front of them. Nau’ul got the jumpscare of his life, one of his hands landing on the metal breast piece where a heart should be had he been truly human.

“Mrs. Kri’gee reporting, jatne vod (sir),” replied the IG-series assassin droid, one of her hands flying to her temple to salute him. “How can I be of service?”

“We seem to have visitors. Follow me, gedet’ye (please),” and with no further ado, Din walked almost blindly through the maze of corridors, then down the lift, until the cold breeze greeted him.

The temperature outside was almost freezing, especially in winter. This winter was chillier than usual too, so Din and his droids only came out when it was strictly necessary. Even after all this time, it still surprised him how glacial it was out there. With not even a tiny patch of skin uncovered, Din could still feel the biting cold clinging onto his beskar armour, seeping in through the smallest nook it could find. It could clutch around the bones easily, freezing you in place in a matter of minutes.

Not that he could tell the difference anyway, considering how fucking cold he felt under his skin. How icy it was inside of him, a never-ending snowstorm waging war on his numb heart.

Perhaps he shouldn’t hurry ― if he slowed down enough, and with a bit of luck, the unwanted guests might perish to the unforgiving cold of wintery Mand’alor.

With Mrs. Kri’gee on his heels, Din moved through the terrain as if he was one with it. After many years, he knew the topography as if it was the palm of his hand. Where he could step and where he couldn’t. What paths to avoid at specific times, and which ones were safe to hike, always mindful of the creatures who had withstood the Great Purge.

He might not have many things, but free time was definitely one of them, which allowed him to explore this world he had called home for the last eight years. There weren’t many pastimes in Mand’alor when he was the only human inhabiting it. Maybe that was why he had renamed the droids with more human-like names, to feel less lonely ― only if he could truly feel something.

The emptiness within him had only grown with every passing year on the planet. The curse that ran through his veins had slowly overtaken him, leaving an ever-growing void in his chest. Din could not remember the last time he felt anything ― joy, contempt, happiness, anger, hope, despair. Nothing.

He was an empty carcass, a non-sentient monster merely existing. Sometimes he wondered what the point of it all was, not because of an emotional response but because of pure boredom. But then his eyes would fall on the source of his misfortune, a brutal reminder of how he came to be where he stood, and the lingering questions would vanish. This was the way, his way.

And if that wasn’t enough, he also had to deal with the other side of the coin.

Din trudged along the faded path, now overridden by vegetation, to the Mines. His magnetised boots helped him find his footing more than once, sharp and loose rocks making it difficult to remain vertical. Mrs. Kri’gee, on the other hand, had no issues whatsoever.

Fifteen minutes later, they reached their destination near the Mines, close to a cliff. The lush bushes and thick trees blocked the sight at first, but Din found the perfect spot to stalk the unwelcomed visitors. Down on his knees and through a gap between the leaves, he made out the shape of a T-65B X-wing starfighter ― a pretty old one, at least twenty years old. It could have well served during the Galactic Civil War.

The starfighter could only carry the pilot and an astromech droid, which meant he only had to deal with one sentient being. Could have been worse, Din thought. The prospect of being found didn’t sit well with him though, unsure of why this person had found themselves stranded in Mand’alor, out of all the fucking planets in the Outer Rim.

The Mandalorian tilted his head, trying to get a better look at the person on the other side of the ship ― they were sat on a flat rock with their back towards him, knees propped up, elbows placed on them and crouched forwards. Din stuck his head out just enough to look over their shoulder, good eye squinting ― there was an astromech droid lying in front of them. By the looks of it, it had been fried to death, still sparkling and smoking a little.

Mrs. Kri’gee laid low behind him, still but ready to accept a command. Din waved a couple of signs to the IG-series assassin droid, and it moved silently, gracefully as a loth-cat, to reposition itself northwards, facing the target.

The Mandalorian kept his fist closed, indicating Mrs. Kri’gee to wait, when he saw the person standing up, removing their helmet and taking in a deep, exaggerated breath. It was the side profile of a woman in a bright orange spacesuit, human as far as he could tell. Din’s eyebrows furrowed under the visor, confused as to what could possibly have guided her to this inhospitable planet.

Perhaps he had been alone for too long, only the droids keeping him company for almost a decade, but the sight of you unsettled him. Had he been able to feel something, he was sure an uncomfortable weight would have grounded his stomach.

Kaysh cuyi mesh’la (she is beautiful), he thought ― a simple, objective observation a man could make with only half a vision.

Your hair shined even when the sky was gloomy; your big, bright eyes sparked with frustration; your plump lips fell into a flat line before smacking them with disapproval at your wasted andromech droid. Your fingers curled into your hips while one of your feet tapped the crystallised ground underneath nervously.

“Well, I’m not dead yet, so I guess the air is breathable,” you talked to yourself out loud, sounding almost disappointed. “Stinks like a swamp though, ugh.”

That was a good observation from your part. Stupid, but good. What was your plan if it wasn’t? Suffocating to death? Bit reckless if you asked him. And yes, the sulfuric smell coming off a bog nearby was not great, but there were worse places in Mand’alor to find yourself in. He knew damn well.

He eyed you for a little longer, Mrs. Kri’gee lying in wait. He didn’t need to kill you yet, first he needed to find out why you were here and if you were part of a larger group ― if there was a remote possibility of someone looking for you, he had to know.

Din signalled to Mrs. Kri’gee to come out of hiding but to not attack yet. And so she did promptly. The droid walked out in front of you, startling you so bad you almost fell backwards.

“Identify yourself,” his droid asked you.

You snorted, hand slowly moving backwards towards the blaster pistol in your holster.

“You identify yourself, you little piece of― metal,” you bit your tongue back.

“Nicknamed Mrs. Kri’gee by my Alor. IG-11 assassin droid. Serial Number 730X21G. Manufactured by Holowan Mechanicals in 1 ABY. First assigned to―”

“Alright, alright. Whatever,” you scoffed, fingers curling around the grip of your gun. “What is a droid like you doing here anyway?”

While you were distracted chatting to Mrs. Kri’gee, Din had come out of his hiding place, heavy boulder on hand. Stealthy as a predator, he raised his arm above your head and smashed the rock against your skull with no hesitation at all.

You plummeted to the ground instantly, rendered unconscious in a split second. Towering above you, Din walked around your body and crouched down in front of you. His gloved fingers moved a few strands of silky hair out of the way, following the tiny stream of blood dripping down your temple. The wound wasn’t too bad ― he was sure you’d survive the blow.

“Pick her up,” he commanded the droid, who willingly complied.

In a matter of seconds, Mrs. Kri’gee was carrying you over the shoulder, as if you were a light sack full of gloomroots.

What a banging headache. You were barely able to string two thoughts together.

Eyelids heavy, you did your best to open your eyes. It took you a couple of attempts, but you finally got there. Vision still burry, your pupils widened to adapt to the darkness surrounding you.

The room you were in was all rough, square edges. It reminded you od the inside of a spacecraft with all those panels on the walls. Here though, the cables were hanging out of the electrical panels, snapped and peeled. The scarce futuristic, metal furniture dotted around was broken and upside down everywhere ― the whole space was derelict, abandoned.

It has to be, because this is Mandalore, you suddenly remembered where you were before you lost consciousness. And how did you faint, anyway? How did you get here? Was it the freaking droid?

With a pitiful groan, you tried to reach the back of your head, where the pain was radiating from. To your dismay, your hand didn’t budge one inch. Confused, you looked down and around you, only to find a sturdy syntherope tethering you to the chair you were sitting on.

“What the varp!” You exclaimed, fighting the fetters to no avail.

You rubbed your hands together in the hopes to loosen the grip and slide one hand out, but whoever bound you, had tightened the rope really well. Did that stop you though? No, not one bit. You tried and tried and tried until the skin on your wrists was raw.

You were in the middle of attempting to break free when the creaking noise of the door made you still in place, half hoping to see the assassin droid.

Instead, a Mandalorian walked into the room, and you immediately ceased your endeavours. With a droid you could deal, but with a sentient being… and even worse, a Mandalorian out of all the fucking possibilities.

By the shape of his armour and predatory gait, you could tell he was a man, around five feet twelve. He wore a black body stocking covered by different metal pieces ― vambraces, shoulder pauldrons, breastplate, thigh and shin guards, and kneepads were all made of unaltered beskar. The shiny patina indicated that the alloy had been polished but not painted, as most Mandalorians would have them.

But what struck you as odd was his helmet. Manufactured with the same polished beskar, a black visor protecting his eyesight, you noticed the big crack that ran diagonally from the bottom left, all the way to his right temple. The transparisteel of the visor had also been damaged. It all had been welded back together, albeit by a novice hand.

You stiffened your back as he approached without exchanging one word. Your gaze followed his every movement, wary of the man in front of you. Your tribe instilled on all its members a gut-churning hatred for Mandalorians, although such strong feeling never really deepened within you.

Always mouthing your curiosity, your constant questions as a child were never well received by your tutors. Even your father had a hard time convincing you to hate someone irrationally. It just wasn’t in your nature to hate for the sake of it.

However, the Mandalorian in front of you… well, that was a slightly different story. The bastard had kidnapped you and had the guts to stop in front of you, arms folded, and head tilted. As if you just happened to be there, disturbing his peace.

“Release me now,” you demanded, narrowing your eyes as you leaned forward on your chair. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

A stony silence ensued, leaving you wondering if he was mute.

“Why are you here?” His voice was distorted by the speech scrambler integrated in his helmet.

Repressing a taunting jeer, you stared him right in his eyes ― where you assumed they were, anyway. When he didn’t respond, your eyebrows scowled.

“Are you, like, for real, man?” You couldn’t hide your incredulity. “It’s obvious I don’t want to be here. I didn’t mean to land on this forsaken planet. For all I knew I was about to die, I thought it was uninhabitable! I actually meant to go to Condordia―”

“Why would you go to Concordia? You’re not Mandalorian. Obviously,” he interrupted you, his hand waving up and down in front of you almost scornfully, pointing out your plain clothing.

“I― Well, that’s none of your business, actually. Look― Sorry, what’s your name? I didn’t catch it before you kidnapped me,” you asked with a pinch of rancour tarnishing your voice.

“I haven’t kidnapped you,” he quickly replied defensively. “Just Mando.”

“Okay, Just Mando. Look, you let me go and we both can pretend none of this ever happened. I go on my merry way and you― well, you stay here, doing whatever it is you do,” coming to think of it, you also had questions. You cocked your head, “What are you doing here anyway? When did Mandalore’s atmosphere become breathable again? I thought the planet was completely ruined after the Great Purge.”

“For considering yourself a hostage, you sure ask too many questions. And it’s none of your business, actually,” he snapped back throwing your own words at you with a snarky edge to his voice. “You and the whole universe think Mand’alor is unliveable, and it will remain like that for as long as I live, at least,” his tone turned sombre. “You ain’t going anywhere, I’m afraid.”

His last words shocked you. What did he mean you were not going anywhere? Of course you were. You couldn’t stay here; you had a mission to complete. And Just Mando didn’t seem to be the best company either, the man was so dispassionate you were sure he had a pole up his ass.

“Wait, wait, hold on one varping second. Let’s not rush into making stupid decisions, shall we? I get it, you want to be left alone for all eternity, don’t want anyone to disturb you. I won’t tell a soul you’re here, I give you my word,” you stumbled over your words, panicking at the perspective of not leaving this planet. “Please, I can’t― There are people looking for me,” you lied.

You had not been in touch with your tribe for weeks now. And by tribe, you meant Ash. He was the only one you had been communicating with over the last eight years. Life had been hectic, and you were never the best at keeping in touch.

“Then I’ll kill them if they come looking,” he shrugged, matter-of-factly.

“Wow, okay. Calm down. No need to threaten my people,” you tried to diffuse the situation, although Just Mando seemed pretty calm.

“And just so you know, I’ve just come back from where you landed. I’ve destroyed your engine and the navigation console, so you ain’t going nowhere,” he unfolded his arms, lacing his gloved fingers on his back, quite the measured gesture.

You glanced up at him incredulous, mouth agape while your lungs emptied. You were stranded here, forever, with him. The magnitude of his words had still not dawned on you, when a faster thought made its way through to the surface.

The star compass. Had he found it? Had he destroyed it too? Not that it would be useful here, but it was the last memento you had of your late father. Not that you could ask, anyway.

“Why… why would you do that?” Your trembling voice almost gave way to desperation as you leaned back against the chair.

You blinked fast to tame your feelings, all bravado leaving your body soft and boneless. For once you were speechless, your eyes searching for his under the damaged visor. But you only saw your reflection on the transparisteel, his pose not budging at all.

“Please, Mando. Tell me you’re lying. Tell me my X-wing was not the only way out of this forlorn planet?” You begged, a dense knot forming in your throat, collapsing your airway.

“It is. It was,” he corrected himself. “I can’t let you leave. I don’t trust you nor your word. This way, I make sure you have no other option than staying here for as long as you live. Death is the only way out of here.”

You deflated on the chair, looking at him in disbelief, almost unable to breathe. Although his voice was warped by the modulator, there was no emotion in it. He spoke as if talking about the damn weather, not like he had just clipped your wings forever ― literally.

“I― What… Why are you behaving like a fucking monster? Don’t you have feelings?” There was no edge to your question, you were past subtleties now.

He shrugged again, unbothered.

“‘Cause I am. And I don’t,” was his cryptic answer before turning on his heels and leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The door slammed behind him a bit too forcefully for his liking ― a reminder that he would need to ask Ca’nara to grease the hinges. Din then put the latch down to ensure the door could not be opened from the inside.

Without another thought in his mind, he turned around and almost crashed into Nau’ul.

“Master?” asked the protocol droid, dubious, one finger lifted in the air to draw his attention.

“What?” he replied, exasperated. Din just wanted a moment alone ― that conversation had burnt the last energy he had reserved for socialising. If it wasn’t because he could harbour no feelings, one could say he was socially drained already.

“Since the girl is going to be with us for quite some time, I was thinking that you might want to offer her a more comfortable room…” Nau’ul suggested.

The damn droid was more human than he was. Din had not even thought about moving you a different place within his derelict fortress. He had made the once royal prison his home, suspended off the ceiling of Sundari’s bio-dome, or what remained of it. A suitable place for a worthy character like him.

Din just stared at him, weighing his words. Did he have to care about the needs of his captive? She’s not my captive, just a… lifelong visitor, he quickly corrected himself.

“Then again, maybe not,” Nau’ul quickly retracted, dropping his hand to one side, mistaking his silence.

Fuck, I should have thought that, not the droid, he almost reprimanded himself. After so many years in his self-imposed exile, Din had really lost all touch with his humanity. Solitude, along with the curse that plagued his veins, were to blame.

With a grunt, he turned on his heels, unbolted the door and walked right back in, coming to a halt behind you with just a few strides.

“What are you doing?” you asked in a small voice, sniffling.

You had been crying and were now trying to hide it, show him you were unbreakable. He should have felt like a dick but didn’t. Couldn’t, really.

He knelt behind you and removed his vibro-knife from one of his pockets. The blade hummed, vibrating, when it got activated and Din cut you loose, restoring the blood flow to your hands.

“I’ll show you to your room,” was his only explanation to your question.

“My room? But I thought…” the doubt in your words slightly angered him. A fleeting feeling.

Anger? That’s new, he thought, eyebrows momentarily furrowing under the helmet.

“You wanna― you wanna stay here?” he muttered, teeth almost gritting.

“No,” you hushed, wide eyes looking up at him when he walked around the chair to face you.

Unsettling.

“Then follow me.”

Turning on his heels, Din made his way to the door, hoping you would follow. And you did, possibly because you had nowhere else to go.

The royal prison was a cross-shaped structure with several floors. Most of it was completely abandoned, except for the last two levels where he had accommodated himself in this senseless life he lived. The height gave him vantage point, with a good view of the surrounding buildings and further afield.

If it was for him, he would live between wreckage and filth, but his droids had made it their purpose to make the prison somewhat liveable. Not that he cared.

Din looked over his shoulder for one second to see you rub your wrists, eyes focused on the floor. Red lines were imprinted on your skin and for a brief second, he wondered if he had secured the syntherope a bit too tight.

Oh well.

He walked you all the way through a maze of corridors until you reached an elevator which was already waiting to take you up. Din stepped in and then to a side ― it wasn’t too big, but there was enough room for the both of you without having to invade each other’s personal space. You reluctantly followed.

The minutes dragged; the silence heavy although he did not find it unbearable. By the way you fidgeted with your fingers, he knew you did. Despite your discomfort, Mando did not open his mouth ― better getting used to it now, he didn’t want you to think he was the talkative type.

Then a ding announced your arrival to the top floor, and you almost let go of a relieved sigh. Din glanced at you sideways but didn’t catch much of your expression ― you were on his righthand side, and his right eye was completely blind.

The floor was well illuminated, clean and free of debris. It was well looked after, pristine almost. The corridors were empty, giving the whole place a very diaphanous appearance. As you walked by his side, he pointed out a few rooms you might want to make use of.

Arriving at an intersection, Din took the east corridor, ignoring the opposite one deliberately.

“What’s on that corridor?” you asked curiously.

You were too damn perceptive. Too perceptive for your own good.

“The west wing is forbidden,” he grunted abruptly, a growl even, stopping in his tracks to face you. “Forbidden,” he repeated slowly so the words, and the threat in his modulated voice, would sink in.

His reaction took you aback, but he could see you subduing your fear. You would not let him see it ― how scared you really were. You might not want to show it, but he could sense it.

The thought of you sniffing around the west corridor should make him panic, but his reaction was a mechanical one ― once upon a time, he would have cared excessively, worryingly even, if you discovered what he was hiding. Now, however, it wasn’t that he didn’t care but couldn’t.

The reason behind it, the reason why his emotions had become sterile and why a beast lurked beneath his skin, was stashed away in the west wing.

And it was his life mission to prevent anyone from finding it.

When Just Mando opened the door to your new cell, you were pleasantly surprised to discover it was an actual bedroom. The walls were still polished stainless steel slabs, so it wasn’t the coziest place ever, but it had a double bed with fresh linen, a nightstand, a wardrobe, a chest and one single chair. Everything was immaculate white, not one speck of dust in sight. There was another door that you assumed would lead to an ensuite bathroom.

You entered the small room and walked towards the bed. Opened the drawers of the furniture not really hoping for anything, so your eyebrows furrowed when you discovered they were packed full with clothes. Weird, but good.

With a little jump you sat down on the bed, testing its springs and overall comfortability. It was strikingly soft and smooth like a cloud, beckoning you to lie flat on your back and drift away to your dreams. You were not expecting that ― seeing how the rest of this floor was decorated (it wasn’t), you thought there would be one single spartan bed which would be hard as ironstone.

You were even amazed to see a floor-to-ceiling window. An actual, big, massive window that faced the outside world. And there were no metal bars covering it. Incredible, really, that he would trust you with one. Not that you were planning to escape, considering how desolate the planet was ― where could you go? Nowhere.

Looking up, you saw Just Mando leaning against the doorframe, arms folded while his biceps flexed against the fabric of his body stocking. He had been watching you the whole time you were inspecting the room.

Suddenly you felt the weight of his eyes on you and that made you feel skittish. You couldn’t see them, but you knew his sight would be intense, drilling and thrilling. What did he look like under that helmet? Would his expression be as impassible as his tone? Did he really not care at all or was that a façade he could afford because you couldn’t dissect his face?

“So… can I come out of my room? Or are you going to lock it too?” you asked tentatively, hands laced on your lap, challenging him with the soft curve of your raised eyebrow.

“It’ll stay locked until I know you can be trusted with freedom,” he straightened his back, hand on the doorknob.

“You call this freedom? Wow, okay,” you paused, letting that spoken thought sink in. “Is it because I asked about that corridor?”

Just Mando stilled under the doorframe, head cocked. Unknowingly, you bit your bottom lip, your teeth massaging the plump pillow underneath.

He didn’t answer.

You had had enough years of silence, the quietness of your cockpit being your only companion. Only broken by the fleeting moments when you met civilisation, you had unintentionally craved that connection. You just hadn’t realised it until you were faced with the possibility of being accompanied by someone for the rest of your life.

Even if that someone was… well, him. Guessed you would have to make do.

“You’ve already condemned me to live here with you, Just Mando, for-fucking-ever. You’ve destroyed my ship, so it’s not like I can go anywhere, can I?” you pleaded with him. “This whole planet is already my personal jail, don’t make it even smaller or I’ll go crazy.”

In your begging, you had gotten up and cut the distance between you. The tips of your shoes bumped into his weathered, leathered boots. He didn’t move, not even one inch ― completely unbothered by your proximity. Your face was so close to his helmet, the steam of your breath almost fogged up the transparisteel of the visor.

And, for a second, he seemed to consider your petition. Or so you had liked to think. You measured each other up, no one giving in or up.

“Until you can be trusted,” Just Mando remarked. The Mandalorian was the first to finally retreat, taking a step back into the hallway. “It’s up to you how long that takes.”

Flabbergasted, you looked at him in disbelief.

And then he shut the door. The click of the lock quickly followed.

Hours had gone by until you heard the door unbolt.

A different droid, an astromech one, greeted you.

“Beep boop, beep!” it happily chirped.

Luckily you knew enough Binary to unsderstand that it said, “dinner is served”.

“I don’t get it. I’ve already had dinner. Don’t need to be here,” Din complained, arms crossed at chest level, manspreading on a chair in the dining room.

“Try to be understanding, sir. The girl has lost her freedom,” Mrs. Kri’gee almost reprimanded him.

“Least you could do is keep her some company, Alor,” Nau’ul chipped in.

Din scoffed, irritated. And such irritation surprised him. He shouldn’t feel anything but a void in his entrails.

Nau’ul picked up on his unusual display of feelings as quick as he did.

“Master… Have you thought that perhaps this girl could help you break the spell?” the protocol droid ventured, almost stammering towards the end when Din snapped his head back to look at him.

If looks could kill, Nau’ul would have dropped dead.

“Fucking nonsense. You heard the witch, the spell she cast,” Din muttered, jaw so clenched it almost hurt him. “Stop looking for solutions and just accept it. After eight years, you should have already giving up your futile hopes.”

“Someone has to keep the spirits up around here. Depressing enough as it is,” the droid retorted.

“If you allow me, Master, Elsbeth’s exact words were, ‘until you find your maker once more’, and that is up to interpretation,” Mrs. Kri’gee added.

Din remembered very well the cursed that Morgan had spitted in his face before he took possession of the Darksaber and sunk it in the witch’s belly.

I condemn you, Din Djarin, to an eternity of loss, Of emptiness, apathy and thorns. At full moons you will be at your worst, With nobody to keep you warm. You shall walk this Galaxy alone, Until you meet your Maker once more.

They still resonated inside his head, clear as the pale ale in the jug in front of him.

“It dims more and more every day, Alor. The Darksaber is losing its glow. You’ve been ignoring it for years, but I fear that if you do nothing about it, well…” Nau’ul voiced his worries, hands twisting ― a very human-like gesticulation.

Mando had spaced out, not listening to one word. He only snapped out of his trance when the door creaked, announcing Ca’nara’s and your arrival.

The bags under your eyes were screaming for some rest, which apparently had been evading you. He had given you enough hours alone to get some sleep and freshen up, so why hadn’t you? If you looked so miserable, that was entirely down to you, not him. Of that much he was sure.

Din straightened his back, sitting up properly, while Nau’ul rushed off his feet to serve you the food the droid had prepared. With a flourish of his hand, he presented you with his creation.

“It’s tiingilar, a Mandalorian stew of meat, vegetables and spices. It’s hot, very hot, be careful,” the protocol droid warned you.

From across the table, Din could have sworn he saw your eyes watering, then you blinked a few times, grabbing the spoon.

“Oh my stars, how many spices have you put in here?”

“Oh, you don’t like spicy food?”

“Well, I do, but it smells so spicy, I’m about to cry, phew!” you swept along your waterlines with your index fingers, making a point.

“Alor prefers it this way. I can prepare something else…”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll eat it. Thank you…?” You dragged your words, looking for a name.

“Nau’ul,” he replied. “Anything you need, please ask.”

And then all three droids disappeared from sight, leaving you both alone in the dining room.

You glanced up from your plate, eyeing him above your spoon while you blew on it to cool it down.

“Are you not eating, Just Mando?” you raised an eyebrow, inquiring.

If Nau’ul was still in the room, Din would have snarled at him. Instead, he folded arms again and shook his head no.

“I’ve already eaten,” he explained dully.

He couldn’t―wouldn’t―remove his helmet in your presence, or anyone’s. Not even his droids had seen his face in all the years they had been together. Din had been raised to follow the Mandalorian Creed and even though he was no longer part of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild, he still believed. It was intrinsic to him, to who he was. Or had been. The only thing that kept him true to himself.

���Because you can’t remove your helmet in front of me. Right?”

Din tilted his head in surprise. He did not expect you to know that. Were you acquainted with the Mandalorian culture? And if so, why? You were not one, he could tell. But what were you? Your accent was a mixture of different ones, so he could not pinpoint where you originated from.

“This is the Way,” he found himself saying. It had been a long time since those words last escaped his mouth. “Where are you from?”

“Oh, from here and there, everywhere and nowhere…” Then you took the first spoonful of the stew and started coughing almost instantly. “Fuck, this is spicy,” you whispered, tears in your eyes, as your hand lunged forward to eagerly down the drink.

Din almost smiled at your severe reaction. The corners of his lips began to curl up but quickly dissipated, his own body fighting against such act of rebellion.

“So you’re a nomad?” He asked with certain curiosity in his voice, while he leaned forward to pass you the jug full of ale to top up your drink.

“Yes. I don’t have a homeworld. I don’t even know where I was born, we moved around so much my father didn’t even remember,” you went on almost absentmindedly, pouring the beer in your glass. “What about you, Just Mando?”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘Just Mando’? It’s just Mando,” as soon as he said it out loud, he understood the joke. He pressed his lips together, slightly amused. “I see,” he mumbled.

You laughed as if it was the best joke ever. The warmth in your laughter was vivid, hearty, compelling. Like a melody it filled the air ― suddenly the room was not as bare as before. As cold either.

“So? Were you born here in Mandalore, Mando?” the smirk coiling your lips told him you were teasing him.

Din debated whether to open up or not. Whether to tell you the truth or a lie. But Nau’ul was right, if you were to spend the rest of your lives together, lying was not a good start.

“I was born in Aq Vetina, but was raised in Concordia,” was his succinct answer.

Your eyes unsuccessfully searched for his under the visor. Din could tell you wanted to press him, get more information out of him, but that was as much as he was willing to share today.

“Eat up. It’s going to get cold,” he urged you, wanting to leave so he could be alone.

“So bossy,” you whispered to yourself, rolling your eyes to the back of your head, before attacking the tiingilar.

Nine weeks later

You turned to the next page of the book on your lap, your mind completely captivated by the story of the pages in front of you. Books were scarce in this day and age, but Mando had managed to salvage a few after years of rummaging through the rubble. This one in particular was a storybook for children ― a story about a Mandalorian fighting the Mythosaur down in the Mines.

You were immersed in it, curled up in your bed with a thick duvet and a few pillows around you. Your room was not bare anymore ― you had decorated with a few trinkets you had found in your day trips to the outside world, with Mando as your guide. The fear of the first week had slowly eased, giving way to a new sense of comfort.

Forgotten was your thirst for freedom. With the passage of time, you learnt that Mando was not joking when he first said death was the only way out. And since you didn’t want to die, you slowly had embraced this new way of life. You had made friends with the three droids and had really tried to form sort of friendship with Mando.

The Mandalorian was a tough nut to crack. He was not keen on showing emotion, so much so you even wondered if he was capable of feeling anything. You had noticed that, many a times, he relied on Nau’ul to show him how he should act or react. A droid teaching a human how to be human ― unfathomable. Perhaps all these years alone in Mandalore had taken its toll on him.

And so you liked to think that you were somewhat helping him reconnect with that side of him you thought long gone. By ‘helped’, maybe you meant ‘forced’, but Mando had thrown you in this situation, so now he had to put up with you.

The door to your room opened suddenly, startling you so bad you almost threw the book at Mando.

“One of these days you’re gonna give me a heart attack. Don’t you know how to knock?” You screeched, hugging the storybook to your chest and burying yourself under the duvet ― you were only wearing a shirt and your underwear.

“Are you not ready yet?” you had grown used to the exasperation in his voice.

“Ready for what? It’s only half seven in the morning, Mando!”

“You wanted to visit the Living Waters in the Mines and see for yourself if it really is a Mythosaur’s lair, remember? Since you don’t believe a damn word of what I say,” he scowled, still under the doorframe.

“Oh, shit! You’re right!”

How could you have forgotten? You had been insisting for over two weeks now, and only yesterday did he capitulate. You were no Mandalorian, so shouldn’t be in such a sacred place, but you managed to convince him that it would do literally no harm to anyone if you visited.

In your excitement, you jumped out of bed, forgetting you were half naked, and looked for some clothes to put on.

“I’ll… I’ll be waiting in the parlour,” he muttered and disappeared into the hallway.

Ten minutes later, you were outside, on your way to the Civic Center. As you approached this new-to-you, unprobed area, the destruction around you made your stomach churn. The Great Purge and then years of neglect painted a gruesome picture in front of you. Inside was even worse, although you couldn’t see much considering how dark it was.

You followed Mando diligently ― he had been here before, so you trusted his instinct. You stepped where he did and remained silent while you descended into the ground.

After a few more minutes, a humid, warm cave appeared in sight. There were massive pillars holding the crumbling ceiling, and piles of debris everywhere. Stairs led a path to the Living Waters below.

“This is beautiful,” you mumbled in awe, looking around you.

The place was eerie and silent as a tomb. Seeing it with your own eyes, now you could understand why people would believe in the existence of a mythological creature.

There was a plaque on a stone nearby and you got closer to read it. However, the writing was in Mando’a, so you cocked your head to look at Mando.

“What does it say?”

He walked towards you and stopped right behind you. His proximity sent a warning shiver down your spine. You ignored your body’s reaction, focusing on the words you didn’t understand.

“These Mines date back to the Age of the First Mand’Alor. According to ancient folklore, the Mines were once a Mythosaur lair. Mandalore the Great is said to have tamed the mythical beast. It is from these legends that the skull signet was adopted and became the symbol of our planet,” he relayed, his voice ricocheting between the bare walls.

“And you are sure you’ve seen it? Mandalore the Great lived, what, hundreds of years ago? In all that time, you’re telling me, you’ve been the only man to witness the rise of the beast?” One perfect eyebrow raised into your forehead, a smirk curling up your lips, as you taunted him.

Although you couldn’t see, you liked to imagine the frustration distorting his features. Lately you had wondered who the man under the helmet was, but you knew you would never find out. Mando took the Creed very seriously, too seriously.

“I did,” he replied concisely. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”

“And what were you doing in the water anyway? It does not look very inviting.”

“I had to redeem myself,” you could tell he hadn’t mean to tell you that, because he nervously adjusted his posture.

“Why?”

You were like a loth-wolf with a bone ― you wouldn’t let it go that easily.

“I had broken the Creed and had to atone for it,” his voice lowered, uncomfortable with the topic.

“How did you break it?”

“Will you ever stop asking so many damn questions?” he growled, evading your probing.

You lifted your hands up in the air in a peaceful gesture, but not without a subtle grin on your mouth. You loved driving him crazy, it was one of the little fun you could have in this place.

“Alright, alright.”

You bent down to grab some flat stones off the ground and practiced your stone skipping skills. That was until Mando’s big hand wrapped around your wrist, stopping you mid-throw.

“Stop that, you’re going to awaken the beast,” he snarled, pushing you close to his chest a bit too forcefully.

“Oh, come on. Gimme a break, Mando. There’s no Mythosaur, you must have imagined it.”

“There is and I didn’t,” his grip loosened, and you took the opportunity to throw another stone. “Fucking quit that attitude now,” he warned you, grabbing you by both of your wrists, your hands flush against the beskar breastplate.

Your pelvis was sweetly pressed against his, your thighs touching his. Even with the beskar pieces, you could feel all his edges, his― Shit. His manhood resting just above where slick heat was gathering in your core.

You laughed to release your own tension ― your head snapping back, exposing your neck to his eyes.

“Oh, wow. You’re serious,” you managed to say between laughs, ignoring how close you were to him. Ignoring how wet your pussy was.

“Of course I am. You don’t unders―”

The sound of water abruptly moving forced both of you to look in the direction of the pond. Something enormous had risen, taking up the whole airspace, and water cascaded down its sides.

You froze in place, your mind rushing to come to terms with what you were seeing, as you looked at the gigantic figure towering above you. The water kept falling, so you couldn’t really make the shape of the monster underneath. But in that moment, you knew Mando had not imagined jack shit. The Mythosaur was real. Very real.

Mando pushed you back and put himself between you and the imminent danger. Above his shoulder, you saw horns sticking out and a big pair of eyes staring you down. Its skin was covered in scales and small horns, giving it a very reptilian appearance. The Mythosaur was massive beyond comprehension, and you could not, for the life of you, visualise it being tamed or, worse, ridden.

Time stilled and so did the beast. Its eyes were transfixed on you ― no, on Mando. As if they were measuring each other up, as if they were communicating somehow. Since that was impossible, it was obvious you were imagining things.

Before any of you could react, your heart pounding manically and your breath hitching, the beast went back down below the water level, and a massive wave dashed towards you. Within a matter of seconds, the Mythosaur was gone, and you and Mando were soaked to the bones.

Mando reacted before you did, turning around and forcing you to walk back.

“Let’s go, now! Move!”

In the safety of your bed, after a hot, steamy shower, you let your mind drift back to the moment in time where Mando had held you close to his chest earlier that day. How your body had unwillingly behaved to his closeness, how you ached for him to reach below your hips, right between your thighs…

With a soft moan, you gave in to the desire that had been pooling low in your belly for a while now. Your fingers dipped under your underwear, finding that sweet bundle of nerves in your wet slit. Your index tapped at your clit a few times until you stroked it ― electricity shooting up your spine.

That felt so good, you did it again and again and again, while your brain came up with different scenarios where Mando was giving you hell. With half-lidded eyes and lips parted, you smothered the beating nub with your thumb, two other fingers finding the entrance to your pussy and submerging in your wet heat.

You picked up a relentless pace, imagining they were Mando’s thick fingers, as the first orgasm in a long while started to build up inside you. Your own hand made you whimper, teeth sinking in your bottom lip so hard you almost drew blood. Your back arched involuntarily, stroking your pulsing clit more harshly now, your fingers reaching further in.

The squealing noise of the door opening alarmed you, your orgasm evaporating into thin air. You just about managed to remove your tantalising hand from your panties and throw the duvet above you. Panicking, you looked at the door.

Mando was under the frame, so still you thought he was a statue. You had tried to conceal what you were doing, but the rigidity of his posture told you he had seen enough.

Your cheeks reddened, your face on fire at the realisation of being caught masturbating. By none other than the protagonist of your wet dreams.

“Mando! I told you to fucking KNOCK!” You screamed at him from under the quilt. “You can’t just walk in like that!”

When you didn’t hear the door close ―because you were not expecting an apology from him―, you peeked above the duvet.

The Mandalorian had not moved one inch, and you really feared he had become immobile forever. But the tent on his groin showing through his body stocking told you otherwise.

And then he walked into the room, closing the door behind him. It was the first time he had trespassed the doorframe, you noticed. Butterflies filled your stomach and your lungs as he approached the bed you were lying on, your widened eyes looking for his unsuccessfully ― always unsuccessfully.

Mando didn’t say one word as he removed his gloves, coming to a halt by your side with his shins pressing against the bedframe. When they dropped to the floor, your eyes drifted right up at him, searching for clues, anything that could be crossing his mind.

His naked fingers were the first time you saw his skin, a bit of him. He was real, and he was right in front of you, caressing your cheek. You found yourself closing your eyes and leaning on the palm of his hand ― a tender gesture amidst your unresolved sexual desire.

Mando tilted his head, and you understood. An unspoken petition that you willingly granted. Driven by your lust, you scooted over to the other side of the bed, making room for him, dragging the duvet with you.

“Nuh-uh,” he clicked his tongue as he knelt on the mattress after having kicked his boots.

He yanked the duvet off you, exposing you to him with just your shirt and underwear.

You leaned back against the mountain of pillows and looked at him doe-eyed ― then your sight followed his right hand as it landed on your pubic bone. You pressed your lips into a fine line, swallowing a moan at his touch. His fingertips traced your wet slit over your panties.

“What were you doing, hm?” he husked, his long finger dragging against the garment.

“I, uh… well…” you stammered, unable to look for the words.

“Were you touching yourself?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded.

“Were you close?” a sliver of care transpired through his modulated voice.

“Yes,” you cooed.

“Sorry, mesh’la (beautiful). Let me help you with that,” he offered at the same time his fingers dunked under the waistband of your panties.

You melted into the mattress, audibly moaning, when he stroked you. Your eyes shut to focus on the pleasure his fingers were expertly working on you, sliding through your slit a few times, from your thudding clit to your dripping hole ― your clit hitching between his fingers every time he traced them back up.

He worked your flesh with his bare digits, and after a few minutes, his index and middle fingers went back down to your hot entrance. He tempted you with the tips but didn’t go in ― you were tiptoeing on the precipice of your pleasure.

You whimpered, annoyed.

“Please, Mando―”

“Din. Call me Din, mesh’la,” he hummed, the tip of his finger circling your entrance.

“Please, Din,” you blurted out, eyes flying open and transfixed on his visor, begging.

You let go of a pitiful groan when Din―you liked how his name rolled off your tongue―finally gave you what you wanted, what you needed. Two of his thick fingers dove in your seeping pussy, slightly parting your walls in preparation―hopefully, if you were lucky―for his dick.

First slow, then a devilish rhythm his fingers imparted on you. The orgasm quickly built up again, Din’s dexterity beckoning you to climb to the hilltop. And you did, you let yourself feel all the pleasure he was giving you until it was too much, your clit raw and overstimulated by his precise thumb. You reached the top of the mountain and jumped into the abyss underneath. The wave of your climax washed over your, drowning you ― your cunt spasming around his fingers while your knees pressed together.

When you opened your eyes again, all tearful due to immensity of your frenzy, you were relieved to find that Din had released his throbbing erection through the zipper in his body stocking―you didn’t have the patience right now to unclasp all the armour pieces, you needed him now.

The sight of his engorged dick made your mouth water. The girth and the length of it should have made you flinch, but instead it made your pussy wet itself a bit more. It had the perfect size to fill your insides to the brim. Din’s hand moved up and down on his shaft, slowly pumping himself although he was already hard.

You lifted your hand towards his manhood, and he removed his to let you touch him ― for a second you were fascinated by the soft swaying of his cock. Then you wrapped your fingers around it and Mando grumbled, sitting on his heels, manspread for you as a tasty offering. He was a sight to see ― knelt and sat on his heels on the mattress, fully clothed, helmet on, armour hugging his body, and his erection peeking out through the zipper, leaky and throbbing just for you.

Giving him a few pumps, you looked up at him with a smirk. And before he could complain or stop you, you came closer to him and gave the plump head a lick, then sealed your lips around his leaking glans.

The groan that bubbled up his throat spurred you on to bob your head down, taking half of his pulsing length in your mouth.

Din’s hand tugged at your hair abruptly, pulling you off his twitching dick.

You glanced up at him confused.

“I can’t―I don’t think I can take a blowjob without blowing my load, mesh’la. I need to fuck you now,” he was honest with you.

It was understandable. He had been stuck here for at least eight years, which meant that he had not laid with a woman for at least as long. You would have lost your mind too if someone hadn’t touched you in that time.

“Come on then, fuck me, Din,” you mumbled, laying back down on the pile of pillows so your upper body was propped up.

You spread your legs, making room for him. Din swiftly shifted, dragging himself into position.

It was a fucking sight; one you had been dying to see. And he was finally there, all cozy in between your thighs. He parted your legs, resting the back of your knees on his shoulders. He pushed your panties to a side, leaving you completely exposed.

You couldn’t see, but you knew his eyes were focused on the prize―your damp, puffy folds, clit twitching and hole begging.

“Been wanting some pussy for a while now,” he confessed in a grumble, head tilted back when the tip of his veiny cock slipped up and down your damp furrow.

“Here I am, take what you need.”

How altruistic of you.

His mushroom, precum-covered head caught on your slick entrance and Din bucked his hips a little, only the tip smoothly going in. Your heartrate spiked, your walls imploring for the full length of him to clench on. And then, Din thrusted in harshly, pushing his cock in down to the hilt in one smooth jolt. You both howled in unison at the intrusion ― his a deep, guttural moan, yours a high-pitched one.

Mando held onto your knees on his shoulders as he started with the slow sway of his hips impacting on the back of your thighs, building the perfect pace. His dick dragged along the right spot inside you as he jackhammered you into the pillows, another orgasm gathering in your core. Din’s rhythm became frantic, frenzied, to the point where he had to let go of your knees and lean forward, his hands holding onto the rattling headboard.

Mando fucked you hard, drilling you like a man starved. You could feel him stuffing you full, his hard dick disappearing between your swollen, greedy pussy lips. Reaching up, you held onto his arms above you, fingers wrapping around his elbows. Your body rocked up and down on the bed below him with the force of his unrestrained charges.

Your cunt couldn’t take it anymore ― it contracted around his girth, announcing your second climax, which quickly overtook your senses. With stars in your vision, you wailed his name, now fisting the bedsheets as you came, a never-ending wave making your twitch under him uncontrollably.

“Fuck, I… Fuck,” he growled, his hips bucking and stuttering erratically at the sight of your fucked-out expression.

He was close, you knew by the way his dick constantly pulsed inside you ― he just needed a bit of prodding. That was your signal to clench your walls around him, squeezing him as hard and snug as you could, clamping on his thudding cock, never wanting to let him go.

That was his undoing ― you felt Din’s warm, thick spend painting your inner walls, his steely cock convulsing with the last waves of his release.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Din between your legs, his dick still buried inside you as it softened. The inside of his visor was fogged up and you doubted he could see much.

“I didn’t mean to come inside, I was gonna pull out―”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off. He didn’t need to worry about that.

His helmet tilted, but whatever question lingered in his mind, he didn’t ask.

His thumb lightly pressed your relaxed clit with gratitude, massaging it softly, before he pulled out and your pussy released his shaft. That gentle stroke ignited your nerve endings, slowly coming back to life. His thumb then went down, gathering the cum your pussy was releasing, and shoved it back inside you.

You bit your bottom lip to stop a needy moan.

“Wanna go again?” you asked, grinning. Offering.

Din laughed. He fucking laughed. You had never heard him laugh before.

“Sure do, but I need a minute, mesh’la.”

Every night for the next two weeks Din found himself stranded in the corridor leading to your room, like a lost, thirsty man looking for water in the harsh desert of Tatooine.

The internal struggle was always the same ― he shouldn’t seek you because, after all, you were his prisoner. You were stuck here with him because he had forced you to, giving you no other choice. Sure, he had not imposed his presence on you―quite the opposite, in fact―but it still seemed wrong to take advantage of you like that.

But then he would see you come out of your room, almost as if you knew he was marooned there, and would approach him with caution. Willingly you would take his hand and lead him to your nest, erasing any doubts he could have about your eagerness. You were as keen as he was ― fucking had become an entertaining pastime. And a calming balm for the beast within.

It was the same dance every night, without failure. And tonight had been no different, except for the hushed “I want you so badly, Din” that had dropped from your parted lips as you rode the last wave of your orgasm, a blissful expression softening your features.

As he stood outside of your door, back towards it, Din wondered what you had truly meant. Was it just a benign slip of tongue or was there something else behind it? He hoped for the first, because he couldn’t afford the second.

Feeling something―anything―was out of the question. Even if he wanted to, didn’t matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t. Elsbeth had cursed him to an eternity of apathy, and it had worked ― over the curse of the last eight years, Din’s feelings had dimmed, diminished and then disappeared, while his inner monster became more powerful, feeding off his emotions like a leech sucking blood out of its host. Mando had tried to feel to keep the beast at bay ― would even make the droids try to anger him in silly competitions, but the dull sense in his chest just grew bigger and bigger, like a tumour rotting his entrails.

Din couldn’t remember what happiness felt like ― he had a barren wasteland for a heart. So cold were his insides, he even thought all his organs were covered in beskar. That was what brought him back to your room every night ― your warmth, how it would seep through the cracks of his skin, warming up a part of him that he thought dead.

Tonight, he had allowed himself to really feel your body against his ― helmet still on of course, you both had been stripped naked for the first time, your skin rubbing his, heating him up. Whether he would admit it or not, he craved you. Yearned for your warmth.

With a shake of his head, his feet finally unglued from your doorstep and sauntered towards the west wing. A single light at the end of the corridor twinkled, snuffing out the moment he stepped below it.

He swung the door open to a room he had not visited in a very long while. Din preferred to pay no mind to the source of his emotional detachment, but Nau’ul’s words had been nagging him for weeks now, an annoying reminder scratching the back of his brain.

“It dims more and more every day, Alor. The Darksaber is losing its glow.”

He had to see for himself.

The room should have been dark if it wasn’t for the light the Darksaber’s blade emitted. Din trudged towards the display stand in the middle of the empty space, where the Darksaber rested under a glass case. Two metal, U-shaped pins held the Darksaber upright.

An electrifying, white glow encased the black blade, but it was certainly fainter than what he remembered. Significantly fainter. It had taken him a few years to understand that the Darksaber was the vessel of his curse ― as his feelings dwindled and the beast grew fonder of control, so did the light of the Darksaber. He was not sure though about which one caused the other to wither away.

As he stared at it, Din pondered what would happen the day the light from the Darksaber would flicker away. Morgan had died before he could fully understand the idiosyncrasies of his malediction. At first, the frustration of the unknown had only driven him mad, especially when the full moons would bloom on the night sky, leaving him at the mercy of his curse.

The first time he had transformed, bathed by the white light of Concordia, Din thought he was dying. The burning sensation, the bones breaking and fusing back together, the stretch of his skin, the blood becoming cold in his veins and his mind spiralling out of control… He hadn’t died, but he sure wished he did. Only at dawn was he able to gain back control, so exhausted he just laid on the dirt near the Civic Center for an entire day before finding his way back to the royal prison.

Only with the insight of time did he decide it did not matter. The end was the end, and if that was the way, then he would greet it.

Din sighed, his eyes dry under the helmet. Looking around and knowing himself on his own, he carefully removed his helmet, wincing in agony, and placed it on top of the glass case. He pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose in an attempt to clear his mind, one hand resting on the glass.

Eyes shut for a long minute, he ended up fluttering them open. His reflection greeted him ― a terrible, gruesome sight, a face he almost didn’t recognise anymore. The scar that ran from the left of his chin diagonally to his right temple had distorted his features ― his chin slightly dented, the left corner of his mouth raggedy, the flesh on his upper left cheek mildly sunken around the scar, his crooked nose even more angular and his split eyebrow giving him a permanent frown. And then his right eye, completely blinded with a white discolouration covering his iris and pupil.

He could still feel the blade of the Darksaber melting his beskar helmet as Morgan pressed it against him. It hadn’t completely cut through the Mandalorian alloy, but the fire filtering through had burnt his skin, leaving an everlasting imprint on his face.

Din remembered the heat, the panic building up and the sizzling sound of his skin as it thawed like ice under the sun. The smell of burnt skill still haunted him sometimes when the helmet became too overwhelming.

The damaged tissue was thick but extremely sensitive ― every time he pulled the helmet off his head, the fabric inside would drag against the scar tissue, making him flinch in pain.

Shaking his head to release his mind from such memories, Din stared at the Darksaber for longer than intended, lost in his train of thought. For the first time in ages, he wanted to know if the curse could ever be broken.

Until you meet your Maker once more.

That had a pretty definite sentence to it. Death was the only way out.

“I didn’t see you last night,” you mumbled, repressing the need to add an ‘again’ to the end of your sentence.

You had noticed that there were certain nights when Mando would vanish, wouldn’t visit you at all. You wouldn’t see him in the morning either and if you asked any of the droids, they were as evasive as their master.

You still didn’t know why and every time you prodded him about it, his answer was…

“Had stuff to take care of.”

You sighed, pressing your lips into a thin line. The idea of slapping him had its appeal.

“Are we still going?” you quickly changed subject, not wanting to be disappointed with him today. “I’ve not really asked you for anything in the three months I’ve been here.”

You watched his gloved fingers drum on the metallic surface, helmet tipped to one side as he considered your words. You wanted to believe that in the time you both had spent together, Din’s undaunted façade had softened a bit. His replies had become less snappy, his posture slightly more relaxed, and his hands way more caring as they canvassed your skin every night.

An invisible force had been towing you towards him, his gravitational pull irresistible. Din Djarin was a challenge to you, a puzzle you had started putting together. He strived so hard to remain indifferent, it was now an exciting game to make him feel. The only downfall? You were falling for him. Perhaps him being the only man to walk this planet had something to do with it, you had no other options. Also, you knew that fucking the brains out of each other every night would eventually lead you here.

Considering that you had a lifetime to spend on this world, letting yourself feel for Mando was something you could afford. And even if he didn’t want to show it, you were positively sure he was not as apathetic towards you as he let on.

“Alright. I don’t see the harm,” he accepted.

You mumbled a “yes!” with a smile crooking your lips as you pushed the chair back to stand up.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

You rushed out of the room to run to yours and change. The winter was receding, but the cold was still bitter and nippy, so you decided to put on appropriate gear. A few minutes later, you darted towards the lift, where Din was already waiting.

Couldn’t help yourself, you had to smile at him, the softness of your grin reaching your eyes.

Din cleared his throat, face facing forwards to avoid your orbs meeting his.

The way down in the elevator was soundless, but you had grown used to his silence treatment. The short journey to the crashing site was as tranquil as the trip down the lift. Mando was truly a man of few words.

When you caught a glimpse of your T-65B X-wing starfighter, you overtook Din and ran towards it in excitement.

“Careful there! The ground is slippery, you’re gonna―”

Before Mando could finish his warning, you recreated what his next words were going to be: you slipped on an icesheet. Waving your arms so you wouldn’t lose your footing, you ended up falling face first. You managed to partially stop the fall with your hands. The rocks underneath slashed your winter trousers, cutting your left shin.

By the time Din had gotten to your side, you had already stood up.

“You okay?” he asked with worry in his voice.

You nodded, smirking at the preoccupation he was showing.

“Yeah,” you lied. If he knew you had hurt yourself, you would be turning around and returning home empty-handed.

“Be more careful, will you? The ship ain’t going nowhere,” he snarled once he knew you were fine.

You rolled your eyes at him before strolling to the aircraft. Your old X-wing had seen better days ― the glass of the cockpit was smashed; vegetation had grown over the body. Moss covered most of it, painting it green instead of white. When you peeked inside the cabin, you realised it was flooded, all electrics wet. It was truly done for ― if you ever had any hope of leaving this planet, it would not be aboard your X-wing.

Din stood watch as you foraged for the item you were here for. After a few minutes, you located the star compass under the seat in the cockpit, drenched. Looking over your shoulder to see where Mando was, you opened the compass and water leaked everywhere. The black lodestone was static, unmoving ― maybe it just needed to dry off. Despite how damaged it was, you hoped it would still work. You were not planning on using it, obviously, but it was a reminder of your old life, one that now seemed very far away.

You couldn’t say you missed your previous life. The constant travelling had taken a toll on you in the last few years, having almost lost sight of searching for the Darksaber. Now that your feet were back down on the ground, gravity keeping you centred, this new life was not so bad after all.

“You found it?”

“Yeah!”

You quickly clasped the lid back down and jumped out of the cockpit. Perhaps you had lied to Din about what you were really looking for, but something in you told you not to tell the truth. So, when he asked you that morning why you wanted to go back to the shipwreck, you simply lied, telling him you were looking for your family’s locket ― a relic that had been passed down for generations.

The object was small enough to pass for one. You waved it at him quickly, not really showing it to him, before you shoved it in one of the pockets in your vest. Luckily Din didn’t ask for it, otherwise he would have realised it was made of beskar.

“Let’s go back then.”

“You’re bleeding,” Din’s fingers grabbed you by the elbow, yanking you back before you crossed the door to your room.

You looked down, having forgotten about the wound on your leg. You shrugged, downplaying it.

“It’s nothing, I’ll just take care of it now.”

“Like hell you are,” he growled with clenched teeth while dragging you inside.

He only let go of your elbow when you were by your unmade bed. Din stopped right in front of you, hands on hips. He nodded to you, commanding you to remove your trousers so he could see.

Your eyes rolled in frustration and clicked your tongue.

“It’s fine, Din. Don’t worry about it,” you dismissed him with a wave of your hand.

“I’ll decide if I have to worry or not.”

And, without prompt, he pulled down your trousers in a swift movement, leaving your legs bare. You huffed but let him help you out of them and remove your boots. Mando signalled you to sit on your bed and so you did. Din knelt in front of you, grabbing your hurt leg by the ankle until your heel was resting on his bent knee.

He inspected the wound for a minute after having removed his gloves. His fingertips burnt your skin where they ghosted over it.

“It’s not too deep, just a scratch.”

“I told you it was nothing. You have some unresolved trust issues, Din,” you joked, slightly leaning back with the heels of your hands flat on the mattress.

You couldn’t see but knew his eyes squinted under the visor.

“I’ll go get something to clean it. Wait here.”

Mando walked out and you took the chance to remove the uncomfortable coat. A minute later, he had returned with a clean rag and a small container with lukewarm water. He knelt in front of you again, grabbing your leg, and dutifully cleaned the wound.

You couldn’t help but sigh at the feathery touch of his fingers on the back of your knee. His proximity was enough to lighten your need for him. Also, being only in your underwear and a shirt while he was knelt between your legs did not help at all. Your imagination was already running wild ― and so your legs parted slightly, almost involuntarily.

Din’s attention shifted from the wound to your core. He tried to hide he was being distracted, but the helmet kept tilting to one side so he could have a better look at where your thighs met.

You chewed on your bottom lip, slick warmth pooling in between your legs.

“Din,” you hushed his name, your hand searching his so he would stop cleaning the wound.

The Mandalorian didn’t need much prodding after that. He towered above you rising to his feet, his hips at your eye level. You knew he was hard already, so couldn’t ignore the call of the siren.

With rigid steps, he walked towards the chest and placed the container dow. He scrunched the rag so the water dripped back into it. Soon enough, he was in front of you again, clean rag on hand.

“Do you trust me, mesh’la?” his modulated voice was low and husky.

You nodded vehemently.

“I want to try something different this time,” he murmured, the rag twisting in his hands. “But you gotta promise me you’ll behave for me.”

“I will,” you promised, breath hitching in anticipation.

“I’m going to blindfold you and remove my helmet. But I have only two ground rules: you can’t take it off and you can’t touch my face. At all. No excuses. Are we clear?”

A rush of lustful excitement ploughed through your veins. You found yourself nodding again, your neck hurting.

“Use your words, cyar’ika (beloved).”

“Yes. Crystal clear, Din,” you mumbled, widened, almost adoring eyes staring at him. You hadn’t missed the endearment term, although he seemed to not have noticed.

“Good,” he curled one finger at you.

You sat back up, hands laced on your lap patiently waiting as Din blindfolded you with the damp rag. He secured it with a very tight knot on the back and made sure three times that it would not go anywhere.

“If you break your promise, I’ll have to kill you,” the threat was very real, not even a hint of joke in it.

Your mouth went dry and your clit irremediably pulsed ― your pussy was already wet and warm for him. You shouldn’t get off on a death threat, but apparently Din could reduce you to a slick mess just like that.

“I-I won’t remove it. You have my word. Please.”

“Be a good girl for me and lay down on your back,” he commanded you and you happily obliged.

Your heartrate spiked as you heard Din discarding the beskar pieces over his body stocking. Maybe you were too eager, but he was taking too damn long. Then a hissing sound told you his helmet was gone.

This was fucking torture. You wanted to see him, to see the face of the man who made you wet with just a few words. It was cruel of him to impose something like this on you, such a prohibition. However, you understood what his Creed entailed and respected it.

Hated yourself right now for respecting it, but you did.

Din placed his hands on the back of your knees and lifted your legs up, the soles of your feet resting on either side of his naked hips. The warm palms of his hands caressed your ankles, massaging them briefly, before travelling up your calves and inner thighs, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

Unceremoniously, his fingers curled around the hem of your panties and pulled them down your legs; you couldn’t see but were sure he had thrown them away.

The Mandalorian exhaled audibly the moment his hands landed on your knees and pulled your legs apart. You squirmed, knowing he was devouring you with his eyes.

“Din, please, just―” you whimpered, moany and needy, anticipating.

“Shush. Don’t be so impatient, mesh’la,” he chastised you while stepping back.

That was the first time you listened to his real, manly voice. It was deep and raspy, surly yet sweet.

Your feet, no longer supported on his hips, dropped to the ground.

“Go on your fours,” he talked you through the position he wanted you in as you obeyed. “Now lean down, rest that pretty face of yours on the mattress for me.”

With your perky ass up in the air, you felt very exposed with your inner thighs pressed together and framing your swollen pussy like a pretty picture just for him.

One of his fingers traced your wet slit and you had to stop yourself from wiggling your hips until his finger was partially inside you.

“Look at her, all drippy and puffy for me. She knows what’s coming, doesn’t she? That’s why she’s so fucking wet,” he hummed, shuffling behind you.

You couldn’t see him, but you were damn sure he was on his knees at the feet of the bed.

Din placed his hands on your ass cheeks and parted them, the skin in your sticky furrow stretching while his thumbs caressed your labia. Your cunt was on full display, and you could feel the cold air of the room against your damp, sensitive skin.

“At last, I can claim her as mine,” Din whispered, his hot breath fanning on your pussy now, sending shivers up your spine.

You moaned, finally understanding what was coming.

He didn’t keep you waiting. Din’s tongue lapped your whole pussy in one go and your entire body trembled at the wet touch, his beard prickling your skin. Covering your mouth, you swallowed a pitiful whimper while your eyes rolled to the back of your skull. Mando’s broad hands squeezed your ass, grounding you, as he leaned forward again to drink from the fountain of your pleasure.

His tongue dipped in your creamy slit and stroked it slowly, deliberately loitering around your clit, but never really paying it much attention. He kissed your swollen lips, making out with them as if they were your mouth, the tip of nose intimately caressing your perineum. With the help of his fingers, he splayed open your quivering cunt, your hole accessible to the apex of his mischievous tongue.

Din licked you for minutes on end, ignoring your pulsing clit on purpose. The tension inside you coiled almost uncomfortably, so intense it would snap at any given moment. His devilish persuasion was relentless, more so when he would introduce his tongue in your very core.

You bucked your hips against his mouth, grinding. Desperate.

“Din, please, please, here,” you begged, slipping one of your hands down your belly and in between your legs.

You parted your slippery pussy lips, your clit hitching between them, showing him exactly where you wanted his goddamn tongue.

“Here, please,” you insisted, teary-eyed, at the edge of your patience.

“So impatient, mesh’la,” he chuckled behind you, still on your fours for him.

Finally, his lips latched onto your clit, and you whined out loud, pure elation running through your veins at the sweet suckling of his mouth. His teeth grazed the sensitive nub, and you saw stars behind your eyes, head slightly tilted backwards as you mewled until your throat felt raw.

Din sucked on your clit harshly at the same time two of his thick fingers found their way to your oozing hole. You screamed a resounding “fuck” at the perfect intrusion. The combination of his tongue and his digits were more than what your nervous system could take. Lick, pump, lick, pump ― the perfect rhythm making your toes curl, your pussy clench and your clit set ablaze.

The whole pussy-eating-from-the-back situation was too much ― his fingers ever so tantalising, you surrendered. Rubbing your cunt against his mouth, you moaned his name as the best orgasm of your life almost rendered you unconscious. You came on his mouth while Din just sipped from you, drinking all your discharge as if it was the last drops he would ever taste.

You could only hear your heart beating in your eardrums, all your senses overwhelmed. You were so out, you had almost forgotten the rag blindfolding you.

“You’re gonna come again for me, mesh’la,” only then did you realised his fingers were still inside you.

You panted, gathering your thoughts.

“I don’t think I can,” you mumbled, entranced.

“Oh, you can and you will,” he groaned, accepting the challenge.

And with that, his wicked lips pressed against your cunt, and he started all over again. As it turned out, he was fucking right. His tongue and his fingers were working you so well, there was no way you could resist. However, this time, there weren’t two fingers stuffed in your whole, but four. Your walls were so outstretched it should have been painful, but it wasn’t ― he had made sure to get you ready, pliant under his dutiful care.

“I wonder if you could take him. Bet you could,” Din whispered in a moment of respite.

“Huh?”

All thoughts dispersed when the second climax spread across your entire body, leaving you exhausted; a pitiful, sweaty mess on the bedsheets.

“Turn around and lay down. I’m gonna fuck you stupid,” the crudeness of his words should have made you frown but instead you smiled, completely blissed out.

Din made good on his promise. On your back and with your legs parted, you heard him moving around until he was between your thighs. Then he leaned forward, his hands on either side of your shoulders to keep his weight off you, and his hard shaft dove inside your cunt with no resistance. When he bottomed out, he snapped his hips back and then forth, until he was rutting into you like a man on death row.

Your hands held onto his back, your nails digging in his skin. You wanted to move them up and sink them in his hair so badly, your palms were itchy with longing. He had said you couldn’t touch his face; he hadn’t said anything about his hair. Hoping he wouldn’t notice your intentions, your hands drifted up his back, arriving at the nape of his neck.

So close to burying your hands in his hair, so fucking close…

“Don’t,” he growled at you, the snapping of his hips against yours unforgiving. “The fucking audacity. I. said. don’t. fucking. touch,” he punctuated every word with deep, sharp thrusts.

You winced and gasped at the depth of his dives, your mouth shaping a perfect O, back arched off the mattress below you. Every stab of his dick kissed your cervix, and you just couldn’t stop moaning uncontrollably. The mild pain quickly blossomed into ecstasy; your skin electrified with pleasure.

Suddenly you felt his mouth ghosting over yours; his unfiltered, gruffy grunts were music to your ears. You reached up, wanting to steal a kiss from him to taste his lips for the first time, but he slithered back.

“You don’t respect boundaries, do you?” Din rumbled.

His voice should have had a tinge of anger, but instead it sounded… amused?

“You have had a taste of me, it’s only fair I get something in return, Din,” you bargained breathlessly, but got no reply. “Please?”

Imploring for a measly kiss from your captor while he kept on fucking you. That had to be a new low in your book.

You couldn’t see him as he jackhammered you into the mattress, but knew he was debating. Whatever inner debate he had, the side you were banking on won.

“You keep your hands on my back at all times. Yes?” One of his hands moved to your neck, his dextrous fingers wrapping around your throat. “Or I’ll―”

“Kill me. I know. Elek, Alor (yes, Master),” you whispered in Mando’a, breath hitching.

His mouth came crashing down on yours, teeth colliding in a very messy kiss. His tongue sought yours with fervour and sucked it into his mouth. He tasted like you.

You couldn’t help but moan in midst of the sloppy kiss, your heart finally content at his small yet meaningful surrender. The grip of his hand around your neck softened but didn’t dissolve, adding another layer of excitement to his unabating thrusts.

“Gar serim, cyar’ika (that’s it, beloved). You’re so good, so fucking good for me. Warm, tight pussy always ready for me when I need her. She never disappoints,” he maundered, your brain spiralling with his praise.

Praising your cunt, not actually you, but you would take anything he would give you.

A few minutes later, the breathy groans of your making out along with the squelching sounds of your lust filled the air, quickly followed by the loud moans announcing your climaxes. Your cunt clamped on Din’s dick―a promise you’d never let him go―and he blew his load inside you. The tackiness of his cum filled your insides as his cock pulsed one last time and his lips pecked yours.

Din dropped to your side, panting with exhaustion, and you just laid there pondering all the decisions that had taken you there.

You’d never let him go.

When the fuck did that happen?

“How long does winter last here?”

“A good part of the year, around six months,” he replied dryly.

He was aware of the fact that you had been trying to get words out of him for the past week. Make conversation, talk about his story, his past, his interests. See if there was any common ground between you. But Din couldn’t bring himself up to actually share personal details.

And every time you tried, and he would dodge your attempts, he would see the disappointment painted across your face. And every time, something unknown would uncomfortably stir within him. He suspected you had started to harbour feelings for him ― and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t reciprocate you. Didn’t want to break your heart.

It was his fault, really, for seeking you out every night. You were so giving and him so greedy, he just mindlessly took what you offered without giving you anything in return except for a few orgasms and a good time.

“What did you do last winter? Bet it was boring being home with just the droids…”

Din knew very well what answer you were expecting: It was. Your presence has been a great improvement. You make my days―and nights―more bearable.

But instead, he shrugged.

“Dunno. Kept myself busy with stuff,” he muttered frugally.

He kept on walking before you, making the way back home after a quick stroll around to breathe some cold, fresh air.

The Mandalorian did not expect to be attacked by a snowball, which hit the back of his helmet. He quickly turned around.

“What the hell are you―?”

Before he could finish his question, you hit him again with another snowball, dead centre on his visor.

“You are such a prick, Din Djarin,” you snapped between gritted teeth, patting another snowball between your gloved hands. “Would it actually kill you to be a bit more open, hm?”

This time he saw the attack coming and was able to duck, avoiding the next snowball.

“Are you mad?”

“Yes, I’m mad, you fucking idiot!” you yelled at him, trudging forwards with another snowball on hand. “I’m mad for you, but either you’re fucking blind or you’re a cold-hearted jerk.”

Little did you know he was actually blind in one eye, but it didn’t seem to be the time to point it out.

The sudden love confession caught him off guard. You were not supposed to say that. You were not supposed to feel that way, not for him.

Din remained calm as you cut the distance and tried to smash the fourth snowball on his covered face. His fingers gripped your wrist before you were able to do so.

“You’re just confused, mesh’la. All the sex is blindsiding you, but you really don’t feel anything for me,” he reasoned.

You looked at him as if he had slapped you and took a step back.

“Of course, because you, the freaking Tin Man with a dead heart, know better than myself how I feel. Un-fucking-believable, honestly. Go fuck yourself, Din,” you scoffed, pushed him to one side and walked past him.

Din saw you disappear through the sliding door, while he stood there in disbelief.

What the fuck had just happened?

You kind of expected Din not to show up at your door tonight, but his absence in your bed stung either way. Sure, you had told him to go fuck himself, but now with a new―horny―perspective, you would prefer if he fucked you instead.

Infuriated with him, yourself and the situation, you sat back up on your empty bed. You reached for the drawer in your nightstand and opened it, grabbing the star compass inside. Fidgeting with the aurodium clasp, you wondered why the fuck Din didn’t open up. After three months and a half with him, you had thought you had been able to break through his armour ― the figurative one, not the real one.

Every time you tried to talk about your relationship with him, Din would shut you out or wouldn’t even engage in the conversation at all. He was more stubborn than a falumpaset, and that was saying something. Despite his indifference, you believed that, deep down in that cold, dead heart of his, he cared for you. Maybe he didn’t love you, but at least cared for you.

You didn’t even know if you loved him, anyway. Infatuated was, most probably, more accurate, you’d like to think. Most days you pushed that thought to the remotest corner of your mind, not wanting to consider it. Because, after all, you were his prisoner ― you might forget it some days, but the reality was that Din Djarin was your captor. So maybe it wasn’t love ― perhaps it was just a survival mechanism. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Amid your pondering, you almost didn’t realise that the hands of the compass had moved, and the lodestone was humming, the plasma inside slowly swirling around. Your heart jolted in your ribcage, almost dropping to your stomach, when you finally paid it attention.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, jumping out of bed.

You had hoped it would work once it fully dried, but you were not expecting it to be actually functioning. It seemed to sense the Force emitted by the Darksaber, but that couldn’t be possible. If the Darksaber was here, in Mandalore, Din would know―would have told you. Right?

No, he wouldn’t have.

With that thought in mind, you put on some more decent clothes and cracked open your door. Carefully, you peeked in the corridor to confirm the coast was clear. It was close to midnight, so you hoped everyone―Din and the droids―would have gone to rest.

Tiptoeing through the hallway, you followed the path the star compass was pointing to, only to find yourself in the west wing after a few minutes. You knew you shouldn’t be here, but the compass hummed louder, vibrating on the palm of your hand, as you turned another corner. Looking up from your family’s relic, you saw a door at the end of the hallway.

“BEEP BEEEEEEEEEEEEP BOOP! BIP! PIP!” Din’s astromech robot, an old R2-D2 unit, screeched at you loudly, skidding and coming to a halt in front of you. It even had a red light flashing at you.

You almost threw your heart up there and then, the little robot giving you the biggest scare of your life.

“CA’NARA!” you told him off as your heartrate slowed down. “Fucking hell, you almost killed me, little devil.”

“BEEP! PIPIPIPI!” the droid beeped at you, going around you in circles.

“I know I shouldn’t be here, sorry!” you whispered, “I-I’m a sleepwalker!”

Ca’nara seemed to calm down, only for Nau’ul to appear in scene.

Great, fucking great.

“Ca’nara, what’s going on?” the protocol droid turned the corner, almost bumping into you. “Oh! What are you doing here?”

“I- Uhm, I was just telling Ca’nara that I’m a sleepwalker. He literally just woke me up. I didn’t mean― you know I cause no trouble, Nau’ul,” you pleaded with the affable droid.

“Of course, of course,” he took a couple of stiff steps back. “What’s that on your hand?”

Fuck. You looked down, coming up empty with a lie.

“I don’t know. I literally just woke up, I don’t know where I got it from,” you stammered a bit, but the droid didn’t pick up on it.

“I’ll take it. Alor will know what it is and where it belongs,” Nau’ul extended his hand towards you.

If you didn’t give it up, it would arouse suspicion. So, unwillingly, you passed it on to him.

“Where’s he?” the question slipped your tongue before you could refrain.

“Alor is… indisposed, miss. He needs to rest,” he replied cryptically as you both walked back to the main corridor where your bedroom was.

“Indisposed? Is he sick? Is he okay?” you instantly worried.

“He’ll be better in the morning, fret not,” he paused in front of your room, and you opened the door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Nau’ul,” you mumbled before closing the door behind you.

What a varping disaster. Nau’ul had confiscated your star compass, which meant that Din would eventually see it. If it came to it, you were not sure what you would do. And you still didn’t know what was in that room, why the compass had gone crazy as you approached it. But you had a pretty good idea. Chances were, the Darksaber was on the other side of that door at the end of the west corridor.

Sighing, you sauntered towards the big window in your room. Two perfectly aligned full moons dominated the night sky, their white, sparkly glow bouncing off the walls. It was a beautiful sight.

Something in the path below caught your attention. A metallic reflection. Your eyes drifted down just in time to see Din running towards the Civic Center, as if a thousand ghosts were on his heels.

You frowned, confused. Where was he going at this witchy hour? Wasn’t he sick?

A scary thought formed in your head. Were you under attack? Had Ash come looking for you after several weeks without returning his messages?

Heart pounding with worry, you darted to the door and then the lift. Whatever threat was coming, you would face it with him. With such resolution in mind, you followed his trail.

Your concern for him skyrocketed when you arrived at the Civic Center and saw nothing but pieces of his armour scattered around. You snatched the shin and thigh armour off the steps to the main door, only to look up and find more bits spread around the entryway.

This made no sense at all. Why would Din dispose of his armour? Something was wrong, very wrong, but you were not under attack.

You gathered all the armour pieces in your arms while calling his name but heard nothing except the whistling of wind passing through cracks and crannies.

Suddenly, you felt the need to look down the stairs to the Living Waters. A hunch rooting in your core, wrapping around your heart. Then a faint, painful growl came from underneath and all your senses flared alive.

What was Din doing down there? In the Mythosaur’s lair?

Panic hiked up your throat as you hiked down the stairs, the animalistic snarl louder now as you drew nearer. At the bottom of the steps, eyes fixed on your shoes, you dared to glance up.

His armour fell from your arms on to the ground, clattering. You were not prepared to see what you found.

Din was half curled up on the floor, naked and dragging himself towards the water. Only he was way bigger ― almost seven feet tall, his body much more muscular with chiselled, blueish veins across the whole of him, hands big as paws with his nails digging the dirt underneath.

You took a step forward, catching a better glimpse of him. Then you truly saw ― his skin had a viridescent tint to it and had started to scale. Rugged lumps raised from the skin on his back, tiny bones protruding through. No, not bones ― small horns, like those of a reptile.

Not like a reptile. Like a Mythosaur. Only smaller than the beast you saw a few weeks ago.

With a guttural bellow, he removed his helmet, throwing it to on side as he crawled towards the rippling water. His head was crowned by thick, short, greyish curls ― exactly what you had imagined.

“Din?” you whispered, taking a precautious step towards him, one hand extended in front of you to appease him.

His head snapped around at the sound of your voice.

You gasped at the sight of him. What first struck you was the scar across his face, one that would perfectly line up with the mended crack on his helmet. It ran diagonally through his rugged features, distorting them and hugging that crooked nose. His teeth seemed slightly pointier too. The next thing you noticed were his blown, bloodshot eyes with pupils as big as his sclerae.

Not eyes, one eye ― the right one was completely discoloured, covered in a white sheen.

He still looked like Din, but… not really.

The vision in front of you should have scared you. Even more so when Din stared at you, and you saw nothing in his expression ― he didn’t recognise you. Whoever, or whatever, this was, he wasn’t the man that had kept you company for the last few months.

Logic dictated you should run in the opposite direction. Instead, you propelled forwards towards him, knees skidding on the dirt and landing by his side.

The warm touch of an alien hand grounded him for an ephemeral instant. The bitter cold crawled under his scaled skin, rejecting the heat like a limping animal avoiding the helping hand of a human.

He snarled, creeping back and away from you, as if your mere proximity was a threat to him.

Because it was.

“Din, I’m here, let me help you,” you besought, dragging your knees towards him again.

He didn’t know who Din was. Where he was or had gone. Did he ever exist? The Beast didn’t know―didn’t care. So he growled again, but his futile attempt didn’t keep you at bay. Guessed you had a death wish, only that could explain your blatant refusal to his rejection.

Both your hands fell upon him, like warm blood spilling and enlivening his senses. For once the cold running wild through his veins minimised, giving way to a hot flush that was foreign to him. The sudden warmth surprised him ― but what shocked him the most was how soothing it was, how easy was for him to crave your touch. A primal need.

The Beast had forgotten what warmth was, having been cursed to a lifetime of coldness for as long as he could remember. Crazed by this newfound feeling, he slowly sat back up on the ground, eyeing you like a predator watching his prey.

Your hand reached up to him to cradle his cheek and the Beast closed his eyes, that warm feeling running down his neck, wrapping around his dead yet beating heart.

“You’re so cold,” you mumbled as you cut the distance some more, your chest nudging his side.

Another heatwave flashed through him ― your warmth beckoning, your body too inviting. He wanted to dive in, to let your warmth surround him, make him surrender. He craved it so bad, so fiercely, the Beast bowed down to sink his forked tongue in your mouth ― unannounced, unrequited.

You moaned at the intrusion, your hands lacing on the nape of his neck, and that only spurred him on. He gave in to your warmth and gave up his restraints. Growling, he plundered your mouth as he forced you down onto the ground.

Towering above you, his tongue slipped out of your mouth to graze your neck, and you shivered under him. Biting your chin, he returned to your lips to kiss you, to suck out your warmth to replenish himself. Like a leech he drank from you while his rough, broad hands roamed your body.

“Din,” you mewled.

He didn’t like this Din whose name you were moaning. So he kissed you, not wanting to hear it again and tugged at your clothing. Impatient, he almost tore your garments apart and only relaxed a little when you were completely naked beneath him.

Pressing his bare body against yours, he revelled, soaking in your heat. But there was a part of you that was hotter, and he could sense it ― like a tracking fob, he pursued the warm feeling as he slithered down your frame.

The heat pulsing from between your thighs called him home, hypnotising. You pressed your knees together and he snarled, his sight darting to your glassy, dreamy eyes, silently distraught at your denial.

He leaned down over you to graze one of your nipples, smothering it raw to show you what he could do to you down in your balmy core. His demonstration worked, because the next time he coaxed your legs apart, you showed no resistance.

So down he went on you, fingers splaying out your puffy folds to display the focal point of his desire. Like a thirsty animal his bifid tongue darted out and swept the length of your damp slit in one slow, sweet sweep. He howled into your pussy, besotted, his arms wrapping around your thighs as he devoured your seeping cunt. Warmth poured from your clit, and he latched onto it rather harshly, finally finding the beacon that reeled him in.

“Fuck, that― Mhmm,” whatever you were going to say died in your lips as a moan hitched in your throat and your body trembled.

A rush of liquid fire met his tongue, and he accepted your offering as your thighs quivered around him ― the strength of your release eased slowly, but his tongue didn’t.

His fingers found the warm cave he needed to nestle in. But before he could do that, before his brain got fucked out into oblivion, he had to prepare you to take him. He massaged your leaking entrance one digit at a time until you were sweetly stretched around four of his fingers.

You whimpered with the first pump and slowly you eased into it, into the feeling of being full to the brim. He licked and flicked your throbbing clit, the hot nub driving him wild. Your inner walls tightened, announcing another climax, and he pulled it out of you with his fist still immersed in your pussy.

Once you came down from your high, the Beast unburied from between your thighs and loomed over you. Your half-lidded eyes and fucked-out expression only made him harder, hotter. He hungered for the moment your bodies would connect; the moment he would finally feel only warmth running through his veins. The moment the cold was forgotten, albeit only fleetingly.

The tip of his cock nudged at your pliant entrance, and he trailed the head up and down your dewy furrow a few times. Your eyes blew open the moment he poked at your hole, parting your flesh, and you looked down at his dick kissing the mouth to your cave.

“Din, I don’t think― Oh, holy FUCK,” you mumbled something uncoherent afterwards, head tilted back and your teeth sinking in your bottom lip as your pleading metamorphosed into moaning.

His whole frame blanketed yours as he supported his weight off you by placing his forearms to either side of your head.

Slowly, inch by inch, he buried himself in you, suffocating heat radiating from where you two met. He growled, an animalistic bellow bubbling up his throat as he felt your walls swallowing him, sheathing his throbbing cock. And when he was fully embedded in you, buried almost down to the hilt, you whined as he remained still ― your walls adjusting around him. He was maddened by the warmth of you.

Only when he felt you relax around him, did he start pumping in and out of you. His mind went blank as his sight transfixed on yours and your foreheads touched, another bridge between you. The Beast rutted into you, first paced, then madly, as he stared into your soul. Your body rocked up and down underneath him, your back arched so your nipples caressed the bare skin of his chest.

The movement of water behind him made him look over his shoulder. The Great Mythosaur had resurfaced, only the top of his head and his eyes were above the water table. Watching, ever present and lurking. Eager. Wanting.

He growled at him, a warning to back the fuck down ― he wasn’t sharing you; you were all for himself and himself only. His exclusive prey, no one else’s. With a low rumble, the Great Mythosaur disappeared under the water, and he refocused on you.

Tension built up at the base of his spine, his cock pulsating so hard it was difficult to ignore it any longer. And then your pussy clenched around him as you orgasmed once more, and that inevitably milked him dry ― both of you moaning in unison as ropes of thick, white cum painted your inner walls, leaving a lasting imprint in your core.

The Beast panted above you ― all coldness deserted from his body, destituted by your unique warmth.

He sat back up, his engorged cock leaving your entrails. Through the daze in your eyes, you looked at him with a satisfied grin. As you sat up straight, you lifted one hand towards him, softly placing it on the center of his chest.

“Come back to me, Din,” you begged, and all hell broke loose within him.

The pain, the shearing pain, blinded all his senses as his bones snapped and rearranged again. His jaw clenched to stop the agonising screams hiking up his throat. Din hunkered down as his body adjusted back to normal size.

As grievous as it was, it was over very quickly. Too quickly. He had not fully transformed into the Beast, which meant easing out of it was not as traumatic.

What was traumatic was the sudden landslide of overwhelming feelings taking form inside him. Almost a decade of apathy meant years’ worth of emotions repressed ― emotions that would emerge to the surface if given the opportunity. And whatever you unleashed within him, flooded his brain and his heart.

A myriad of sentiments rushed through him ― joy, anger, hope, disappointment, serenity, desperation. All at once, a cacophony bursting his eardrums. So loud were his emotions, all boiling together inside him, his thoughts were drowned. He couldn’t think ― panic was setting in.

Din panted as his arms and legs trembled uncontrollably, lungs vacating all oxygen in sharp exhales. His ears rang and his heart threatened to climb up his throat and run. Eyes closed shut, he grasped for control.

“Din, I’m here,” your hands slid on his back, grabbing him by the shoulders.

A soothing balm taking many of his worries away. Your palms smoothing out his skin felt like an anchor. One he desperately tried to hold onto.

Through the fog of his anxiety, he saw you knelt by his side, hugging him close. Naked as he was, a sweaty patina clinging to your skin. Although Din had not been in possession of his own body, he had been relegated to the background and had been witness to everything that happened. Forced to watch him take you.

He felt sick to his stomach.

“I’m sorry. I can’t control him, I just―,” he wheezed as he sat back up.

Your soft eyes sparkled, a faint smile curling up your lips. Your fingers snaked through his hair, combing it back.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Din,” you hugged him tighter, reassuring, kissing one of his shoulders.

“Are you hurt? Did I― did he…?”

“I’m completely fine. A bit… sensitive and raw. But in a good way,” you added with a faint chuckle.

The comforting caress of your hand rubbing his back and your lips brushing the skin on his shoulder made him believe you.

Even though the look in your eyes had not changed, he could see the questions dancing in your pupils. Questions you were holding back, but that would eventually spurt out.

Your free hand reached for his left cheek, and he almost flinched at the proximity. Your thumb had come too close to the scar, sending a shot of pain down his neck. But he didn’t lean back away from you. Instead, Din stilled under your touch.

“I knew you’d be gorgeous underneath that helmet,” you whispered, your mouth close to his.

Din grunted, taking your compliment as an offense. Why were you mocking him? He knew how he looked ― he didn’t need you making fun of him for it.

And why was he upset? He shouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Your tiny fingers wrapped around his wrist when he reached for the helmet nearby. You yanked his forearm until his eyes met yours.

“I wasn’t joking. I mean it, Din. Truly,” you husked, hand again on his cheek and thumb too close for comfort.

He couldn’t see a sliver of jest in your features. You were deadpan serious. And that scared him.

Din looked away, coming to terms with the flaring emotions. Emotions. Even the unspoken word tasted weird on his tongue.

You moved away from him to quickly gather your clothes and put them on. Then returned to his side with his armour and clothing.

“Let’s go back home, Din. You look knackered,” you mumbled, kneeling by his side again.

Din didn’t reject your aid when you helped him get dressed again. Taking the helmet between your hands, he bowed down his head so you could put it on for him.

His body ached in places he didn’t even know could hurt ― all the restructuring his bones had to endure always took a physical toll on him. So much so, he needed your help to stand up ― his legs felt like those of a newborn humbaba.

But today… today it also took an emotional toll on him.

He really was exhausted.

You probably needed time to process what had happened tonight, a whirlwind of questions and doubts battered around in your mind. But you didn’t want to leave Din alone, not when he looked so fatigued, a moment away from breaking.

Walking down the silent corridor beside him, arm draped around his waist, you went past your room. You had never been to his and hoped tonight would be the night where he would let you spend it by his side.

Hand heavy on the handle, you pushed it down and the door swung open. You didn’t know what to expect and, somehow, the bareness of his room did not surprise you at all. The metalwork on the walls had been painted black and the furniture was sparse. A massive bed with black bedsheets dominated the room.

Despite the monochromatic theme, it felt cozy, inviting even. Dragging him towards the bed, you gently pushed him down on to the mattress and knelt in front of him to remove his boots.

“I can do it,” his words slurred.

“I know. But let me do it, please,” you muttered, throwing the shoes to one side.

Din hummed in agreement, so slowly you unfastened all the beskar pieces again. Removed the vest underneath and unzipped his body stocking down the side, helping him out of it.

There was something extremely intimate about undressing him. Not with a deprived end in mind, but a caring one.

I could do this forever. Only if you’d let me, the intrusive thought didn’t startle you. Because it was true.

Last, you placed your hands to either side of his helmet to pull it up. By pure instinct, his hands darted up to yours to stop you from uncovering his face.

“It’s okay, Din,” you reassured him softly.

Din crooned again, arms falling to his sides, surrendering, and you took it off, leaving it on the nightstand.

You could truly get used to this; you’d never tire of looking at him. His rugged features, although distorted by the nasty scar, were pleasant. His soft, brown and white eyes, the aquiline nose, the moustache blending in with the beard, the strong jaw. You only saw beauty, no beast.

Mando let himself fall backwards and you stood there by the side of the bed, unsure of what to do with yourself.

He decided for you.

“Stay, please,” he purred, half asleep by the time his head touched the pillow underneath.

He didn’t need to say more. Removing your clothes, you joined him under the bedlinen with a smirk.

The first lights of the morning filtered through the big window in Din’s bedroom. You had been awake for an hour now, but he had been so peacefully sleeping, you didn’t want to disturb him.

A tangled mess of limbs you were, your legs intertwined with his while your right cheek rested on his bare chest. Your left forearm was splayed across his abdomen, the tips of your fingers mindlessly caressing his ribs.

Pressing a kiss to his left pec, he stirred under you, slowly coming out of his slumber. You hugged him tighter, an easy smile surfacing.

“Good morning,” you husked when he looked down at you with just his left eye open, lips slightly curled downwards.

His addled expression made you snicker as you kissed his jawline.

“Morning,” he hushed back once his brain registered your words.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Everything hurts, but I’m okay.”

The arm of his under you moved, bringing you closer to him in a half embrace.

“I know you have questions,” he said a few moments later.

“Understatement of the year,” you joked, lifting your head slightly up to rest your chin on his chest. “Is now a good time?”

“Might as well,” his reply was accompanied by a smirk.

“You didn’t transform fully last night, did you?”

Din shook his head. “No, just halfway. I think your presence stopped it from happening.”

Did that mean that you could soothe the beast? That you could help Din in a way that really mattered? The mere possibility filled your belly with butterflies.

“And, well, the most obvious one… How?” you emphasized the last word.

“A witch cursed me before I killed her,” you looked at him quizzically, eyebrows raised, and he sighed. “A man by the name of Moff Gideon had someone I held dear under his grasp. A kid I was fond of,” he paused to gather his thoughts while your breath hitched at the name of Moff Gideon. “I fought Gideon to free him. I won, but he had backup I did not see coming. A witch named Morgan Elsbeth. She came to his rescue and I ended up killing her. Her last breath cursed me to an existence of apathy and becoming a beast. Guess it worked,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “That was eight years ago and ever since then, my ability to feel has been dying out while the beast has only gotten stronger.”

Your head spun with so much information, you almost felt dizzy. Did Din fight Moff Gideon? Was it his halo you chased eight years ago?

“Is that how you got the crack on your helmet and the scar?” you ventured, heart pounding.

“Mhm,” was his only reply. “How I lost my right eye too.”

The helmet was made of beskar, one of the strongest alloys in the Galaxy. Only a weapon strong enough would be able to melt it. But you couldn’t push him for more details, or it would be suspicious.

And did it really matter? Did you care that much about the Darksaber? Yes, you had spent your whole life looking for it; yes, you had promised your dying father you would finish the mission. But that felt like a lifetime ago.

“What was the kid’s name? What happened to him?”

“Grogu. He is Force sensitive, he went to the Jedi for training,” he pursed his lips, and your fingers smoothed out the crow’s feet around his right eye.

“You miss him,” you hummed, your fingertips tracing imaginary lines on his skin.

“I didn’t think I did. Till now,” he confessed, stirring under you. “I don’t know, it’s weird. Since last night I have started to… feel again. And it’s overwhelming.”

Your heart did a little jump against your ribcage. If he could feel now, did he feel for you?

You were too scared to ask, so didn’t.

“Maybe the curse is fading?”

“Maybe,” he said back, sounding unconvinced. “You hungry?”

You nodded.

“I’ll go get something. Bet Nau’ul has prepared a feast. Whether it’s edible or not, I don’t know.”

You chuckled at the joke and moved off him so Din could get up. In silence, you watched him dress, his back muscles rippling with every movement.

Yes, you could get used to this.

Fuck the Darksaber. Fuck everything. You just wanted to live your life. With him. Here, in Mandalore. Only if he’d let you.

It was selfish of you to think this way, but Din’s curse had become your blessing.

Every night since you discovered his secret, you’d go to his room and spend the hours of darkness with him. He would reluctantly take the helmet off, but each time you would reassure him he couldn’t scare you away, that what he thought he looked like didn’t matter in the slightest. And you meant every single word. In your eyes, he was perfect just the way he was.

There was still the issue of his Creed forbidding him, but you wondered if it was more habit than anything else.

And every full moon, you would follow him down to the Mythosaur lair to let him take you, excitement running through your veins every single time. You knew you shouldn’t enjoy it but allowing him to fuck you in beast form was exhilarating. Even with practice you had still not been able to take him fully ― his cock too big to bear. It was worse when you attempted a blowjob on him ― your jaw almost dislocated. But you were more than happy to try, obviously.

And of course, it helped him regulate, which was the most important point of all. He had told you he didn’t feel as cold either. Even if his body was hot to the touch, Din had explained how his organs, his blood, felt like icicles. Ever since the beast had had a taste of your warmth―Din’s words, not yours―it seemed like his feelings were slowly crawling back.

That had been interesting too. After so many years spent numb, Din had had a bit of trouble dealing with his emotions. Sometimes they were extreme, out of proportion even, but he was learning how to manage them. Although most days felt like one step forward and three back, especially when it was a touchy subject such as love.

You had tried, but Din was still of the idea that he couldn’t truly feel ― that this was just a glitch, a shortcut, but not the real thing. And because of his stupid theory, he didn’t want to hear you say anything about The Matter. You had seen how much he had improved, how much better he could deal with everything, and yet he wouldn’t listen to you in that respect.

You rolled your eyes, still thinking about it, as you trekked through the mud. It was a crispy morning, but the cold had started to recede. Poor Ca’nara had a faulty retractable third leg ― the inside mechanism was getting jammed regularly. You had decided to be proactive and walk to the landing site of your X-wing, in the hopes that some parts of your astromech droid were salvageable. An extremely long shot, yes, but you had to try at least.

In full armour, Din sauntered towards the dining room, where the three droids seemed to be conferring about something.

None of them heard him coming, and Nau’ul startled dramatically when he saw him.

“Oh! Alor! What― Uh, do you want something to eat?” he asked, looking at Mrs. Kri’gee and Ca’nara nervously.

Din frowned, suspicious of their jumpy, evasive behaviour.

“No, I’m fine,” he mumbled as his eye caught a glimpse of something shiny Nau’ul was holding, trying to conceal it. “What’s that?”

“Ah, this? Well. You see, I― It’s― Nothing really. I don’t really know what―” his stammering was riling Din up.

He was a damn droid, not a fucking human. How could Nau’ul get edgier than himself? Unbelievable.

“Give,” he extended his hand towards the droid, palm up, and curled his fingers with impatience.

The three droids shared weird looks, but Nau’ul finally handed him the object.

Din turned around the metal item and as soon as he did, he recognised the beskar. Brows knitting, he inspected the grooves and quickly identified them as astromeridian lines. This was not a simple object; it was a Jedi star compass. Confused as to how this came to be in the possession of Nau’ul, Din unclasped the compass and lifted the lid.

His breathing hitched and his heart skipped a beat. This was not any star compass; this was the star compass. One that all Mandalorians believed to be a myth. But the black plasma in the lodestone didn’t lie. In his hand he was holding the very same star compass that Tarre Vizsla had commissioned to keep track of the Darksaber in case it ever got stolen.

“Where did you get this?” he snapped, fingers clutching the device tight.

“I― Well, it’s complicated. I thought―”

“It’s hers, isn’t it?” he interrupted.

The memory of that day trip to your ship came back to him. A locket, you had said. Bullshit.

Nau’ul nodded.

“How long have you had this?”

“Weeks, Alor. I did recognise it from the lore I knew about House Vizsla, but we didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. She’s doing you good, Master, you’ve improved―”

“Unnecessarily? Are you for fucking real, Nau’ul?” Din replied angrily, teeth gritting.

Without expecting an answer, he turned around and stormed out of the room.

You were kneeling on the ground, elbow’s deep in the core of your old R3-D3 unit, trying to reach a hidden screw, when you heard heavy steps approaching.

“Good you’re here, I can’t get to this screw. I’ve been at it for five minutes now. Can you try?” you asked Din, who stopped inches away from your back.

When he didn’t say a word, you turned around and glanced up at him.

He radiated tension through every pore, his posture stiff and shoulders squared. Eyebrows furrowed, you got up, cleaning the palm of your hands on your trousers.

“What’s the matter, Din?”

“This. Why did you have this?” his voice transpired how mad he felt as he handed you an object you quickly recognised.

The star compass that Nau’ul had confiscated from you weeks ago. You had assumed the droid didn’t know what it was and hadn’t bothered to show it to Din.

Your eyes shot up to where you knew his were.

“I can explain,” you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his forearm.

“You better start talking now,” even if he hadn’t backed away from you, he felt so distant.

Your mind raced and your heart galloped inside your chest. You could lie your way out of this situation, but you didn’t want to. You loved him, and nothing else mattered. He would understand. Eventually.

“Din, listen to me, please. I’m not gonna lie to you: it is exactly what it looks like. My family, my tribe― we are trackers. Have been tracking the Darksaber for generations. I was raised to hate your people, but the message never really sunk in for me. Our purpose was to find the Darksaber and destroy it,” you explained while he remained deadly silent. “That was why I was travelling through the Mandalore system. I was tracking the Darksaber. I was going to Concordia, but I ran into technical problems with my X-wing and had to divert here. I think― I thought it was there.”

Until that night you sneaked out to the west wing. You had been caught before you could confirm your suspicions but were pretty sure that was what Din was hiding in the west wing. The reason he wouldn’t let you be anywhere nearby.

“But now you know it’s not in Concordia,” he finished for you.

You nodded.

“But I don’t care for it anymore, Din. Once I figured you likely had it, I made a choice. I chose you,” you whispered, closing in on him until your bodies met. “You have to believe me.”

He didn’t talk at all. Silence strung between you, dense and worrying, like a rope wrapping around your neck, forcing the oxygen out of your lungs. You didn’t want to panic, knowing that Din probably only needed time to think, to digest and ruminate.

Minutes went by and your grip on his forearm loosened. You were ready to take a step back, give him some space to process, when Din finally spoke in his modulated voice.

“I believe you,” a wave of relief washed over you, “and I choose you too.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach and then climbed up your oesophagus. It was beating so hard, so fast, you were seconds away from passing out.

He chose you.

Before you could throw your arms around his neck with pure elation, Din took a step back and one hand reached towards the back of his belt. Confused, you followed the movement of his hand, a deep wrinkle burrowing between your brows.

Din presented you a black hilt, waved it a little, and then the black and white blade appeared, humming very loudly, although dimmer than what you expected. Your eyes widened at the sight of the Darksaber ― the item your whole family had been searching for, right there, in front of you, an inch away from your fingers.

Lifting your right hand, you reached for it.

Suddenly, a firing sound broke the silence and, inexplicably, Din leaned forward towards you, the Darksaber dropping from his hand.

You held him by the elbows, not understanding what was happening, as his hands grasped for you. Then a second firing noise uprooted a painful groan from him while he almost dragged you to the floor.

“Din? Din!” you whispered, on your knees with him in your arms, as your hands roamed his body.

You felt the warm blood before you could see it and panic settled in fast. He was profusely bleeding from two gunshots on his back, right below the beskar piece that covered his six.

“No, no. Wait. What―” you sobbed as Din groaned, his consciousness drifting away.

You were losing him fast, and you didn’t even know how.

“Are you okay? Is he dead?”

A male voice came from behind a tree near the cliff. A voice you had not heard in a long while, but quickly recognised.

Ashton.

Blaster still pointing at Din, Ash had frozen several meters away from you. What was he doing here? How did he get here unnoticed? Why? Fucking why?

But none of those questions left your mouth, gutted as you were, holding onto Din, worried he would slip away from you. You couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, overwhelmed as you were.

Din stirred in your arms, and you saw the panic reflected in Ash’s eyes as he cocked the blaster in Din’s direction again. There was no time to think, to beg, to ask him to leave. To tell him you loved the man he was intent on killing.

So you did the only thing you could do. Your fingers found Din’s blaster in his holster, lifted it up, pointed to Ash, and shot.

The light beam flashed before it hit dead center between Ash’s eyes. He stumbled back and fell into the abyss behind him. And just like that, you had killed the only friend you had known.

You should have doubted your actions, but you didn’t. It all happened too quickly, and you had bigger worries than having killed one of the few people you cared about. Like losing the love of your life.

Dropping the blaster, you rushed to remove Din’s helmet.

“Din, please, just hold on. Please, stay with me. Please, don’t leave,” you screamed and cried, hands trembling and pressing on the wounds on his back.

His eyes fluttered open, only a tiny slit ― his gloved hand reached up, cradling your cheek.

“Cyar’ika,” he could barely talk. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum (I love you). Don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No, no. NO. You ain’t saying goodbye. No,” your words slurred as your sobs intensified, your heart breaking into a myriad of tiny pieces.

You removed the glove of his hand to kiss the palm, your tears streaming between his fingers. Yours wrapped around his wrist, holding him there.

As you cried your eyes out, you noticed the Darksaber humming louder, almost deafening, and its light shining brighter. Its vibration called you, hearing your name inside your head. A Force deep within you awakening, beckoning you to touch it. A need as basic as breathing.

Through teary eyes, blinking fast, you gave in ― you grabbed it.

An electrifying sensation ran through you, all your muscles coiling at once. Your mind spiralled out of control, for a moment losing track of time and space. The Force was so intense, so primitive, you thought you would be obliterated by its magnitude.

When you could finally open your eyes, the blade had dimmed considerably and then it completely snuffed out. Your cries had not stopped though, so loud you almost missed Din’s voice.

“Mesh’la,” he rasped, trying to straighten his back, “you― you’re Force sensitive. You’ve used the Force of the Darksaber to heal me.”

Your wet eyes darted to him and then his wounds. Or where the wounds had been but no longer existed. Mouthing a gulp of air, you instantly dropped the Darksaber to hug him tight, crying louder than before.

“It’s okay. I’m fine. We’re okay,” he hushed, comforting you.

“I love you, Din,” you mumbled in the crook of his neck, relief running through you loosening your taut muscles. “Don’t you fucking dare die on me again or I’ll kill you myself.”

Din chuckled, one hand smoothing out your hair.

“Noted, cyar’ika.”

Cradling his handsome face, you pressed a kiss to his lips. Salty yet sweet. You kissed him again, looking for the solace of his tongue.

The wind carried some words you barely made out.

“Maker met.”

Four full moons had come and gone, and the beast was no more.

Din’s curse was broken. For good. Forever.

You couldn’t have asked for anything else. Anyone else. You loved him and he loved you back ― he had shown you many times. Right as he was showing you now.

Your lips brushed his tummy right above his belly button, leaving a trail of kisses as you found your way back to his mouth. Din was laying on his back, his rough hands caressing the back of your thighs as you kissed his scar and then his right eye, lips soft as a cloud.

He didn’t flinch anymore whenever you touched the sensitive skin or his blind eye. Instead, he sighed, as if your caress was soothing, calming. As if you could take away the pain he felt sometimes.

You sat back up on top of him, straddling his hips as his mushroom head hitched in your entrance, his hands compelling you to impale yourself. But you didn’t ― not yet.

Instead, you leaned over a bit, taking the helmet off the nightstand. It was heavy. Curious to know what it felt like, you put it on. The padding inside was soft, your face snug. It was slightly claustrophobic, but also comforting. Weird.

“It suits you, cyar’ika. You should consider taking up the Creed,” he mumbled, eyes full of desire, of yearning. Of love.

You chuckled and stirred your hips above him, the tip of his cock going in ever so smoothly.

“For you, I just might, Din.”

@baronessvonglitter @bishtrouille @natalieispunk @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. VIII

tags: @littleblackcatinwonderland @purple-1995 @fall-winter-heart97 @hueanhdang @beebeechaos @emery-aka-emmy @r-3dlips @watermel0nsugarhigh @delaynew @pedro-pascal-love @thelastemzy

Their morning routine continued when they woke like it was second nature. Cregan braided her hair carefully, Dusk and Morningstar took to curling up right next to each other (though Daenys could not understand why, the both of them had tended to avoid each other since they had met), and they packed up their belongings before they rode further toward the wall. Cregan estimated about nine more days left in their trip, eight if the weather favored them. Daenys had found that she was scarcely listening to his words, mind feeling like it was underwater. She continued through the day with little conversation and less focus, simply allowing Mylo to guide the way for them as he followed Red and Dusk.

Cregan stole glances at her throughout the day and hunted alone when he noticed her spacey, far away gaze had not shifted even once. He left her in the care of Dusk and Morningstar while he set his traps, returning to wait for them to take effect while he sat by Daenys. He was torn between talking her out of her state or leaving her in her thoughts. They had time, after all. Time that seemed to slip between his fingers the closer they got to the wall. Only another nine days before the Princess returned home to Dragonstone to report to the Queen. He was almost tempted to stall their journey, though it was a juvenile idea that he forced away quickly.

Daenys sat against the hard scales of Morningstar, listening to the loud purrs emanating from the beast. It vibrated against her back, almost soothing her to sleep. Cregan soon joined her in her reprieve, watching her fingers twist and pull away at the twig in her hands. Her eyes were staring at a point above her hands, simply fiddling with the stick as something to occupy her. She winced when a splinter stick itself into the pad of her thumb. Cursing slightly, she brought her thumb to her mouth to try and pry the thing out, stopped by a large hand bringing it next to her. Cregan studied her finger under the light of the sun, assessing where the splint lodged itself into her skin. He squeezed it out quickly, saying nothing as he did. Daenys only stared at his eyes while he focused on the trivial task. In the light, she noticed one was a darker shade than the other. More of a blue than the other, which was a perfectly slated grey. Had they always been like that, or was it a trick of the light and his lashes?

Cregan eventually left after she whispered her thanks, checking on his traps for their lunch and supper. Beside her leg, Dusk whined like a pup for attention. A few days ago, Cregan told her of how he used to be a silent companion, only barking for attention when he found whatever his owner sent him to search for. Daenys could hardly believe such a thing. The wolf was perhaps more vocal than Morningstar, always whining and chuffing for her attention and praise. She smiled as she stroked between his ears, pinky softly stroking from his muzzle to his forehead while he rumbled against her stomach. The actions reminded her much of a child, similar to Aegon or Viserys, who could not yet speak but found ways to ask for attention from those around him. They always succeeded, too, doted on by every member of the family greatly.

Daenys smiled slightly to herself, wondering how a babe of her own would act and look, perhaps as doted on and spoilt as her brothers, or independent and quiet. The thought left her mind quickly, watching Cregan stride back into the camp with a few rabbits hanging from a string. He attached them to Red's saddle, nodding for Daenys to come to one. Cregan lifted her by her hips onto Mylo, who shifted at the weight added. "Spotted some bear tracks around this area. We'll skip lunch and keep moving." He told her.

They walked slightly into the night, chill in the air increasing without fire's warmth or sunlight. She figured that Cregan wanted to get a few extra hours away from the bear, wherever it might be. She saw the tense look on his face beside her, knowing it was because of her. She wasn't afraid of a mere bear, not when Dusk and Morningstar could easily take one that wandered into their camp, but mayhaps he thought she would be keep awake at the thought of a grizzly beast crawling into her tent.

She found it easier and easier to sleep when Cregan accompanied her. For a reason she guessed not, though was grateful for. Her dreams were kept mild or stayed away entirely.

Cregan stopped the party at the mouth of a cave, preparing to sleep in it for the night. It was used often by those traveling to The Wall, so he deemed it safe after Dusk sniffed it out. Daenys was grateful for the cover. As they left Winterfell's expansive territory, they pressed onto the borders of house Liddle.

Neighbors to the Knotts, Daenys hoped they didn't run into any more Knott men. Though not all were exactly like Seamus, she still held a small grudge against them for allowing such a man to live.

Red and Mylo were kept at the entrance, covered only slightly by the rock and long used to the dragon who slumbered next to them. Dusk slept inside, with Cregan and Daenys. Her legs were kept well-warmed by his weight.

As the small fire burned inside, Cregan and Daenys peacefully dined. Hungry from the long day, they both ate twice as much as usual to compensate for their lost lunch.

Daenys glanced at the head on her lap, deep brown eyes staring pleadingly into her own. She sighed, slipping the wolf a cooked leg. Lazy pup, she thought affectionately.

"He'll become spoiled before we reach The Wall, Princess. Then I'll be expected to give him a peace of all my dinners back in Winterfell." Cregan spoke up, words scolding but tone playful.

"Hm. Perhaps I'll have to take him home with me. He'll be content to be spoiled at the hearths of Dragonstone." Daenys hummed pleasently.

He squinted at her. "And how might you accomplish that? Tie him to the saddle of your dragon?"

"Perhaps. If I must, I'll walk all the way to Rook Rest's harbor and catch a boat."

He laughed sweetly, "I'm not sure he'll take well to seafood."

"I think he'll learn to adapt. After all, all ladies must do the same when they are suddenly uprooted from their homes and put in their husband's. If they can adapt, Dusk can, too." She mused, chewing the lean meat after she spoke.

Cregan keenly eyed her, finishing up his own leg. "And you, my Lady?"

She hummed, meeting his eye with a lifted brow.

"Would you be content to adapt in such a way? You wouldn't be...resentful?" His tone sounded odd to her ears.

She looked into the fire, following each harsh movement it made as it flickered and lighted the cave. The heat reminded her of the feeling of her clothes being entirely engulfed by the flames of her dragon, burning for what felt like forever before leaving her skin when all the clothes had been burned to ash. She shivered.

"I cannot say. I think...marriage is inevitable for me. For any lady. I have come to terms with that since I was a babe, being taught how to be a wife by my septas." He nodded. "If I had an agreeable husband, who might allow me to visit my family occasionally and leaves me alone after I perform my marital duties occasionally, then I would be content with my life. If he were a cruel man, who isolated me in his hold, or perhaps laid a hand on me or my children, I would not know what to do."

She knew what she would do. Daenys mulled over that thought many a time in her solitude. She would not stand to live in a marriage like that, completely alone and unloved by everyone around her. At least, if she could visit her family, she would be okay.

Cregan gave her an incredulous look, exhaling heavily. "I sincerely hope you get to be the one allowed to choose your husband, my Lady. Too many do not get that fortune."

"I am, currently, allowed to do so." She informed him. "My mother told me that if I need to give an ornery Lord a reason to ally his house to her, then I should offer myself." She didn't mention that he was the only Lord she was visiting. The thought of saying such an embarrassing thing to him would surely kill her, if fire did not.

Oh, by the way, my Lord. My mother, our queen, has told me to offer myself to you for more soilders for her army.

She would rather any other humiliating punishment.

Cregan smiled sincerely, though he forced it to drop and put a sympathetic look on instead. "And have you?"

"Come across an ornery lord?"

"No. Offered your hand."

"I have not." She answered, feeling her ears grow warm.

He nodded, perhaps too quickly. For a moment, Daenys desperately wished to know his thoughts. About her, about the war, about every little thought that crossed his mind. It would make it so much easier to know him and his impenetrable wall. Why did he want to know her state of engagement? He hadn't asked for anything in exchange when she first arrived at Winterfell.

Cregan stood, offering her an arm to take. He lead her to the tent to get dressed in privacy while he put the fire out. She dressed quickly, not wanting him to wait any longer than he should have to. The thinner shift allowed for more chill to hit her, giving her gooseflesh up and down her limbs. She heard the shuffling of him changing, too, and ignored the vile thought of imagining what he might look like under his furs and leathers. How vulgar she was becoming, in the honest North.

Rhaenyra or Daemon might call her curious. Alicent would call her a woman of easy virtue like her mother. She had suspected she would eventually be such a lady, even when she was only a child. All bastards were born evil and promiscuous, the Queen said. Ever the faithful and righteous, the Hightower woman frowned upon all those who were lesser than.

She didn't know what she would label herself. Unladylike would suit for now. Cregan ambled into the tent, benching his head and shoulders to stand. Daenys gave him a curious glance. "Do you need anything before we sleep, Princess?" He murmured.

"I'm fine, thank you."

They both settled together, snug under the pelts and body heat from themselves and Dusk. Daenys waited until his breaths slowed and depended, sinply listening to his as she fell into a light slumber.

After a few hours, with no hope of sleeping completely, Daenys left the tent to tuck herself up to Morningstar's wing. If she couldn't find sleep, she might as well not disturb his with her tossing and turning. After a few minutes, her own peace was disturbed by a click of a tongue. "If you wished to be rid of me, you need only ask." Cregan jested lightheartedly, crouching under the wing.

Daenys flushed, embarrassed at being caught again. This time, however, it was for a much better reason than needing comfort from her mind. "I didn't want to bother you with my movements. Forgive me, Cregan."

"There's nothing to forgive. Can I stay with you?" He asked, hopefully. She nodded, shifting herself closer to the dragon's body to make more room for the bigger man. He was only illuminated by the star and moonlight, but his form was clear against it. Big, broad shoulders and a muscled back that was usually hidden beneath his grand attire. He lay next to her, face to face. Their breaths mingled together again, this time consciously, as they enjoyed one another's presence. She felt at ease, safe between him and her dragon.

"If you weren't a Lord, what would you want to be? Say you were born in a world where coin and titles do not matter." She asked quietly, mind too loud to stay silent. The question was meaningless and not serious. She simply wanted to hear him speak again.

Cregan grinned at the random question, thinking it over carefully. "Perhaps...a swordsmith."

"Swordsmith?" She furrowed a brow.

"Mm. I have always enjoyed the study of the sword. I think I should like to forge them, for myself and others. It is a respectable job." He nods to himself. Ah, he'd be honorable even without his titles and upbringing.

"What about you? If you were not born a princess."

She thought for a long moment. Daenys took the fabric of Cregan's night tunic in between her fingertips, absentmindedly finding something to occupy her hands. He let her, never moving his eyes from her dimly lit face while her own were locked on the threads of his black tunic.

"A sailor, I think."

"Because of your father?"

"Yes. He scarcely was able to bring me on trips, but when he did, it was better than anything. It was nice to not be a princess for weeks at a time. I would pretend we were naught but a humble fisher and his daughter."

"Hm. If I were a swordsmith and you a sailor, we would never cross paths." He brought up, ghostly touch gracing her loose hair. The touch nearly brought her to sleep, but she blinked the feeling away stubbornly.

"I don't think so. We met in this life, where I thought I would never see myself in the North. Perhaps we would meet in an unlikely event to the both of us. I might need a sword in my arduous journeys to fend off pirates." He chuckled.

"It does sound like a charming life. I must admit, I've never been swimming before."

"Not once?" She asked, agasp at his confession. She couldn't imagine such torture, being land-locked all her life.

He shook his head, amused. "The waters of the North are too cold to swim in. Though, I enjoy the hot springs of Winterfell when I have leisure time." He said.

"I wish I could show you. You are truly missing out." Daenys hummed sadly.

He soothed her hair, agreeing with her. "I should like that."

In her half-awake state, Daenys could not find the mind to keep her modesty as she should. She found warmth and solace in his arms, which welcomed her as she snuggled close to him, head buried into the bare crook of his neck. He moved the hand that was on her hair to the small of her back, pulling her closer to him and securing her. "Goodnight, Princess." he whispered, listening to her slow breathing.

🗡

"Daemon, you must allow me to fly to the North to retrieve Daenys." Jacaerys Velaryon, who had flown home immediately after treating with Jeyne Arryn and hearing the news of his dear brother's murder, pleaded with his step-father.

Daemon clenched his jaw, shaking his head firmly. "With Rhaenyra gone from Dragonstone, we need you here. Daenys will eventually reach The Wall and the raven that Winterfell sent there. We can not have one of our dragons sent out of Dragonstone. Syrax and Morningstar being gone is already known the the Greens." He spat out.

"I do not care! She deserves to know. By the time she returns, we might have already burned the funeral pure for Luke." He insisted, knowing how it would break Daenys' heart to miss her brother's funeral.

"I will ensure we wait for her." Daemon promised, resting his hand on Jace's shoulder. "Vermax is young, but a good deterant against the few dragons that Aegon has. If you take him, we will be left with an even number of dragons. What would stop them from flying here once you leave, to take us out while we are unguarded?"

Jace didn't bother answering, knowing he was right. Vhagar alone had mass even on Morningstar and Meleys. It would take multiple dragons to bring that ancient beast to the ground. He gritted his teeth. "I hate this. This standing around whilst mother and Daenys are out there—making moves."

Daemon nodded, agreeing with him. "It is our duty. We hold the council in Rhaenyra's absence, and await Daenys' success in the North. Perhaps the slow journey to The Wall will bring forth an agreeable amount of men Lord Stark."

"At Daenys' hand, I'll bet." Jacaerys grunted out. He wished he had been sent to the North instead of his genteel sister, who hated conversing with strangers (and men) more than anything. If she were forced to give her hand for footmen, Jace was sure she would suffer for the rest of her life.

"We sacrifice what we must, for family." Daemon told him, walking back to the Painted Table for a recount of their bannermen. Though secretly, he agreed. He wished he did not have to offer his daughter to a brute of the North, but they were the largest force at Rhaenyra's disposal and vital for the Crown to win.

🗡

Cregan trying to discreetly see if she's single and wanting a husband: 🧍‍♂️

Jace and Daemon thinking about how Daenys is suffering with some brutish, ugly, beast Northerner: 🤧

Daenys, in his arms as they speak: 🥱

this is the last chapter of their walk to the wall. the next will include the wall, and You Know What. sorry for the short chapter, I just wanted to wrap some more relationship building moments uo before she has to go to dragonstone. let me know what ideas you would like to see happen between cregan and daenys, i will write them into the story as little snipits of romance. my little codependent lovebirds are about to be torn apart temporarily </3

I feel like I shouldn't continue to add more moments where the action picks up, like Daenys getting into danger. She already almost died twice in a week, I feel like if I do more, it might seem repetitive and get old. Thanks for reading 🩷

[sixpennydame]

Make. Believe. ❖ Act 1

Actor!Levi x Fem!Reader

It’s your first sex scene as a leading actress, and it’s with none other than Levi Ackerman. But you both can stay professional….right?

Warnings / Content: NSFW, Minors do not interact, oral sex (fem receiving), vaginal sex

A/N: I've been working on this one shot since April and it's finally here! There will be a Part 2, written from Levi's pov, available now!

Act 2 | Act 3

“Oi, you ok? Ready to do this?”

Levi stands naked before you. It’s nothing new - you’ve seen his nude body several times already while shooting this film. But today is the day that you shoot the main sex scene with him - the first you’ve ever done as a professional actress.

And despite all the preparations you’ve done, you’re nervous as hell about it.

You take a deep breath. “Yeah…I’m ready.”

The Camera Assistant raises the slate, “Scene 24, Take 1…” *Clap*

“Action!”

When your agent told you about the role you knew you were perfect for it. An ingénue role: innocent, pure, but headstrong, and when you finished the audition, you knew you’d gotten it. 

The movie is set in the 1920’s and tells the story about a woman who had been married off to an older, powerful man who owns a large estate. She has an affair with the quiet, mysterious groundskeeper. It’s all about class, duty, and desire.

You knew the role would require several sex scenes, and quite risqué ones at that. But that didn’t bother you. You’d been nude on stage while in acting school and you took your craft seriously.

What made you nervous was that you would be doing the sex scenes with Levi Ackerman. 

You’d had a crush on him since your teenage years, when you saw him in the Attack on Titan series. You, and every other girl that saw him in that show. Ten years later, he was still one of the most sought-after actors in film and television. He excelled in dramatic roles and was a skilled physical actor, even doing most of his own stunts. In interviews, he was always cool and quiet, letting the other actors take the spotlight. He also kept his private life particularly private, and this gave him an air of mystery.

 You weren’t sure what to expect when you met him for the first time with the rest of the cast at the first script table reading.

“Mr. Ackerman, I’ll be playing the part of Anna. It’s an absolute honor to be working with you.”

His grey eyes give you a once over, then he shakes your hand. “Please, call me Levi. I hear this is your first leading role.”

Just shaking his hand, you’re already blushing. How will you react when you actually have to touch him romantically?

You shake those thoughts out of your mind right now. “Y-yes, it is. I’d appreciate any advice you can give me.”

“This director is pretty strict about sticking to the script. I’ve worked with him before. But with love scenes, he’s going to give us a lot of freedom to kind of just do what we want.”

Oh god. He’s already bringing up the sex scenes. And he calls them love scenes. You feel your face getting even hotter. 

He notices. “I’m guessing you’ve never done a love scene before.”

“I uh..” you were going to try to think of something witty to say, but it feels difficult to talk suddenly, “I haven’t, actually.”

He smiles. “It’s normal to feel nervous. The most important thing is for you to trust me, and for us to respect each other.”

The room is filling with more cast and crew as the table reading is about to start. Levi gestures for the both of you to have a seat. “Why don’t we start by getting to know each other after the table reading? When we’re not shooting we can get together and help each other with lines and maybe eat together during breaks. That way, I won’t feel like such a stranger.”

“That would be so nice. Yes, let’s do that,” you reply, feeling better and more comfortable with him already. He just seems so…normal. Not at all the broody, rude character he’s made out to be in the tabloids.

After that, you spent most of your free time with Levi. You’d hang out with each other in your trailers, working on memorizing lines or just talking. The director insisted on shooting most of the movie on location and not in a studio, so you were all left to basically live in a small town in the countryside. Levi would invite you out with other cast and crew friends. He was friendly - much friendlier than you’d imagined him to be - but you noticed that the larger the crowd got, the quieter he became. You much more enjoyed the time when it was just the two of you.

Leading up to your sex scenes, you and Levi were required to meet with an intimacy coach. She was pleased to hear that you and Levi were already getting to know each other, since trust is key. The three of you talked over the scene and the movements required. 

“There will be moments where you two will have to be naked with each other, but when you two actually recreate sexual activity, you can use intimacy barriers and skin colored thongs and underwear,” the coach suggests. “Levi, I know you’ve done sex scenes totally nude in the past.”

That’s right..the independent film he was in a few years ago. There was a lot of controversy about the very explicit sex scene in that movie. So they were completely nude during that scene? Why do you feel jealous?

“Whatever Reader is comfortable with. I’ll follow her lead,” he says, matter-of-factly. 

The coach looks at you. “And you’re comfortable being nude with Levi?”

You’re trying so hard not to blush and look professional, as if this conversation isn’t giving you butterflies in your stomach. You feel Levi’s grey eyes on you. “Yes, it’s not a problem.”

Later that afternoon, your words were put to the test. You were to shoot a scene where your character catches Levi washing outside his cottage. It’s a short scene but you’re nervous. When you arrive on set, Levi is already in a robe waiting. 

The scene is set, and Levi takes off his robe. His body is even better in real life. He’s toned, and he has a perfect six pack with a deep v shape on either side. A black trail of hair leads down to his..

No, you shouldn’t look, it’s unprofessional. But you want to so badly.

“Reader, go to your mark,” the Director’s Assistant says.

“Y-yes, of course.” You take your place by the wall that surrounds his character’s cottage. When the director yells action you walk along the wall until you get to the entrance, but before you enter his garden, you see him washing at a basin near the home. You’re supposed to look for just a moment, then turn back against the wall and blush at seeing him. 

But when you peek around the corner, you can’t help but let your eyes linger for just longer than you’re supposed to. He’s washing himself, the water flowing over his beautifully toned body. His hair is wet and he pushes it back.

“Cut!” the director commands. “Reader, you were staring too long. Remember, she’s shocked at what she sees and quickly turns away, but she’s also titillated.”

You blush and look over to Levi, who you hope is far enough away that he can’t hear what the director is saying. “Got it. Sorry about that.” You take your mark and do it again.

The next day, you had to shoot some other scenes and didn’t see Levi all day. Although the day’s shoot went without a hitch, you couldn’t help but think about that perfect body of his and how you would soon be touching and kissing it. 

You arrived at your trailer earlier than usual the next day. There were a few cast and crew members ambling about, but it was otherwise quiet. You knock on the door of Levi’s trailer.

“Come in,” he answers. When you enter, Levi is casually sitting, drinking his tea and reading through today’s scenes. “I thought we could discuss how we wanted to block today’s physical scenes. It’s no nudity, but since it’s their first time,I think there are some particular movements they want us to include.” 

It’s strange, talking to Levi about, “me grabbing your breast,” or, “when I enter you for the first time,” as if these are the most normal conversations to have in the world. But even hearing him say these words in his deadpan way of speaking is making the blood rush to your cheeks. After a lengthy discussion, you scribble some notes in your script for later, then make your way to your trailer to get into costume.

The scene is set in a hunting cabin far from the main estate. As your character has just left a dinner party, you’re wearing a beautiful wine colored gown that everyone remarks on. Everyone except Levi. He sits in his chair and seems to be in some kind of ultra-focused state. You’d never noticed before, but maybe that’s how he gets into character.

Or maybe he’s nervous too.

Your heart is pounding when the director says action. “Please don’t go,” you say, as you grab Levi’s arm. 

You’d blocked out the scene with Levi this morning, but you suddenly have an urge to deviate slightly from the plan, not because you want to, but because you now feel like that’s what your character would do at this moment. 

You hold his hand and begin to kiss his palm and wrist, then you place it on your cheek. It’s so innocent, but full of yearning.  Levi’s body goes tense, but then he unexpectedly moves his thumb to your lips and you open your mouth. You begin to suck on his thumb, then his pointer finger, looking at him seductively when he finally pulls it out. He lets out a sigh and then he’s kissing you passionately; you pull down his suspenders while he lifts up the gossamer layers of your dress. Your mouths crash together as he undoes his pants. He tastes like spearmint, and you wonder if he did that on purpose. He moves away from the kiss and pulls off your underwear, and then he’s on top of you and between your legs. 

Although his bare ass is showing, the camera angle doesn’t necessitate him completely against your crotch. But he pushes slowly as if he is entering you for the first time and after a few thrusts, he starts getting faster. 

Your character is going through a lot of emotions at this point: desire, guilt, pleasure. You look away and your cheeks begin to flush as Levi continues to move, a certain kind of desperation in every thrust. You both begin to breathe heavily, your hands in his hair and his head in the crook of your neck. One final thrust, and there’s only silence, until..

“Cut!” the director cries out. “Good work, you two. Now, let’s do that again, with some closeup shots.

“You okay?” Levi asks as he gets off of you and grabs a rag to wipe off his sweat. 

You straighten your dress and a makeup assistant comes over to touch-up your makeup. “Yeah..I’m fine.”

“They way you approached me, with the kisses on the palm and taking my fingers - that was a nice change.” He looks at you as he returns to his mark. “You have good instincts.”

“Thanks.” You laugh to yourself, because the compliment makes you blush more than when he was rutting against you.

The cinematographer changes cameras and gets closer. “Alright, let’s do that again..”

——

The next day, you meet with the intimacy coordinator to choreograph the next sex scene scheduled for the end of the week. In the midst of taking notes and discussing with Levi the motivations for each movement, you become quiet, your thoughts drifting elsewhere. Because for the last few days, you’ve had trouble differentiating your feelings for Levi and your character’s feelings for his character. The line seems to be blurring between them, and that concerns you. 

In between scenes, you truly enjoy spending time with Levi. He’s smart and funny. He nerds out about tea and kung fu movies, and you’ve spent many an evening just listening to him go into more detail about the two than you ever thought possible. He gives you ideas when you struggle with character notes, and even helps you to memorize lines. At night, in the privacy of your hotel room, you’ve fantasized about what it might feel like to be desired by him, to hear him say your name as he touches your body.

Then you hear your name being called by the coordinator and you snap out of it. “Is that ok with you? Being completely nude for the scene?” she asks.

“No..no..I’d like for both of us to be covered,” you answer. It’s better this way, you think to yourself. It keeps it professional.

Levi shrugs. “Fine by me.”

You both walk back to the hotel at the end of the day, but Levi stops you before you enter the building.

“Hey, you ok today? You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine. I guess I’m just nervous about tomorrow.” 

“I get it. But we’ve put a lot of work into this. And I’d like to think we trust each other at this point.” He puts his hand on your shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

Just like that, you feel more at ease. He just has such a way with you. “You’re right, we’ve done well so far. And I do trust you, Levi.”

——

When you arrive at your trailer the next morning, there’s a to-go cup on your table. 

To calm your body and mind. —Levi

Your makeup artist smiles as you read the note. “Levi just brought that by. You sure have a great leading man.”

You smile. “Yeah, I sure do.”

The scene takes place in the forest in the afternoon. Your character has snuck away from her home to meet him, far away from spying eyes. The Director has decided to film the scene in sections instead of one long scene, at least for now. 

The marker board is clicked and you and Levi walk hand-in-hand among the trees. He pulls you into a small clearing, then grabs the back of your neck as he starts kissing you fully. You pull away and look him in the eyes.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Your character is a lady of high society; it’s scandalous for someone of her stature to say such a thing, but here she is, with this man that is ‘below’ her, and she wants nothing else than for him to ravage her.

You can totally relate to your character, in that regard.

He moves closer to you and begins to fondle your breasts, then he grabs the front of your white cotton blouse and tears it off of you, revealing your bare chest. 

He lays his chore jacket on the ground. “Undo my trousers,” he commands, and you do so. You then lie down on the jacket beneath you while he pulls down his trousers and takes off his henley shirt. When he takes off his trousers, you look away.

“No - don’t look away. Look at me,” he says with authority. He crouches over you and easily pulls off your skirt. 

“Cut! Let’s get them ready for closeup shots.” The Director and his team set up for the next shots as you and Levi sit awkwardly on the ground. You can’t move too much because you don't want to spoil the continuity of the scene, so you freeze as your hair and makeup team tousle your hair and touch up your makeup.

Both of you have your groins covered but other than that, you are completely naked, except you’re still wearing your stockings and boots. The Director tells Levi to get on top of you and he does so.

“Ready to do this?” He whispers.

“Yes, I’m ready,” you answer.

“Scene 24, Take 1..”

*Clap*

Levi is immediately kissing your lips, then moving down to your neck and collarbone. He looks back up at you and begins to thrust, each one hard and deliberate. You begin to move your hips to meet his thrusts and he breathes heavily into the skin of your neck. Even without actually having sex, the friction enough is turning you on; that, and Levi’s kisses on your body.

Then you feel it. A hardening bulge rubbing up against your clit. You look into his eyes and see a brief flash of recognition, but neither of you break character. 

He pulls you up and your legs are wrapped around him. He continues to thrust into you but it’s slower now, your bodies working together as you grind. His hard cock is rubbing your clit just right, and you feel like you could come from just this feeling alone. You’ve forgotten about the hoards of people watching both of you right now and you’re completely in the moment, letting him pull you even closer to him. 

“Levi..” you whisper in his ear. It slips from your mouth before you know it; there aren’t any lines scripted for this scene, and you’re hoping it wasn’t loud enough for the boom mic to pick up. It earns a look from Levi and then he smirks - you’re not sure if that was in character either. 

Your hands grasp at his hair and he starts slowing down. You look up at the sky thinking about the pleasure you - and your character - just felt. Then your lips graze against each other as your breathing becomes more calm.

“And cut! Great work you two I loved how that flowed. Let’s take a 15 minute break. I’ll look through the footage and decide if we need to re-shoot anything.”

Just like that, the moment is gone. The Director and others begin to move equipment and Levi’s assistant brings him a robe. He has it on and around him before you can barely get off of him.

“Good work,” he says curtly as he walks off. Your assistant takes a little longer to get to you, so you’re sitting there, naked, trying to figure out just exactly what happened between the two of you.

Levi keeps his distance during the break and as he listens to the director’s notes. You have to re-shoot a few closeup shots, and although the energy is still there, something is different. You can feel it. 

——

Levi doesn’t come out with you and the crew for dinner that night, and he doesn’t reply to your text messages. You’re worried - did you do something to offend him? Was it because you moaned his name during the scene?

That has to be it. It probably made him feel awkward. Maybe he thinks you’re unprofessional. It makes your palms cold and clammy just thinking about disappointing him, you can’t bear it.

But you can’t deny that he was turned on during the scene. You felt him against you. You couldn’t have imagined that.

You walk back to your hotel room lethargically. You think about texting him again, this time apologizing for your behavior, but before you can, there’s a knock on your door.

“Levi?”

“Hey.” He shifts one leg to the other, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Can we talk?”

“Of course,” you open the door wider for him to enter, “come in.”

He enters, his body language clearly restless and troubled. “What’s up?” you question.

“About today’s shoot….I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’m always professional. I respect you as an actress.”  

He paces the room and has a difficult time looking at you. You assume he’s going to reprimand you for your behavior today, so you prepare yourself. “I know you do, Levi. And I respect you.”

He finally stops in front of you. “But me getting turned on today…I don’t want you to think less of me. It’s just that you’re-“ he runs his hand through his dark hair. 

Butterflies begin to form in your stomach. You’ve never seen Levi this flummoxed before. He takes a deep breath and it seems to give him focus as he moves closer to you. 

“You’ve done something to me. When I had you in my arms today, I couldn’t help myself. Then when you said my name like that…”

He looks into your eyes. “I’ve kissed you countless times during this filming. But right now, I want to kiss you as myself.”

Your heart does backflips and your throat is suddenly dry. “So kiss me,” you invite, moving even closer to him.

It takes him a moment, almost as if he is checking if it’s truly ok. Then with a deep breath, he grabs the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours. Even though you’ve kissed him many times, this time it’s different. There’s an electricity to it, an honesty, as if he’s laying bare his entire self to you. 

His hand moves from your hip bone to under your shirt, his soft touch sending shivers down your spine. It doesn’t take long for his other hand to make it under your shirt as well, and soon he’s pulling it over your head and off of you. 

You also start letting your hands roam, first down his back and then under his t-shirt. You grab the hem and pull it off of him, but before you can do more he’s working on unclasping your bra. 

“I want you so badly.” His voice is low and raspy as he lays you on the bed.

You’ve started peeling off your leggings but he takes them and pulls them off roughly, desperately. “There are condoms in the drawer of the bedside table.” He gives you a look. “You know..just in case.” He smiles, then reaches over to the drawer. As he does so, you pull off your underwear and start touching yourself. You rub your clit in circles, watching him as he stands over you.

There’s a giant bulge in his grey sweatpants and you can see the lust in his eyes. “God, you’re beautiful.” He throws the condom packet down and dives in between your legs, kissing the inside of your thighs.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to have you like this? To take this beautiful pussy as mine?” He starts licking at your folds and you swear you’ve entered heaven. He starts flicking his tongue over your clit, alternating between fast and slow. Your back arches and your hands reach down to grip his hair. 

“Yes, yes, right there….fuck…” You can’t believe this is happening. Levi is here, he wants you, and he’s eating your pussy in a way that no man ever has.

Just when you feel you could climax, he stops. He reaches down next to the bed and picks up the condom package, sticking it in his mouth as he takes off his sweatpants and underwear. 

You’d seen him naked on set, but his cock had been flaccid at the time; now that he’s hard, it’s even more impressive. As he puts on the condom, you lick your lips, preparing yourself to truly - finally - have him inside you.

He can see the desire in your eyes. “Look at you - so eager for my cock are you?”

“Yes, Levi, I want it so badly. I’ve always wanted you.” You open your legs a little wider, inviting him to go between them. 

He moves in and looks down on you as he touches his cock. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. I don’t know how I’ve kept myself in check for this long.” 

You smile. “So you’ve been thinking about me?”

“Of course I have. How could I not?” He positions himself above you and rubs his cock on your entrance, covering it with your juices. “When I’m not on set with you, you’re all I think about.”

Before this night, Levi had always had a quiet, awkward confidence to him, as if there were a multitude of thoughts happening just below the surface; but now, he was assertive and cocky, telling you his thoughts and desires without any restraint. You loved seeing this new side of him.

He enters you slowly and you both take a deep breath, then he begins to move faster as he sees a smile form across your face.

“You feel so good…fuck…” 

Your words encourage him to pick up the pace, the sounds of his hips slamming into you reverberate throughout the room. “Shit, you’re so wet, I can’t get enough of you.” He moves down to kiss you passionately, then he starts to kiss and suck on your neck.

“Be careful..I have to shoot a scene tomorrow,” you warn, halfheartedly.

“Makeup can cover it up,” he growls in your ear and then continues.

He feels so good, you can’t resist anything this man does to you, so you give into him completely as his cock rams into you and his mouth claims you.

The evening is a flurry of moans and grunts, him having his way with you on the bed, against the wall, in the shower - it was as if you were both discovering pleasure for the first time. Real pleasure - not performative. 

As the sun begins to rise, you both lay exhausted and satisfied in the bed, the sheets in a tangled mess around you.

“This won’t change how we work together, will it?” you ask with a worried look on your face.

“Why would it? If anything, it’ll make our chemistry on screen more believable.” He kisses the top of your head. “And this will make the preparation for the other sex scenes much more interesting,” he says with a boyish grin. 

You can’t argue with that. “I suppose life sometimes does imitate art.” 

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 11

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: friday, my day, am i right?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You turn your legs over the bench, feet dangling over the floor as you look at the king, dumbfounded and dozy. He sits in the chair by the table, toying with a grab between his fingers as he watches you. Your heart hammers behind your ears as your breath licks like flames in your lungs. You daren’t ask it aloud but what is he doing there? 

“I only meant to look in upon you,” King Geralt says as if he can hear your thoughts. “I fathomed the night was long tending to my wife and I would make sure you are well-rested.” 

“Your highness,” you stand and smooth the front of your shift, realising you wear nothing more. No dress, no apron. You feel vulnerable to his golden eyes as they follow your hands. The fabric pulls taut on your chest before you can right yourself. “I... Apologies, I am unkempt.” 

You search around and go to take your cap from where you hung it. You cover your shorn locks and tie it tight above your nape. The king’s eyes narrow at you. 

“What is the purpose of keeping your hair short?” He wonders as he drops the grape back to the plate. 

You look at him, shuddering, “I do not... it is only as I’ve been bid, your highness. In Debray, all the maids do so.” 

“You are not in Debray now,” he muses. 

You’re quiet. You’re not sure how to answer that. You gulp and grab the clean dress from the pile and throw it over your head. It hangs loose, not like Jazlene’s carefully cut and laced gowns. You reach for your apron and the king clears his throat. You stop and look at him. 

“Your highness?” You blink, still dazed by his unexpected appearance. 

“I did go to see the lady of Debray,” he intones, “she was in a poor state. She would not permit me in her chambers for her condition.” 

“Oh my, your highness, I am sorry to hear. Shall I go look in--” 

“She has maids a plenty,” he insists, “I hoped...” he leans forward and reaches to his belt. You notice the top of his slate grey tunic is untied and shows the trim of his chest hair, “to share a pastime with her. I hoped perhaps we might see past our differences at last and start our progress towards the kingdom. Alas, despite my warnings, she overindulged and has left herself incapacitated.” 

You stare at him, clutching the apron. He flicks his fingers dismissively as his other hand brings forth a pouch, “leave that. Come, sit.” 

You can only obey. You put the apron down and cross the chamber. As you near the table, he pushes the tray of dishes out of the way. You lower yourself onto a stool as he opens the mouth of the pouch. He pours out the rattling contents. Carved diced in varying shapes, symbols painted on each side, and man longer pieces that look like bone. 

“It is a game,” he explains as the contents roll out, “I’d like to teach you.” 

You look down as he sorts out the many pieces into sets. He is lithe in his arrangement. When he is down, he presses his hands flat to frame the assortment. 

“You don’t mind?” He wonders, “if you are tired still...” 

“Your highness, I am awake,” you rub your eyes and drop your hands to your lap. “A game? How do you play it?” 

You lean forward and he seems pleased by your intent. He curls his fingers and takes a breath. 

“It is like bartering at a market, or the like,” he begins, “you see how the pieces differ,” he points to the longer ones, “there are tick marks here,” he shows you how one has an ex, another a line this way and the next that way, and a circle in another. “We each have our dice,” he divides those up and pushes a set towards you, “it is a matter of trade and cost.” 

“Hmm,” you push your lip out, concentrating. 

He continues to explain the balancing and leveraging of each roll. How once you have collected all the pieces with a particular mark, you may wield a greater demand. You tilt your head thoughtfully, your own fingers drawing lines in the air as you make sense of his instruction. You think you understand but remain uncertain. 

“We may begin simple,” he intones. 

So suddenly are you swept up in the intricacy of the game, that your shock at his appearance dissipates. You can only think of the pieces as he rolls a die. Then the next. You follow his lead and when at last the first trade comes, you hear his offer but have no response. 

“You have a question?” He prompts. 

“I am thinking, your highness,” you squint as your forehead lines. 

“I can tell,” he says brightly. 

You peer up at him and smooth your expression. His cheek twitches as he leans back. You counter his offer and he clucks. 

“Mm, I see,” he rests his chin on his knuckles. 

He hands over his pieces and you bite the inside of your lip. You gather them to your side of the table and frown. You toy with the dice and wait. 

“Your turn,” he urges, “unless you are not having fun.” 

“It is an interesting game but I don’t want to be let to win,” you mutter. 

“I am not letting you win. It is the first turn and it is a long game,” he chides. 

“Mm, yes,” you pick through the dice, “your highness.” 

He exhales and leans on the armrest, “take your time. I am no hurry to be away.” 

You peer up at him and find his gaze set on you. You return your attention to the dice and toss them. He’s a king, should he have better things to do? 

⚔️

“It appears you have bested me,” King Geralt sighs and puts his dice down, pressing his hand flat over them, “you have the mind of a councilour.” 

“Your highness,” you bring your hands back to wring in your lap.  

“Truly, you’ve taken well to it,” he remarks, “it has been some time since I had harrying competition.” 

You offer a slight curve of your lips and look away. The window is dulled as the sunlight descends. You blanch and slip forward on the chair. 

“Your highness,” you stand, “it is late. I should--” 

“You may remain,” he assures you as he shows his palm kindly, “no hurry, little maid.” 

“But... shouldn’t you--” you keep yourself from asking after his duty. That is not for you to mind, “the queen will need dinner.” 

“As I said before, this place is ripe with servants,” he says coolly, “you should sit and bask in the time you have off your feet.” 

You face him and slowly sit. He drags his fingers along the wooden armrest as his expression tightens. He watches you as his square jaw clenches, “unless you would rather be away from me?” 

You twist around to look at the door, then to him. 

“I will go wherever you command, your highness.” 

“Yes, yes,” his hand balls to a fist, “that is not what I...” he sighs with exasperation, “I want to know what you desire. What do you want? What do you need?” 

There’s a stirring in your chest as he leans slightly forward, his eyes alight. You peer into the golden pools and your lips part. He is a king and yet speaks as if he would serve you. 

“I...” you wisp and clamp your lips tight, measuring your words, “I want to serve you and the queen, your highness. I want to serve the realm.” 

He huffs again and grimaces, “for yourself. Not the queen, not me, not the people.” 

“Hmmm,” you look down and shrug. You shake your head. You can’t think of anything. “I have a new dress and a hot bath and good food. I can think of nothing. What of you, your highness? What do you want?” You lift your chin slowly, “just for you?” 

Your question seems to startle him. He winces and for a moment, seems breathless. He stands suddenly and takes a step forward. He’s close and you think he might lunge at you. You shy away, expecting the same wrath you inspire in the queen. He falters and backs away. 

“I want...” he grits and turns his back to you. 

He walks to the window and looks out onto the lawns. He hangs his head and grips the window’s edge. He lets out a gravelly sigh. 

“I want you...” he utters, “...to come walk with me in the gardens. I would like to do so before we must depart.” 

You rise again, “yes, your highness, I will put my shoes on then.” 

He puffs out into the deepening dusk. You can feel his frustration roiling from his figure. You grab the stockings and the shoes and return to the chair. You roll the stocking onto your foot and pull it up your leg, rumpling up one side of the skirt as you do. As you hike up the next, the king faces you, surprising you before you can drop the fabric back down to your toes. You sheepishly bend to put your shoes on, embarrassed. 

“Thank you, little maid,” he approaches and offers his hand, “for keeping a miserable king company.” 

You look at his hand. It’s big and calloused and lined like a map. The invitation seems overly friendly. You accept it, not so bold as to turn him away. 

“Your highness,” You murmur as he squeezes your hand then lets his arm fall straight, tugging you away from the table. 

Silently, he lets his grip brush from your hand and instead hooks his arm through yours. It is an overly familiar gesture but you allow it. What more can a maid do? As you near the door, he stops and untangles from you completely, stepping away as if struck by the oddity of his actions. He reaches for the door handle and inhales. 

He opens the door and steps into the corridor, you follow him, just a pace back. He looks over his shoulder at you then turns ahead. You scurry to keep up with his long strides. He stops at the end of the hallway and you nearly collide with his elbow. 

“I am not miserable because of you,” he angles his head towards you as he keeps his voice low, “if you worried...” he shakes his head at himself, “come, little maid.” 

You do as he says and trail him through the corridors. It is late and while soldiers remain on watch, most of the lords and ladies have tucked away for their evening meals. The king continues his unstoppable advance with you at his heels. Down a flight of stairs and across the great hall. 

Outside, several soldiers bow their heads at his passing and another nears. He dismisses them without a word. You carry on, sensing how his mood darkens with the sky. You’re uncertain of his demeanour, so suddenly shifting from affable to affronted. You didn’t say what he wanted and now he is unhappy. He can be rather like his wife. 

He stalks onward to the archway that marks the green gardens of the capital castle. He passes between the leafy pillars and stops to look this way then that, then opts to walk along the middle row. You flit between the hedges behind him as the sky ripples with the looming night and a cool breeze stirs around your skirts. 

He is silent as he walks, almost as if he’s forgotten you. You wonder if you fall out of step, if you are lost behind him, would he even notice? Finally, he slows before a pond dug into the center of the gardens, amid lilies and daisies and blue bells. The moon shines down and reflects off the tepid pool. 

He treads around the edge of the pond as you stand by the bushes. He circles around to a wooden bench and sits. His shoulders slouch and he leans his head back. The silver light limns his strong features. When he opens his eyes, they glow as they did in your dream. 

“I have come this far, I have conquered as I vowed to, I have vanquished the old king,” he speaks to the sky, “I have done all I sought to and yet I am wanting.” 

You dip your head, sad for him. You might assume a king would be happy for all his gold and power. That a crown would bring delight as much as glory. All you see is a man in mourning. For all he’s won, he’s lost just as much. Loyal men and many months. 

“I have a wife who is petulant, I have an ally who is cowardice, and I have nothing left here to claim,” he continues, “should I remain any longer, I might give it all up.” 

He hangs his head and leans forward, gripping the edge of the bench. He sits in silence as he watches the water. A frog hops onto a large stone protruding from the shallows and steals your attention. You watch it leap again and again until it meets the other side. 

“Little maid...” the sultry purr crawls over you and you glance over to find the king observing you, “sit with me.” 

You shiver and cautiously make your way around the pond. You near him and sit at the end of the bench opposite him. You fixate on the moonlit water. He leans to grab your wrist and hauls you closer. You sidle down until you are almost against him. He slips his hand around yours, covering it in his grasp. He pulls it onto his thigh and rests it there. 

He clings to you just like that. You feel a pluck in your chest for him. He has a wife who should share in his troubles but she is too buried in the anguish she made for herself. Yet, she is not there, and you are; a paltry substitute for what he truly needs. 

Silence pervades the night but for the chirping of insects and the sweet singing of birds. The king’s grasp on you tightens, then lessens, and tightens again. He eases his hold entirely and pets your hand. 

“Will you play another game with me?” His timbre is silty as he looks over at you. 

“A game, your highness?” You babble. 

He hums and nods, “a child’s game,” he explains, “it is simple.” He sits straight and pushes back his hair, “you will run and I will catch you.” 

Your heart lurches. Your lashes flutter. You played the game before, when you were young, with the queen even. But that was years ago and you were smaller and faster. You look at the king. 

“Your highness,” you utter. 

“It’s my command,” he says, “run.” 

[delirious-donna]

Hiromi stood by the window; his jacket and tie were discarded by the couch, and his white shirt wrinkled and creased from the stresses of the day. It made you pause in the doorway, your steps lightening so as not to alert him to your presence.

There was no noise except for the continuous pitter-patter of the rain. It drummed against the slate roof overhead, tinkled against the windows and formed ever-growing puddles in the divets of the street below. Your umbrella had saved you from the worst of it. Head down and focused on your footsteps, you hadn’t taken any enjoyment in navigating the pools of water that were not taken care of by the drains along the road, yet right now… it felt different.

Hiromi was framed by the open window in your living room, leaning against the sill with the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to his elbows and a cigarette dangerously close to being extinguished by the droplets falling steadily to the ground. The tobacco mingled with the petrichor, muted by the earthy aroma to a more pleasant level that had you inhaling deeply as you stepped closer. Your lungs filled with the magic of nature despite being deep in suburban Tokyo, but what drew you in was him.

A white haze surrounded him, one that called out to you and spun playful tendrils around your wrists to pull you close. Perhaps it was a manifestation of what you had fallen for all those years earlier, or maybe it was simply in your head. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the way your heart sped up and your body instinctively reached out for the solace that only he could provide. Hiromi was your haven, your nirvana. This may be your home but that home was truly wherever he was and you didn’t think he knew that—somehow that only made it all the more true.

Your arms encircled his waist, the cooler air brushing against your skin like a lover’s caress, and your head rested on his shoulder. Tension leaked out, his muscles relaxing and shifting until his breathing evened, and he placed a sturdy hand atop your own. For a while you both stood there; unspeaking yet baring your souls, unmoving but travelling together. The embers from his cigarette flared one last time before flickering out, spent.

“How long have you been standing here?” You asked, at last, breaking the spell of silence and hurtling you both back into the here and now.

“Hm… long enough.” His tone was light, jovial even, and you squeezed around his waist until he gave a small wriggle of protest.

“Long enough to watch your umbrella bob past. I wasn’t sure why you didn’t say something when you got home, but this is nice,” he conceded.

“I was admiring you, Hiro. Hardly a crime for a woman to admire her husband, is it?”

Hiromi snorted and turned slowly to envelop you against his chest. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, smell the fading scent of his cologne and you rubbed your nose into the stiff fabric covering his chest.

“Not one that I think would stand up in court,” he teased, his nose buried deep in your hair.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“True, but I’ll admit that I’d much rather have you here, in my arms, where you belong… than in a courtroom. They can be awfully stuffy.”

“Sounds like you.”

“Oh ho! I’m stuffy now, am I? Well then, I guess I’ll see you in court you—you… husband ogler.”

At that, laughter bubbled up and out. Frothing and eager to fill the room with your humour. You could feel Hiromi’s body judder with the want to join in, only subdued by the bite of his lip. His warm brown eyes fixed upon you as you lifted a hand to cup his jaw and teased your fingertips over the scrape of stubble adorning his cheeks and chin.

“I’m home,” you sighed wistfully.

Hiromi smiled, leaning back to feel stray raindrops land amongst the peppering of greys in his thick black head of hair. The petrichor intensified as if heralded by your declaration, the setting sun breaking through the grey clouds to dapple your bodies in an amber glow. All was right in the world and he felt lucky to be able to say that with conviction.

“Welcome home, my love.”

an: I saw this beautiful piece of art by @kanashiki79 and they were kind enough to allow me to draw inspiration from it for the above. I guess I was in a bit of a sappy mood for Hiro today, but who could blame me?

[chosos-mascara]

sired

𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙞 𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 - levi is just a regular at your coffee shop - until you're bleeding out, with no other option than to see the true beast he is.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - vampire levi x reader, reader is turned, reader is attacked (not by levi), blood, biting, general vampire stuff, make-out, sex, cunnilingus, spit swallowing and swapping

4.5k words, yes i am reusing this photo of him cuz he's pretty

In this life, blood had run through vein to be taken from others.

Of course, there had been the weight of guilt to burden the shoulder of those who'd drank the life from another, though within the rise of an undead plague, they had began to drink it without regard of memories, pain or pleasure. 

Levi had done the latter; decades spent underground to prey on those in the shadows, brain riddled with disgusting memories of the past.  Erwin had drawn him from this hole and with that, a new life had been birthed. Though, even with a clean slate, ghosts had still remained. 

These hauntings of the past had brought Levi to a simple life, one with routine, and control. An example of this would be his morning tea, always taken from the same shop, with his arrival and departure time as precise as each day would allow. Unfortunately, with a difference in this very schedule, Levi had been six hours late to his local coffee shop, seeing a shift change and new faces. 

You hadn't met the man before you - you were sure of that. Though, when staring into the grey eyes on the other side of the counter, there had been something so hauntingly familiar - or was he just undeniably mesmerising?  There had been an unforgiving and all-encompassing pull toward the stranger; one that had felt both warm and frightening.

"Are you listening?" His voice pulled you from the depths of your daydreams, his face stern and brow furrowed. You cleared your throat, glancing down to your idle finger hovering over the till.  "I'm sorry, sir." An apology had left your lips before a shaking breath, though his abrasive tone would cast your words aside.  "As I said, an earl grey -" He cut himself short with the shake of his head. "And, for the love of God, make sure the water is boiling."

His narrow lips relaxed into a down-turned expression, eyes mulling you over once, and then twice. 

"Did you get that, or do I need to go elsewhere?" 

You blink, lips parting before nodding a response. "Y-yeah." Now trembling, your fingers wrap around a white cup, the other hand moving to grasp a maker pen, though stopping short of the cardboard.  "What's the name?"  "Levi." 

Levi had walked toward the collection counter, one arm crossing over the other, his sight set on your clumsy handwriting and uneasy grip.  Earl grey, boiling water.  You repeated the order to yourself as if a mantra, a tea bag plucked from box, the cup placed beneath the boiler spout. You checked the temperature dial before pouring, allowing the scolding liquid to fill his cup to almost brim, a plastic lid and cardboard sleeve placed over top.

Within a few moments, the tea had been placed on worktop, a pale hand moving to take the drink to palm. 

He didn't thank you before leaving, though with his previous demeanour, you hadn't expected him to.

When Levi had returned days later with the same request, your heart began to beat slightly faster, excitement in vein. The bell had chimed, your eyes moving from the tray of cakes under glass to greet your new customer - and there he'd stood.

As he made his way toward you, you allowed yourself to wonder if he'd returned due to an appreciation of your brew... though with the same hollow stare and frown over lip, you began to assume this shop was more for convenience than a means for enjoyment. 

Just as before, Levi stood with arms crossed and expression cold, and when you'd pushed the cup toward him, he simply turned on heel and left. A sigh escapes you as the weight on your chest suddenly alleviates.

"The weather's nice, isn't it?" 

Your attempt at small talk felt miserable, and with his grey eyes withdrawing from yours to land over countertop, you had mentally slapped yourself. This would be another memory to plague your mind, with another sorry attempt at talking to an attractive customer. 

His brow furrows as he looks to be in thought, before he finally speaks. 

"I don't like the heat." 

Your jaw slackens. For the first time in the past few weeks, the stranger had not just spoken instruction under a condescending tone, but had instead given a genuine answer to a question you had asked. The corner of Levi's mouth quirked upward at your shocked expression.

Locking up had gone well despite a few customers arriving on the minute of closing, with yourself rushing to clean machine and table. Money was counted, lights switched off, and key placed into lock before you would begin your journey home. 

Street lights illuminated your path, your shadow cast beside you as each begrudgingly slow step brings you closer to your destination. Tinny earphones supply you with a soundtrack while your mind replays the images of you jumping into bed after a long day, sheets pulled to shoulder as you would close your eyes to rest. 

The last stretch of road before your home drew closer, the concrete growing a little less clean and evened out when approaching your neighbourhood. A path you had ventured many times throughout both day and night, one you were sure you could navigate through a blindfold. You glance over the patches of grass among grey pavement, a few trees standing only slightly taller than yourself. In summer, they would bloom green leaves with wild flowers at their root, though on winter nights like this one, they would only shield the unknown.

A shadow slouches parallel to your path on the other side of the road, one with a presence you wouldn't recognise on first glance, though wouldn't yet alarm you. Seeing another at this time of night wasn't particularly unusual; a busy town on a Thursday evening had some form of nightlife, although when seeing the figure's odd gait, your feet did move slightly faster. 

There was a hint of apprehension with your movements, though you had ultimately decided on keeping your gaze straight and arriving home with haste. It wouldn't be too much farther now, though when glancing over shoulder to see the emptiness of the other side of the road, dread filled you to core. 

A sudden weight is born over your shoulder, a sharp pain in neck. Although you begin to thrash, a pair of arms hold you still, the sting of what felt to be a bite allows warmth to seep from your body, exhaustion dousing you. 

At some point, you are freed enough to allow you to stumble forward, slumping toward pavement. Your hand flies to the wound on your neck, alarm rushing through you upon the realisation you were losing a lot of blood, fingers slipping around the puncture holes to be coated in crimson. 

A numbness begins to spread through your body, a coldness enveloping you. 

You lay back to the pavement, head turning to side as you try your best to press into the injury in attempts to stop the bleeding, though with your vision turning blurry, you weren't sure how effective your weakening grasp would be. Focusing your altered vision, you can make out two figures before you, one looking to be the same hooded shadow you'd seen across the road, the second having a recognisable silhouette, though you couldn't quite put your finger on where you'd seen that coat before, and the black slacks, perfectly tailored to meet ankle -

You had blinked only once, you'd felt sure of that. But, it looked as if minutes had passed before you, the two figures now separated, one left to only a heap on the floor. There was a presence beside you, and with racing heart, you turned to meet their view. 

The stranger looks to be Levi, your crush from the shop, and over the ringing of your ears, it'd sounded a lot like him, too. Just as you'd fallen to unconsciousness, you could've sworn his eyes had changed from grey to red, two canines elongated to look much like the fangs of a vampire.

Heavy lids flutter between that of dream and reality as you stir, harsh pavement feeling much softer than you had remembered. Though as you came to, memory foam supporting your body, you were quick to realise that the warmth engulfing your body had not been that of cement floor, but a bed that hadn't felt much like your own.

With the cloud over your eyes fading, you set your sights on the plain ceiling above, with a slow drift down to the thick sheets draped over your person. Your scent had been the second to last sense to return - the smell of cedarwood and pine. 

Your home had been many things, but none of these attributes had felt at all familiar. Not a spec of dust in sight, nor blemish... The only thing that had been certain was your confusion at the current situation, and paired with the jumbled events of the night prior, you had been left to wonder how you had ended up in such room.

And finally, you are graced with the sensation of pain. 

Your neck throbbed, a tingling feeling to flow into vein, and perhaps the beginnings of a fever. There was a reluctance in your movements as your hand had made way to the wound, a withdrawal from the spot much before you'd come to cup it. Would the skin be mauled and tattered? 

Memories flash before you - thick blood pooling over your neck, the sensation of all life leaving your body. You brace yourself as your fingers finally fly to the injury, though you are left to feel dissatisfied by the bandage covering the skin; a barrier to your true condition. Previous events are farthest from vivid, though in the midst of searching your mind, you find a fragment of certainty - the stranger from the coffee shop. Black hair left to fall over brow, concerned grey eyes turning to resemble that of beast with pointed fangs. 

The wound throbbed as you remembered now, that taste of iron within your own mouth. How had that come to be?

As you sit upright, the room spins. Despite this, you allow a single leg to drop to the floor, followed shortly by the other, your weakened arms pushing from mattress to start your investigation. This home's walls had acted as your crutch as you'd moved to leave the bedroom, soon making it through the door, fingers still grazing plaster as you willingly make your way into the unknown. 

The corridor is been clean, walls plain in colour with a few paintings mounted proudly. They look to be expensive, though you don't marvel, instead moving closer to an explanation. 

"You're up." 

The words jolt you to core, eyes widening in both shock and fear as you turn to look over your shoulder, Levi standing a mere few feet from your own trembling body. One glance over his lips cause your throat to constrict, a shallow gasp pushes from chest as you felt to lose your balance, falling down onto the floor. 

You remember now, the fear you'd felt with a figure's teeth far into your throat, and how it had felt to have your very life drained from your soul.  You saw how Levi had torn your attacker from your being, only to seat himself beside you as you'd felt close to taking your last few breaths - how sporadic they'd been. 

He'd taken his own wrist to his mouth, a redness over lips as he'd pulled the appendage away only to force his mouth to yours, a red ambrosia forced over your tongue to douse your throat in burning liquid. You'd screamed against him, you'd thrashed and cried, though within only moments your eyes had felt heavy, the poison suddenly lulling you into security.

Levi despises the look you give him now, the horror and pain twisted in your face. It had been a look he'd seen few times before, though hadn't had to endure in a long while. He hadn't missed the fear he'd caused others.

"I won't hurt you." His arm raises as he takes a step toward your frightened body, voice timid. His hand reaches yours, ice cold skin wrapping over you to offer aid. Calming yourself, you stand.

"You can leave if you want." Your neck thrums as you stare at him, and if not for his sincere expression, you would have tested this offer. He squeezes gently over your fingers, mouth ajar. He knows you remember what he is, and what he'd done. You need an explanation.

"But... shit." Levi's eyes leave yours as he exhales. "There's something you need to know." You raise a brow, chest tightening. "What is it?" Anxiety courses through you as you retract your hand from his, moving it over your bandaged throat. 

"The thing that bit you," There's a waver in his voice, and a change in tone. "He took a lot of blood, and you were close to dying." You nod apprehensively. "I had to feed you my own, but it's been a while so I didn't realise..." His eyes close. "You would have died, if I didn't-" 

"I'm one of you?" Levi shifts uncomfortably before you, head tipping forward. 

"Not just that - tch." He's unable to find another way to put it, but searches his mind in desperation for an answer. The situation pains him in many ways, yet the worst factor had to be the intimacy. Levi had managed to find his way around alone until now, and with this, everything may change. 

"We - our kind... We can create bonds with others. One that can link two souls as one, or at least, sire two souls together. It means you can feel another person's presence at all times." At last, he raises his gaze from the floor, looking into your eyes. "You're now tethered to me." 

The news sinks in slowly, butterflies within your stomach as you sense the connection he speaks of. There had been some hesitance too, but this had stemmed from the limited understanding of what this label would entail, and what this existence would involve. As you stared at him, you grew used to this sensation - the feeling of his soul. It felt cold and somewhat indistinct, but when you focused your mind to it, it was there. 

"I feel different." The phrase resembled more of a whisper than a clear statement, and Levi had shared this uneasiness within himself, too. It hadn't just been this attachment, but your senses had felt heightened, sounds felt louder and colours felt brighter. As you peered over his face, drifting toward his neck, you could sense where his vein had been most open, where you want so desperately to sink your teeth. 

"I do, too." Levi searches your eyes to find an answer he wasn't sure he'd find, with a step toward you. "I can feel your very being." As he edges closer, his hand outstretched, his fingers brush over your hair, finally skimming over your cheek. 

You stare into him, and for a moment you feel yourself lean forward too, but it's as if reality takes its brittle hold over his heart, and he pulls away.  "You need to eat." The statement weighs on you, and as he strides toward another room, you feel your body ache for his touch. 

You aren't sure whether or not to follow him when he disappears, so you instead await his return, or further instruction. He reemerges not long after, a glass in hand. Only when he's closer do you notice the thickness of the glass, and the distinct red. It had been blood. 

You take a step back, breath in your throat as he pushes the glass toward you. Although you try to fight, he places a hand to the back of your head, rendering you unable to move. The glass rim is forced to your lips, the blood pouring thickly to your tongue, and you have no other choice but to swallow. 

It's bitter, and runs like honey down your throat, thick, and heavy. Despite your mental apprehension, your body reacts, gulping back the fluid with heavy eyes. When it's finished, you feel awfully satisfied. 

"Was it... human?" Although you hadn't wanted to truly know, there was a need to ask. Relief seeped through you when he shook his head, sighing.  "We source animal blood. It gets you through the day, but the hunger isn't satiated for long. You will feel a pull toward humans - you just have to fight the urge." 

"What about other beings like us?" 

Levi stirs, his expression souring. "It wouldn't quench thirst unless they had drank from a human. It's more of a... sexual act than one of hunger." 

The skin of your chest feels hot as you watch his lips form the words, and images of intimacy with Levi plague your mind. You remember the distinctness of the blood he had fed to you fresh from wrist - the twang, and the warmth. 

Moments pass by quickly as you move toward him, body acting much faster than the constraints of your mind. Imagery of his blood pooling over your tongue had flashed before your eyes as your lips met with the thick of his neck, face pulled into the crook and elongated teeth brushing the flesh. 

Levi could have stopped you, your frame much weaker than his, but he'd held back to allow you a taste. He knew the hunger too well, and paired with the guilt he'd felt for turning you, he would allow you to take more than you should.

But, you pull back sooner than he'd anticipated, skin stained crimson with his blood. He couldn't stop himself from connecting himself with you, not when you'd worn his life so beautifully over your lips.

This kiss wasn't much like the last, with your half conscious state and his frantic attempts at saving you, it hadn't felt much of a meaningful moment. Now, here with you, his body connecting with your own and the taste of his own livelihood on your lips, Levi felt freed. Freed of this lonely existence, and free from the sorrow path he'd aligned himself upon. 

His lips were cold, yet soft, slipping between your own to grow closer to you. With the initial movements there had been modesty and restraint, yet as you tasted more of him, passion had ignited. 

Levi presses his tongue to yours, hand snaking to hold the back of your head and tilt you to reach deeper limits. He swiped himself over you, roaming your mouth to try his blood mingling with your taste. 

As Levi found himself losing control against you, he held on tighter and kissed with more force and roughness - fangs clashing over yours when they find their way to scrape your bottom lip. The sensation pulls a timid hum from your chest and Levi groans in response, hardness pressing uncomfortably against his trouser as your own blood trickles into his mouth. 

At some point, you end up against a wall, Levi leaning himself against you with need, unhinged rocks of hip to find friction against your clothed body. Pulling back breathlessly, his hand remains upon your cheek.  "I can't control myself around you." His voice is smooth against your ear, lips grazing the skin of your cheek.  "You don't have to." Your words are quiet but he hears them clearer than day, humming against you. 

He takes a step back to regain composure, and you are left to look to him with doe eyes, a tightness in your chest with burning desire. Silently, Levi takes your hand, leading you back into the room you had awoken in not too long ago, stopping beside the bed. His hand runs from yours to trail over your arm, stopping at your shoulder. 

"At least allow me to take you within a bed - I would have fucked you against that wall if you'd have let me." 

Heat prickles your body at his words, though cool air soon meets warmth as he undresses you, discarding your clothes with his own over the floor before you're on the mattress beneath him. 

Levi found it difficult to restrain himself from marking your skin, instead dragging teeth over neck, or flicking tongue to kiss flesh. Your fingers laced within his hair, gently tugging him back to your lips, kissing him with fervour. Saliva glides from your tongue to his, but he drinks it back as if depraved, intoxicated within your taste. You could feel his frenzied state worsening as he licks and nips over you, a clear need to have you in more ways than one. Blood had been a vampire's hunger, both in ways of food and passion, and you had wanted to play with fire.

"You can..." Your confidence fizzles quickly on tongue as you meet his eye, a new wave of anxiety washing over your body. Red irises stare back at you, though in sensing your unease, they slowly fade back to grey. "You can drink from me." The permission you grant to him is one rooted in edge, your muscles tensing when awaiting his reply. 

A puff of air leaves his nose in what feels to be amusement.  "You don't know what you're offering." There's a seriousness in his voice, led by his own reluctance.  "I know you were thinking about it." A stillness warms the room as the statement leaves you.

He shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss you. This time, the movements are languid, a slow-moving pace to instead take time in roaming the mouth of the other. As fluid had been swapped between each tongue, it grows thicker, and a moan catches within your throat. 

Fingertips had breached the hem of your underwear at a point in time you can't quite pin, but you permit the tugging of fabric to drag past your knee, exposing yourself to the cursed being before you. His gaze drops to the bareness before him, a stripe over folds with his fingers. Levi allows his lips to hover over your flesh before he finally lowers himself between thigh, palms spreading you wider to make room for his face. He delves forward, tongue meeting with hardened bud to swirl circles over you.

His name passes your lips, back arching, and Levi rolls his hips over the comforter for some form of relief. As his tongue flicks over you, you are left to whine beneath his touch, hand entrapping your mouth in an attempt to muffle the mews spewing from you. Fingertips brushed your entrance, ring and middle circling the hole before finally teasing in, and you writhe in his sheets. When you roll yourself over his tongue he groans, fingers curving. 

"Fuck, don't stop." Panting, you beg his mercy, feeling close to falling over the edge. He scissors his fingers slightly, stretching you as he moves them in and out, and with the way his tongue is moving you're unable to restrain from the high you begin to feel. He adds a third, and you scream out in relief, stuttering hips as you come undone beneath him. 

When you come down, he's already on his knees with his cock free, pushing the head against your throbbing clit.  "Ever since I saw you in that shitty shop, I've pictured you beneath me."  His head is rubbing against your slit to gather the juices left, and a shaky breath leaves your lips. Levi places his fingers on your chin to tilt your mouth open, watching your face contort in confusion. 

He spits between your parted lips before closing your lips, edging himself into you while looking within your eye.  "Swallow." The command was impossible to defy, so you do as he requests, watching as his lips quirk into a smirk.

Levi forces his length forward, thickness finally nestled within your walls. He rocks himself gently at first, though soon looses himself within you as your chest rises and falls at rapid pace, body welcoming his every inch. Your gaze drops to his fangs, finger reaching toward them in curiosity, allowing your skin to be pierced by the needle like ends. Blood rushes to the small puncture, only a pinprick, though Levi was quick to respond, his tongue darting from lip to taste the crimson offering.

With one taste, he craved more. After the sire bond, your blood had tasted uniquely different, reflecting more of his own. He's unable to stop himself from biting into your wrist, puncturing vein and wrapping his mouth around the source. He groans deeply, eyes rolling upward as he ruts his hips much harsher than he'd done before, allowing himself to indulge within your taste. 

When he removes himself from your skin, a single droplet rolls from wrist to elbow - but Levi cannot allow the smallest amount of your nectar to waste, his tongue darting along the length to leave not a stain over your arm.

His cock twitches inside you as your head tilts back in pleasure, legs tightening around him. He can feel himself grow closer to release, though has one last offering to you. 

Levi brings his finger to fang, piercing the skin in a similar fashion to your prior display, placing the digit straight to your lip. He smears his blood over your lips, and you too mimic his actions from before, eyes locking with his own as you wrap your lips around his finger, sucking before the pop of your lips releases him.

You pull his face to yours, pushing the mixture of blood and saliva to his mouth. He groans in reply, much deeper than before, thrusts growing messy as he allows your tongue to dance with his. Levi's breaths were sporadic as he came within you, pushing himself as far as he could, squeezing over your flesh as his body ached.

The veil over his eye had began to lift as he laid himself beside you, brain no longer clouded - though he still felt an unusual lull of safety within your presence. He pinned it to the sire bond, soothing him into trusting your soul as it had linked with his own. 

If his heart had still beat, he was sure it would feel differently while in your presence, and for the first time in decades, he allows himself to wonder what life would be like if he was still human. 

"Earlier, when you told me I could leave," The silence was broken with our voice, still hoarse. "I didn't want to." There was a small dip in your words as you fought with your own understanding of the situation. "Why? Why do I feel this way toward you when you're still a stranger?" 

He exhales, staring up at the ceiling. "It's the bond." His words won't offer much insight as he barely understands it himself, though he feels himself needing to comfort you. "I brought you back here to rest, but only when you'd awoken had I realised what had happened." 

"How will this work?" Your words are gentle, but the question hangs stagnant in the air.

"I don't know, this is a first for me."

a/n: for some reason, after a break in writing, staying in present tense felt really hard?? please excuse me if i messed up, i feel like this is so inconsistent

[pedrito-friskito]

disobedient - miguel o’hara x fem!reader (spidersona)

do you get off on disobeying me?

a/n: I regret fuck all folks. part 1 of 2 (no clue when part 2 will happen but it will). special shouts to @psychedelic-ink, @inklore, and @splendiferous-bitch for feeding my miguel obsession and being the best ❤️‍🔥

word count: 6.5k

warnings: oh mama. sex pollen, unprotected p-in-v, rough sex, desperate miguel, multiple orgasms, in a shocking twist a whole lotta exposition cuz I gotta make the fucking make sense, y’know?

✨@friskito-library for new works✨

You’re not supposed to do this.

You’re not supposed to be here, period, but the notion hasn’t stopped you thus far. It’s just gonna make him more pissed off than he normally is, but pissing Miguel O’Hara off has quickly climbed to the top of your list of talents, and you’re content to continue doing as you please.

Especially if it means he’ll keep glowering at you with those eyes of his.

+

It threw you off initially — him, in general. Unfairly large, all rippling muscle and too-tiny waist, the hip-to-shoulder ratio of a Dorito chip and retractable claws you’ve seen more than once now. Not to mention an ass that looks like it was sculpted by a god. But it was the eyes that caught your attention, when you caught him glowering at you from a shadowy corner, like a predator hunting its prey.

“You gonna keep gawking,” you’d asked, “or come say hello like a normal person?”

Neither of you fit that category — normal people, boring — and he’d ignored your quip, actually growling at you as he stalked out of the shadows and brushed past you, bumping your shoulder in the process, and your brow had lifted at the way his suit seemed to ripple with the impact, forming and reforming against his skin. You saw it all, thanks to your spider-tacular vision, and your next thought after I want to sink my teeth into that ass, was I need to get my hands on that fabric.

Six months later, and no dice. You’ve been bouncing between Earth 928 and whatever dimension suits your fancy since Miguel first brought you here. How you convinced him to hand over one of his fancy bracelets, you’ll never truly know, but you have a distinct feeling the nature of your first meeting was what prompted him to give you access to the multi-verse — along with a slew of rules you more often than not turned your nose up at.

It also probably has something to do with the fact that you didn’t leave Nueva York for the first month. You holed up in the room he provided, ate the food he left by the door, and slept your days away, ignoring the too-bright world outside the windows, content to waste away to nothing. You couldn’t go home, what did it matter anyway?

Enter Miguel O’Hara and his incredibly bite-able ass.

When he first found you on the rooftop, cornered you near the fire escape, you’d gone snarky, despite the rumble in your bones, the betrayal that had cut you to the core, the looming fact that shit had just hit the fan and nothing was ever going to be the same again. 

And then Mister Grumpy steps through a fucking portal and tells you he can save you. He can’t fix what happened, but he can take you somewhere they won’t find you again, a haven of sorts. For a moment, you reeled — how could you know for sure that you could trust him? You almost asked him as much, but then the blanket of realization swept over you: there was nothing left for you on Earth 374. The spider on his chest was clue enough that you were on the right track. Sure, his was bright red on dark blue, whereas your own was navy against slate grey, but the similarities were close enough, namely the giant fucking spider.

The door to the rooftop had jiggled and Miguel swept a hand out, shooting webbing at the handle, keeping it shut. “Clock’s ticking, princesa,” he told you, the nickname said almost tauntingly. “Offer’s about to expire.”

You knew there had to be other spider-people out there in the universe, you just hadn’t imagined them to be so…large.

Or demanding, you’d learn later. Or asshole-ish. Sigh.

“Get me the fuck outta here,” you answered, and that was that. You were standing in his lab in Nueva York a moment later, and the jolt of multi-dimensional travel had you puking your guts all over the glossy floor. Faintly, you’d heard Miguel’s grunt of disdain.

“Lyla, get someone to clean this up,” he said, and his hand curled around your arm a moment later, hauling you to your feet like a rag doll. “You’ll get used to it,” he told you. “The jumping. I did the same thing after my first time.”

You were too out of it to know if he was actually being nice, or if the subtle lift to the corner of his mouth was just amusement at your expense.

“Yeah, well, warn a girl next time, would you?”

But you did get used to it. Once you managed to get your ass out of bed and back into your suit, you were soon away from the Spider Society more than you were there. For the first couple weeks, Miguel hadn’t said a word, apparently content to let you go where you pleased, barely questioning you when you deigned to return. Then, it was like a switch was flipped, and he was up your ass — and not in a fun, sexy way. He wanted reports on each of your jumps, timelines and activity breakdowns. He wanted lists of targets, reasons behind them, background checks. All things you knew he could easily get himself, but you also didn’t have the guts to tell him that since he’d saved you from Earth 374, you hadn’t actually…helped…anyone.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. Your first solo jump you’d managed to find a few bank robberies and a mugging happening within a few blocks of each other. Clearly, you’d picked a gem of a universe, and while you’d managed to web up the bandits in the vault, something in you had frozen when you tried to track down the mugger. The scene unfolded on the street below and you just…shut down.

The rest of your trips were spent just exploring. You swung your way through cities, camped out on rooftops, just watching the normal people go about their lives down below. You noted the differences between that universe and your own, tried to remember where all the puzzle pieces fit, even though you were looking at a different picture.

And it’s that curiosity, that quiet desperation to know more, that has you padding out of your room in the Spider Society tower, overriding the elevator that’ll take you up to Miguel’s lab. His currently empty lab. The man himself has been away on a scouting mission for nearly forty-eight hours, and you’re not expecting him back for another twenty-four, which gives you more than enough time to satisfy that annoying voice in the back of your head that wants to know how they’re doing.

It’s late. The world outside the tower is dark, the sky an inky black, streaked with light shades, dotted with stars. You’d be a fool not to find Earth 928 and Nueva York beautiful in their own strange, overly modern ways, but even six months in, it’s hard to think of it as home.

But you know why. It’s because it’s not. 

You’d lasted a few days before you started glitching, and being cooped up in your room, you assumed you’d be able to hide it from Miguel. Part of you feared that if he knew something was wrong with you, he’d send you back to 374, and then what would happen to you?

You went to sleep worrying it over in your mind, and woke up to a complicated-looking watch sitting on the nightstand beside your bed. A hastily scrawled note stuck to it.

Put it on. It’ll help.

As soon as you did, the device beeped to life, a holographic screen jumping up, telling you the date and time and a myriad of other pieces of information. And then—

“Hiya, toots! I’m Lyla.”

You were confused as hell by the AI at first, but you quickly realized how useful she was, even more knowledgeable than Miguel, not that she’d ever admit it. And, in all honesty, you were a fan of the gab sessions. When Miguel wasn’t working her overtime, she’d beep her way through your watch for a good chat, perch herself on your pillow in the days you were still a shut-in, and when you started to make your way through the multi-verse, she was quick to point out the must-sees wherever you were.

She ran out quickly when she realized you were visiting the same place, just a different universe.

+

The doors to Miguel’s lab whoosh open at your approach, bare feet padding along the glass floor, and as you pause, getting yourself a cup of coffee from the forever-full carafe he keeps far away from the supercomputer, your watch pings to life, and the AI herself glitters into existence.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

You ignore her at first, fixing your coffee the way you like it, flicking the stir stick into the trash before bringing the cup to your lips. It’s not until you start toward the computer and the large platform that houses it, that you answer her.

“Nothin’.”

She groans. “That’s a load of shit and we both know it.”

“He’s not here,” you say, shrugging a shoulder as you step onto the platform. The screens hum to life as you drag one hand across the infrared keyboard and when you glance over your shoulder, Lyla’s staring at you over the top of her heart-shaped glasses. “What he won’t know won’t hurt him.”

“And you really think doing exactly what he told you not to do is the best idea?”

You sigh, sipping your coffee as you sink into the chair, rolling yourself close to the computers. Miguel rarely uses the chair, apparently content to just stand and stare all broodingly at the screens. You only watched him — caught him — do this once, but when you caught on to what was happening, you filed the information away. He’d given you hell for snooping around, though you teased that he was just pissed you’d managed to sneak up on him, and according to Lyla, nobody does that.

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you pause. He did tell you, rather specifically, not to do what you’re about to do. He didn’t tell you why, wouldn’t give an inch when you pressed him, but he was firm.

No good will come of it.

+

Earth 473. Not an identical twin to your home universe, but a very close sibling. The differences were so small, so scarce, that you truly thought you’d stumbled back to 374 accidentally, and you’d nearly jumped back to Nueva York, heart in your throat. But then something caught your eye, and you froze.

Across the way, teetering at the edge of the rooftop, was Spider-Man.

His suit was the opposite of yours, the spider grey and the suit navy. You could feel him staring right back at you, even at the distance, and as you stared back, he lifted his hand. For a moment you thought he might wave, your own fingers twitching to return the gesture, but then it continued up, gripping the back of his mask and yanking it from his bed.

You saw his mouth form the words, heard them like a whisper in the air.

“You’re alive.”

Your frozen heart dropped into your toes.

It was Peter. Your Peter, the one you’d left behind on Earth 374, your best friend, the one who…who…

You didn’t have it in you to finish the thought. It was all the evidence you needed to know that this universe was not yours. You were the only Spider-Person on 374, and your Peter wasn’t…he couldn’t…

You’d stumbled backward, blindly grabbing for your watch, suddenly desperate to be back in the SS tower. But then you paused, your fingers twitching on the dials and digits.

And you almost went exactly where you weren’t supposed to. Like a reflex. Shaking yourself, you punched in 928, everything in you twisting and turning as you stepped through the portal.

Miguel was waiting. He’d been watching you, paying close attention to that particular jump, and had used the link through your watch to see what you saw. The opposite-but-mirror image on the rooftop.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice low, that deep timbre that still managed to catch you off guard. “The multi-verse doesn’t work that way.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking,” you spat back, shrugging off his hand when he tried to grab your arm. “You have no idea what I’m feeling.”

His face had gone feral. Those carmine eyes flaring, staring down his nose at you while you just stared right back, defiant. You went to step past him, and he caught you again, this time his longer fingers wrapping around your forearm, the tell-tale prick of his talons biting through your suit.

“I know a fuck load more than you seem to think,” he snarled, dragging you close to he was in your face. “In case you forgot, I’ve been at this a hell of a lot longer than you have, and what you saw out there, what it means to you, I know exactly where your mind went. And I am telling you: the multi-verse does not work like that.”

“What am I thinking?” you spat back, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that shot through your arm as you got even closer, leaning up on your toes. “If you’re so fucking knowledgeable, tell me.”

He released you, then. The pain in your arm dissipated as quickly as it had come, and his eyes went…soft. Thoughtful.

Sympathetic.

“You’re thinking,” he started, inhaling deeply, rubbing two fingers between his brows as he spoke, “that you could go back there, to 473, and make a life for yourself. The same family, the same friends, the same life. They lost their version of you, so why not fill her shoes? Find some semi-logical explanation, hide your powers, live your life. Am I close?”

You almost stumbled backward, the truth of his words sending you reeling. You bumped into his desk instead, knocking a cup of coffee over, and neither of you said a word as the dark liquid spread across the desktop, dripping off the edge and onto the floor.

Miguel took a half-step toward you, then turned slightly, looking over the curve of his shoulder at you. Something in you longed to press your forehead against his frame, search for some kind of support, but you stayed stuck still.

“I know,” he continued, turning his head, staring straight ahead, “because I did exactly the same thing. And I lost everything.”

+

His words echo through your mind now, the deep tone you’ve gotten very familiar with, and you shake your head, clearing away the cobwebs he’s left in your head. “This is different,” you say aloud, partially to Lyla, partially to yourself. “I’m not going there, I’m just…checking in.”

The AI rolls her eyes at you and snaps her gum. “I said it once and I’ll say it again: load of shit.”

Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in the codes to find what you’re looking for. You haven’t been back to 473 since that jump; Miguel had forbade it after your spat, and even went so far as to block your watch from taking you there. You thought he was being unreasonable, and he reiterated that he was actually trying to keep you safe.

No good will come of it.

You hit the final key, and the images start to fade in. You can just barely make out the shape of her — of you — when the screens go black. Your breath catches in your throat as a large hand comes down on your shoulder, gripping tightly, though you don’t feel the pricks of his talons.

“Do you get off on disobeying me?”

The words are almost a purr, the opposite of the tone you’re expecting, and from the corner of your eye, you see Lyla blip from existence. It makes goosebumps rise on your skin, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end as he leans in, hot breath on your ear.

“If I make you cum, will that make you more obedient? Hm?”

“What the fu—” you start, trying to whirl around, but his grip on you is solid, warm palm following the curve of your shoulder until his fingers are wrapping themselves around your throat. It’s a welcome weight, sparks of electricity shooting down your limbs, your thighs rubbing together to relieve the instant pressure. “Mmm.”

His thumb presses down on your racing pulse, and you’re suddenly aware of how warm he is. He’s…too warm. But you have to admit, the way he’s holding you…it’s nice. Really nice.

“Miguel,” you start, trying to turn again, but he fits his face into the bare side of your neck, lips grazing the thin skin. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

“Mission went south,” he mumbles against you, his tongue darting past his lips and dragging along your skin. It makes your eyes roll back, but…

Where is this coming from?

He should be furious with you. He caught you red-handed, no questions about it. You weren’t expecting him to find you in the first place, but now that he has, you’re expecting a screaming match, toddler-level foot-stomping and possibly being thrown over his ridiculously large shoulder and being tossed into your room like a rag doll. Locked up like Rapunzel until you start listening to his brand of reasoning. You’re expecting a blowout.

You’re not expecting this.

He huffs in your ear as his lips graze the sensitive skin beneath it, his words spoken into the shell, tongue catching on your earring. “You smell delicious, cariño.”

The pet name makes you shiver. “Mig,” you say again, your hand covering his as his other arm wraps around your middle, pulling you back against his chest. “What are you doing?”

His heart is racing, so hard that you can feel the heavy thump of it against your spine. It’s too fast, even for him, you know that much. His fingers curl against your stomach, talons poking out and shredding your shirt to strips. You gasp as the fabric falls away.

“Miguel.” You make your voice as stern as possible. It’s not that you don’t want him to touch you like this, it just seems so sudden, so out of character, and you—

He wrenches himself away from you, the heady warmth of him suddenly gone, and you whirl, hand flying up to grip your neck as the sound of him crashing into the wall reaches your ears. His fingers are leaving indents in the metal, talons scratching deep, and you gulp as you realize you’re lucky he didn’t just accidentally slit your throat.

Whatever’s happening, he’s not himself.

“Mig,” you call, wiping your bloody hand on your sweats, crossing the distance he’s put between you. “Would you just talk t—”

“NO!” he roars, throwing a hand out in front of himself. You can see his large frame shake as he sinks down against the wall, long tears in the metal forming in his wake. “Keep your distance.”

Your brow lifts. “Says the man who was literally crawling up my ass three seconds ago.” You ignore him, taking another step, ignoring the way his words ring through your head. Do you get off on disobeying me?

Yeah…maybe you do. Just a little bit.

You crouch down low, getting on his level. “Mig, tell me what happened.”

“Don’t call me that,” he spits, staring you down for a moment before forcing his head to the side, an action that looks like it takes a lot of effort. “Just…go to your room, leave me be.”

“You telling me not to call you that just makes me wanna call you that more.” You shift onto your knees, inching a little closer. “I can’t leave you be, not when you just put a bunch of holes in the wall,” you lift your hand to your throat, where the scratches he left are already almost gone, “and almost in me. Tell me what happened.”

He tilts his head back against the wall, still turned away from you, one crimson eye looking your way. “Mierda, you’re stubborn.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you didn’t know that already. Talk.”

“Earth 1365-7,” he starts, eyes fluttering shut. His eyelashes are unfair, you think to yourself, the way they fan out across his even more unfair cheekbones. “I ended up in their version of OSCORP, some testing centre. Different serums and gases and…they were trying to weaponize a kind of paralytic that’s found in certain spider venom.”

His tongue pokes out after he says the word venom, tracing the tips of his fangs, and you swallow hard.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

You shake your head, silencing the thought.

“And you stopped them?” you prompt, when he doesn’t go further, instead inhaling deeply and scrubbing a hand down his face.

“I did,” he tells you, but there’s no trace of triumph in his voice or on his face. “But I stumbled into one of the other labs, and as soon as I did…” He trails off, body shifting against the floor, and it’s impossible to miss the ripple in his skin-tight suit, the way he props one knee up, blocking your view of his crotch. “It was some sort of plant that they’d been researching. The pollen, it raises a person’s heart rate, skyrockets it, and muddles their senses. If left untreated, it can kill them.”

You stare at him hard. “What’s the treatment, Miguel?”

“The side effects,” he continues, ignoring your question. “Heightened blood pressure, extremely sensitive skin, lowered inhibitions, and���”

“Mig, would you just tell me?”

“Arousal,” he finishes, and you freeze. “Intense arousal. I didn’t mean to jump on you like that, I just…The only way to treat it is to…”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but the implication is clear, along with the intense reminder of how he was pressed against you.

You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, shrugging a shoulder, trying like hell to look non-committal, like your skin isn’t still tingling in all the places he touched you. “Lowered inhibitions, like you said.”

He doesn’t say anything so much as hum in response, his head lolling to the side again. His eyes are fire when they open again, landing on you and pinning you in place. It makes your breath hitch again, palms lowering to rest on your thighs.

“You need to get out of here, cariño,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky, fingers tapping against his bent knee. “I need to deal with this.”

You’ve inched a bit closer to him, you realize, your traitorous body giving you away.

“How are you gonna deal with it?” you ask, barely above a whisper. Every inch of you is tingling now, not just the places he touched, and the way he tilts his head back again and groans is not helping matters. “Maybe I should…help.”

His eyes flash to you, pools of red, pupils blown big as dinner plates. “You want to…help.”

“You said this could kill you,” you continue, leaning forward until your palms hit the floor. “Someone should…keep an eye on you, y’know. Make sure you…y’know, don’t.”

“How articulate of you.”

“Fuck off.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rumbly, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders shake even after the laughter has stopped. His breathing is shaky too, you can hear it from where you’re crouched. Worry threads through the lust that’s seemingly replaced your blood, and you slide even closer to him, until there’s maybe two feet between you.

“I don’t want you to die.” The words hang heavy in the air and the truth of them twists your guts. Stubborn ass he may be, but he’s done nothing but protect you since he found you back on Earth 374. You…care. You care a lot.

“Lyla can keep an eye on me,” he spits, but you just get closer.

“So she can wipe her hard drive and clean her eyes with soap afterward?” you joke. “I can’t leave you like this, Mig. Can AIs even use soap?”

“Don’t call me that,” he says again.

“Let me help you,” you say, the words coming easier, firmer. “You know that I can.”

You close the distance completely, your knees bumping the side of his thigh and your hand covering his on the floor. The fabric of his suit recedes, revealing his hands, and your fingers brush over his knuckles. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you tell him, leaning back on your heels, lifting your other hand to pull his bent knee straight. “You need help, and I’m offering it.”

He groans again.

“I’ve owed you, this whole time,” you continue, resting your hand on his shin as his leg rests on the floor. It takes everything in you not to let your eyes wander up to the space between his hips, but you manage. “You saved my life; let me save yours.”

The spider made you strong, made you fast, but Miguel…He’s so large, so imposing, and the moment his hands land on your body, you know he’s been holding back from you.

He maneuvers you into his lap, your knees resting against his hips. In an instant you can feel him, the hard prod of his cock against your cunt, separated only by the thin fabric of your pants and the rippling material of his suit. Miguel groans as he fits his face into your neck, talons pressing into your hips as the suit melts away, every inch of his golden skin suddenly on display. It’s overwhelming and your blood heats, unable to bite back the moan that slips free when he pulls your hips against his, the pressure between you exactly what you need it to be.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he grits out, his hips lifting off the floor as he chases your body, as you chase each other. “This is just…”

“I’m helping,” you breathe out, your hands curling around his shoulders as you settle into his lap. Well, not so much as settle as twitch, the fabric of your shirt riding up as his hands move up your sides, curling around your ribs. “This is only about keeping you alive.”

“Alive,” he repeats, and you bite your lip, feeling his fingers curl into your shirt. “You have no fucking idea how…”

“God, shut up,” you groan, gripping his face in your hands, claiming his mouth for your own. The sound of tearing fabric reaches your ears as your lips meet his and he growls at you, shredding your shirt and tossing the fabric away, leaving you bare from the waist up. His hands drop to your ass then, tugging at your pants and you bite his bottom lip. “You could just ask nicely, you know.”

He just grunts in response, effectively splitting the elastic band and pulling the rest of your clothes away. You’re completely naked now, perched in his lap, and your skin heats in every spot you’re pressed to him. Which is basically everywhere. “I’ll get you new ones,” he grits, and you roll your eyes, biting at his lip again. 

There’s little ceremony to it. Miguel drags you along him a few times, the feel of him prodding between your legs lighting a fire in you. You can feel how big he is, but you busy yourself with his mouth, your knees pressing against his hips. One of his hands skims down your back, curving around your hip and sliding two fingers through your folds. It makes you keen, a moan ripping from your throat when he presses those fingers into you.

“Wet,” he grunts against your mouth, his breath stuttering as you clench around his digits. You rock your hips into his hand, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging until his head tips back.

“Take what you need,” you say, and for once, he listens to you.

The feeling of his fingers pulling out leaves you aching, but you’re not left waiting for long. He presses against the small of your back, tilting your hips, and then he’s inside you, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth motion. The sheer fullness that sweeps through you is almost too overwhelming, and your breath whooshes out of you as your chest slams into his. You can feel the way his heart is racing, the rapid thump beneath his sternum nearly vibrating against your own.

This doesn’t mean anything, you remind yourself, circling your hips as he plants his feet, bends his knees. He holds you up slightly, giving just enough space between you for him to thrust up into you, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. This is just…helping. I’m just being helpful.

You’re just…quickly reaching the most intense orgasm you’ve had in a hot second.

He keeps hammering into that same spot, the lab filling with the sound of his skin on yours, your panting breaths, and Miguel’s grunts. It’s fucking euphoric, your head falling back between your shoulders. “Mig, I—”

“Not yet,” he growls, and suddenly you’re being lifted, the heavy weight of him still pressed inside you. Your grip on each other is firm, and Miguel moves quickly, sweeping you out of the lab and through the door that leads to his room. You barely get a breath in before your back hits his mattress and he’s towering over you, his big hands curled around your thighs, kneeling so he can prop your ass up. The angle lets him drive deeper and you throw your arms over your head, curling your fingers in his bedsheets, trying to find some leverage.

One of his hands moves over you, palm grazing your stomach before moving down. He thumbs at your clit, dragging another moan out of you, his brow going hard. You have a better look at his face now, his expression pinched, eyes trained on where he’s pounding into you. His skin is damp with sweat, a sheen on his forehead, his mouth hanging open. You swear you can see his pulse jumping in his throat.

“Want you to cum, princesa,” he nearly begs, and the hitch in his voice makes goosebumps rise all over your body. “So. Fucking. Tight.” He punctuates each word with a deep thrust and everything in you goes impossibly tighter.

“This is about you,” you pant out, clawing at his sheets. “I don’t need—”

But you do. You really fucking do, but something about admitting that to him right here and now feels…wrong. It twists your gut in a not-so-fun way.

“I don’t care, I need you to cum,” he growls, releasing his grip on your thigh to grab at your chin, forcing your eyes on his. “Now.”

Suddenly, your body is not your own. It responds instantly to his command, a string threading your muscles drawing tight as a bow before snapping entirely. Your back arches against the mattress, so hard it just brings you closer to him and Miguel drops his head, dragging his nose up the middle of your chest. It courses through your entire body, your hips lifting entirely off the bed to chase him, to keep him buried within you.

He groans as you cum, the sound the only thing you’re aware of besides the pleasure setting your body on fire. There’s a ringing in your ears, your muscles going lax as you start to come down, but he doesn’t stop. One of your hands floats to his hair, tangling the sweat-damp strands around your knuckles and you can feel his growl shake your ribs.

“More,” he grits, raking his hands down your sides, gripping your hips again. You inhale sharply as his head turns, skirting across your chest to take your nipple between his lips. The pace is relentless, your body growing tight again with his movements. He’s playing you like a fucking fiddle, and you’re the first to admit you’re loving every second of it.

You manage to open your eyes, the pleasure receding just enough for you to regain some of your faculties.

He’s staring right back.

It makes you flinch, jolting in his grasp as his lips draw back, revealing one pointed fang. You shiver as he drags the tip of it around your nipple.

“Again.”

And again, your body obeys. This time it sneaks up on you more than barrels through you, making you throw your head back against the mattress. “Fuck, Miguel.” Your nails dig against his scalp, tugging at his hair, revelling in the noise it pulls out of him. You want to record it, put it on repeat, set it as your fucking ringtone. How the fuck is he doing this? This was supposed to be about him.

Not that you’re not enjoying yourself. Quite the opposite.

He’s still staring at you, peering up at you from where he’s bent against your chest. There’s something in those ridiculous eyes, something you have no name for, and you force your eyes away, moving them down his body, to where you can see him still driving into your cunt, the length of him slick with you. The sight alone makes you clench, and when you do, he curses under his breath.

“Where…?” he grits, the hoarseness in his voice drawing your eyes back up to his face.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your heart twists in your chest at the sight, reaching up to swipe your hand across his sweaty forehead. “Does it hurt?”

“I need…” He trails off, leaning into your touch, turning his head and nipping at your wrist, at your pulse. “Where can I…?”

“Wherever you want,” you pant, gasping as he drives as deep as inhumanly possible, moving you further up the bed. “Whatever you need to—”

You’re cut off by the roar that echoes through the room. He buries his face in your neck as it happens, most of his weight dropping onto you, hips pinning yours to the bed, chest pressed to yours. He pulls out at the last second, cock sliding through the hinge of your thigh, cum spurting hot against your stomach. He doesn’t seem to care about the mess he’s making of you both, his entire body covering yours as he shudders his way through it.

It feels like it lasts forever. His limbs go taut and then loose, his breath quickening and then slowing against the shell of your ear. You don’t know what else to do except hold him through it, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, one hand finding his hair once more. It’s like his release is chasing the pollen from his system, his superhuman body returning to his brand of normal. He babbles through some of it, grunts and moans and something that sounds almost like your name murmured in your ear.

You just hold him.

Eventually, he seems to come back to himself. You’re loathe to admit you’re revelling in the feel of him against you, the way his hands are tangled in your hair against his pillows. The weight of him is…it’s nice. It’s really fucking nice.

It’s too nice.

You wait a few minutes, wait for him to find his bearings, to peel himself away from you, but it never comes. He’s a solid weight on top of you, and while you’ve been listening to his erratic breathing, waiting for it to even out, you realize that it’s gone…slow. He’s asleep.

“Mig,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, tugging softly at his hair. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. He’s dead to the world, his slow breaths turning to quiet snores in your ear. Carefully, inch by inch, you slide your way out from under him. You freeze when he rolls onto his side, his breath hitching for a moment, but it evens out again and you slip off the edge of his bed.

Your clothes are toast, the shreds of fabric scattered on the floor of the lab, so you slip into his closet, finding a t-shirt that’s way too big for you. You definitely don’t inhale the scent that clings to it as you slip it over your head.

Your steps are quiet as you pad back into his bedroom, leaned up on your toes as you peer at him. Still asleep, hasn’t so much as moved from the spot you left him. You draw closer, your fingers curled around the hem of his t-shirt.

He doesn’t move an inch as you reach for his wrist, easily slipping the watch off his wrist and replacing it with your own. The too-big band of his adjusts to your size as you close the latch around your wrist, turn on your heel, and scurry from the room, through the lab, shooting a web up at the ceiling and launching yourself up to the next floor, the level your room is on.

You don’t make a sound as you pack your bag, reluctantly shrugging out of Miguel’s t-shirt to put your suit on, stuffing it into your bag with handfuls of clothes, whatever random shit your muddled mind has decided you need to take with you.

It felt too nice.

You know what would happen, you’ve decided, if you stay. You’d drift off, there in his bed, enveloped by his broad frame, half-drunk off the scent of him. You’d get the best sleep of your life, and when you woke the next morning, he’d be there, staring down his nose at you, the desperate man that had pulled pleasure from your body like it was his damn day job replaced with the grumpy fuck that plucked your last nerve like a guitar string.

The problem was that you knew exactly what he’d say to you:

This doesn’t mean anything.

The problem is that you’ve grown to care too much for him, grumpy, desperate, and all things in between.

Lyla makes an appearance as you sling your bag over your shoulder, keying in the universe you want to jump to, Miguel’s watch not locked out the same way yours is. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

You lift a brow as she cocks her digital hip at you. “You want me to answer that? So you can tell me I’m full of shit?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Can AIs make promises?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Technically speaking.”

“Don’t tell him where I am,” you ask, pleading. “Please?”

“He’ll find out anyway,” she tells you, shaking her head, heart-shaped glasses slipping down her nose. Her eyes are big as she stares at you over the rims. “He’s smarter than you give him credit for. I know he’s a grumpy asshole ninety-nine percent of the time, but he—”

“Lyla, please.”

She sighs, sliding the glasses back up. “He won’t hear it from me.”

“Thank you.”

The portal crackles to life, that familiar tug in your stomach as you step toward it. Lyla fades from view as you take another step, and you ignore the echo of Miguel’s voice calling your name, and step through completely.

[mncxbe]

could you write about akutagawa eating out reader while holding her thighs open 🤭

I was so giddy when I saw your request. Hope you like it anon cuz I sure loved writing it♡♡ also tysm for 500+ followers love you all so much♡♡

°☆●

Dripping•

𝑨𝒌𝒖𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒘𝒂 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎! 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑮𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: smut♡/ girl dinner

Eyes rolling back in your skull, fingers entangling in his raven hair as you pulled him closer to your aching core; all you could think about was how good his tongue felt.

"Shit Ryuu I'm gonna~" you babbled out as the grip on his hair tightened, trembling thighs squeezing his head, causing your boyfriend to hiss.

His hands slid up to the middle of your legs and pushed down harshly, ripping a sultry moan from your lips.

"Didn't I tell you to keep them open, hm?" he said in a low, ragged voice that made you clench around nothing.

" 'm sorry love sorry. Please don't stop" you pleaded; and what could he do except indulge you?

His tongue pressed flat against your puffy clit as his right hand reluctantly unclenched from your thigh and went to your sopping hole, slender fingers gently working you open. Each thrust of his digits sent you to heaven and back, eliciting needy whines and pleas of more and more from you.

And oh, how he adored your sounds, a symphony of praise he so desperately craved. On days like this when planets alligned in the most unfortunate way: a mission with the weretiger followed by unbearably long meetings with the Port Mafia higher-ups- your mewls were the only thing that managed to drown his racing thoughts and calm his nerves.

And still, you just wouldn't let him do his job. Each time his tongue would ever so slightly lap at your aching clit your thighs would close around his head, preventing him from eating you out. Naturally, he hated that; he just wanted to make both of you feel good but you couldn't help yourself now, could you?

Akutagawa's patience finally came to an end when you pressed your legs together for the nth time and he pulled his head away from your core. His slate grey eyes met yours.

"You just can't do as you're told?" he said lowly before summoning Rashōmon.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, eyelids fluttering as the black tendrils wrapped tightly around your plush thighs, forcing them open.

"What are y-" you tried to speak but were cut off by the warm feeling of Akuatagwa's tongue on your clit.

"Relax baby. Lemme finish what I'm doing" he spoke sweetly and you felt your back arch at the sound of his tender words.

Baby. He never used such terms of endearment for he deamed them fatuous. But now, lost as he was in the pleasure he was granting you those things didn't matter anymore.

He was messily sliding his tongue along your dripping cunt, fingers pumping in and out of you at a relentless pace.

Mindless mewls and moans rolled off your lips as your fingers gripped his black tufts again, pulling him closer as you felt your orgasm building up; a sweet, tingling sensation in your lower belly.

And naturally, your boyfriend was so blisfully aware of your reactions. His lips, chin and fingers were fully glazed in your juices as he kept working you closer to your high. With each desperate tug at his hair, Rashōmon's tendrils would wrap tighter around your legs, keeping them in place and you relished the state he was in. So drunk on you that he was barely able to control his ability.

Soon enough a wave of heat washed over you and you came on his tongue, earning a sultry groan from him.

"God you taste so fucking good" he moaned against your core, cleaning up any remains of your orgasm.

Slowly, as you caught your breath, your fingers untangled from his hair and a languid smile made its way to your lips.

"Feeling better?" you asked mirthfully, softly seizing your boyfriend's chin with two fingers to pull him in for a quick kiss.

"A lot" he hummed in response, returning the kiss and you moaned lightly when you tasted yourself on his tongue.

Akutagawa loosened Rashōmon's grip on you, gently running his thumb over the red marks left behind.

"Sorry for this" he giggled, clearly content with the mark he left on you.

You mimicked his smile and assured him that there was no trouble before pulling him in a gentle embrace.

"I love you lots Ryuu. Hope you know that. You're always so good to me" you whispered against the shell of his ear, sending goosebumps all over his skin.

"Love you too Y/N" he replied in a hushed voice "But you really gotta learn to listen to me more."

[tvchi]

Veiled Intentions

Disclaimers: DO NOT COPY OR REPOST MY WORK. DO NOT TRAIN AI WITH MY WORK.

Warnings: Mature Audiences ONLY: 18+, Minors DNI- Nudity, Sexual Intercourse, Gagging, Profanity.

Pairing: black male x black female Words: 3,829

A/N: Alright so I'm dusting my pen off because reading all of yalls Terry Richmond fanfics got my HOT!! I've been reading a lot of @megamindsecretlair 's stories as well as @hotgrlcece's stories and I thought I'd enter the chat. This story a long form, slow burn. There are some smut and sexual scenes, but they aren't the premise of the story. This is meant to be a suspense, romance so if you're just here for fucking only, this one is NOT for you. Your feedback is greatly appreciated because I'm really trying to get better. So Like, Comment, and Reblog as the spirit moves you. ❤️❤️🥰!

Museums were a calming space for you. You went there to clear your head of the plebeian controversies of the day and focus on depictions of the beauty left on the earth. It was a place where you could dream and dream within your dream. Your fingers planted forbidden kisses against the open sculptures and installations on the floor. The lights and colors on several paintings reminded you of schemes you've longed to bring together in your space and wardrobe. You smiled at how staring at someone else's creativity helped unlock yours. 

"Ma'am, the museum closes in 10 mins," said one of the security guards. 

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea where the time went," you replied.

You made your way back to the museum's entrance, picking up a brochure about the next central art installation. 

"I'm usually the one shutting down the place," a voice said from behind you.

You turned around to see where that low tenor came from. A pair of chiseled pecs masked in black cashmere met your gaze first. Stepping back, You met a pair of slate grey-blue eyes peeking through a set of thick lashes. Taking in his whole face, you noticed how his jaw seemed to be carved from marble; his toffee complexion glowed in the warm, dim light. When you didn't speak, he broke the thick silence with a warm smile.

"I'm Terry. Nice to meet you," he said.

"Y/N," you managed. It was just then that I caught my grave mistake. I swiftly turned on my heels and headed for the door.

"Wait, I wanted to know—" was all he could get out before you were already out the door.

In your line of work, you had to temper your emotions. The moment you thought that your countenance would betray what you were thinking or what you were about to do, you had to create a diversion to get you back on the offensive. From introduction to interrogation, no one should be able to read your thoughts. The moment you introduced yourself with your given name to a beautiful man you barely knew was the exact moment you needed to head home to the apartment where Adrian would be waiting for you with ingredients for tonight's date night. And you did. There was something about those eyes and how his smile reached his eyes and then diminished into a luscious grin like he knew a secret you didn't. It pulled you in. 

You thought about it on the ride home. When you arrived at the house and turned the key into the front door, you were greeted by flowers and a card that read, "I missed you. Come find me". You smiled. Adrian was quite the romantic. Every Friday night, he had something special planned for you both to do that you would enjoy and give you all a chance to connect. A sweet breath of fresh air from the other men you came across while dating. He understood and met your needs. He treated you like an equal and championed your ambitions. Well… the ambitions you needed him to know about. He was always eager to make sure you wanted for nothing. The icing on the cake was the sculpted body wrapped in edible caramel coating and a face women could fight over. Taking off your coat and shoes, you sauntered through the living room and kitchen, trying to find him. You made your way up to the bedroom, thinking that maybe he wanted to skip foreplay and go straight to dessert tonight. When you didn't find him in the bedroom, you went back downstairs to pick up your phone and call him when you noticed the basement door was ajar and the lights were on.

"Adrian, you got me going all over this house looking for you. I almost gave up!" you said, feigning exasperation.

"I had to make sure you got all your steps in for the day," he retorted. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a sensual kiss. "Mmm, how was the museum? Did you see anything you liked?

"Oh, it was incredible! They were doing a showcase for local talent in the county, and they were amazing. Most of them were kids in high school. Their use of color and texture blew me away. This one artist creates portraits with staples and a staple gun. I mean, the kind of eye you must have to place each staple in its place!!!" 

You could talk all day about art. As you recounted everything you had seen and heard, Adrian watched you. He loved how animated you got when you spoke about things you were passionate about. Your eyes would light up like embers, and your hands would move frantically, trying to depict the images in your head. The whole world went away when you spoke. At least, that's what it felt like for him.

"Yeah, and then I was walking out because the security guard said it was closing time and this guy came out of nowhere and–" you started.

"A guy?" Adrian asked, brows raised. 

"Yes, a guy. They make those from the same factory you came from. Anyway, he came out of nowhere, and I didn't even hear him. He was too huge for me not to hear him. But we were the only two left in the entire museum. I don't think I've ever shut down a museum before." you finished.

"What did he look like?" Adrian queried again.

"What you gonna do? Track him down and ask him why he likes art. The whole territorial, jealousy thing was cute at first, but now you getting out of hand" you replied with a smirk. The truth is you had a weakness for men who didn't play about you. It was actually one of the first things that attracted you to Adrian. You could handle your own, but it was something about having someone go to bat for you that felt amazing. That wasn't something you grew up with in your family, but it became something you demanded out of all your friendships and romantic relationships. 

Adrian shrugged off your reply and went back to sculpting something. This was the first time since you entered the basement that you noticed that your activity for the night was making clay sculptures.

"Oh! Baby, we're sculpting! I've always wanted to go to a class! How am I just now seeing this? I've been talking your ear off this whole time, and you didn't say anything!" you squealed.

"I know. Since you could never make it to a class, I would bring it to you. But you have to change into that apron and lose the top," he said with his back facing you.

You looked at him incredulously until you noticed that he was shirtless and wearing an apron. 

"Fine, I'll play," you rebutted.

"You always do," he said sharply. "Oh, the titty bags too."

Peeling off your top to reveal your round, juicy breasts, you took the apron and wrapped the ties around your waist.

"I wasn't wearing one." Sitting down, you could feel his gaze on you as you tried to figure out how to start the machine. He stopped his project to assist you with yours. Placing a stool beside you, he put a mound of clay on top of it for you to work with and turned on your potter's wheel. Cleo Sol saturated the airwaves as you sculpted away. You loved the way the clay felt in your hands, and after feeling so inspired by the museum, you decided that you were going to make your very own artistic contribution to the loft. An hour passed before you felt Adrian's warmth behind your back and his hands on yours.

"What are you making," he asked curiously.

"A vase. Something that would look great on the coffee table."

"I can see that," he replied, baritone in your ear. He held his position, sitting with you between his legs, guiding your hands to sculpt. Minutes of silence went by while Jhene Aiko sang. You relaxed into him, and her words rang through the speakers. 

"How do you feel right now," he inquired.

"Relaxed, calm, soothed, and seen," you said as you tilted sideways to look up at him, angling for a kiss. He brought his lips to yours and kissed you softly.

"Good," he said, giving you one last kiss. You turned your head forward to face the project hand when he spattered your face with the clay you two had been playing with.

"I KNOW you just didn't spray me with clay," you yelped.

"Naw I did that. I did all that," he said with a grin as he gathered more clay and smeared it all over your neck, chest, and apron. You gasp.

"Oh, is this what we're doing? Bet! You took a chunk of the clay you were still molding on the wheel and flung it at him. Surprised at how quick you were, he retreated to his side of the room to gather more clay. You managed to outmaneuver him and smear some of the clay in his face. Seeing he had few options, he lifted you in the air and tickled you back to the floor. Once he had you pinned, he poured the rest of the wet he was working with all over you. Satisfied with the mess he made, he let your arms free as he sat back on his heels and laughed. 

"You look amazing in clay," he grinned as his genuine laughter transitioned into a sultry smirk. 

"It almost went into my mouth!" you yelled.

"Yeah, I know. You noticed anything about the clay?" he asked.

"Should I?" you asked. Still smirking, he smeared the clay on your collarbone all over his index finger and dipped it into your mouth.

"It's…. it's.. it's chocolate!" you exclaimed. 

"Yup, and since I made this mess, Imma lick you clean," he retorted seductively. He pounced, liking the sides of your face and neck. Planting soft kisses in between each taste, he gently removed your apron. 

Next, he worked on the wide-legged trousers you were wearing. Lifting you with one hand to slide your pants down your thick, toned ass, he made sure to slide your panties down with them. Freeing your hips, toned thighs, and juicy calves from those pants, he panted your now naked lower half with the chocolate spewed on his chest and abs as he laid on top of you, sucking your nipples. You moaned. The familiarity of his tongue caressing you is something you had always yearned for. He has studied you in more ways than one, and your spots are something he is well versed in. He worked his way down to your stomach, licking and kissing the chocolate clay from your belly button. The warmth of his mouth mixed with the cool air made you tremble. Anticipating the euphoria that would accompany his final stop on his sojourn south, your breath hastened and you closed your eyes. 

"Ohhhh," you moaned as he hit your sweet center. He took his time licking the mixture of nectar and truffle, ensuring he did not miss a skin stitch. As you worked your hips on the pressure of his tongue, he grabbed your ass to pull you close. His fingers worked his way inside you, stroking your walls as he continued to assault your pearl. 

"Mmmhm," he let out, satisfied with how you were tightening around his fingers, ready to combust. 

"Adrian," you cried, "I need you."

He slipped his fingers from her core and slipped them inside her mouth. She tasted as good as he expected. 

"All you had to do was ask, baby," he replied.

He tore his belt from his jeans and threw it on the floor. He unfastened the denim and let it fall to the floor. Threatening to burst through his navy boxers was her prize. She reached up to claim what was hers. Freeing his girth, she marveled at its beauty. His shaft, the toffee color with perfectly placed veins coursing through to its tip. Its head was a cool caramel shade, glistening with the pre-cum that leaked from it. 

"You gonna stare at it, or you gon do something with it," he teased.

You reached around him and, grabbing a handful of the edible clay, stroked his shaft. He whimpered at your touch. You attempted to hide his shaft in the depths of your throat. 

"Fuuuuuck" he choked. You were on a mission to suck his soul out of his dick. Your jaw slacked, and you relaxed your throat, taking him all in. He grabbed the back of your head, holding it in place while he fucked your throat. As saliva spilled down the sides of your mouth, you used the moisture to coat your hands. All lathered, you massaged his balls and tent. 

"Shiiit," he growled, "Alana, I'm about to….fuck!" were the last words he said before she exploded in your mouth. You swallowed every last drop, and he leaned on the table behind him, still turning what was left of his pottery project. You looked up at him as you milked the last drop from his shaft.

"They gon' have to pry you outta my cold, dead hands. You know that?" he asked. You laugh as you wipe the corners of your mouth.

"I ain't never coming up off you. Shit!" he said.

"That's good to know," you chuckled. 

He helped you up off of your knees.

"Round 2. Upstairs. Beat me there." You watched as he swelled back to his original strength. Lit with excitement, you replied, "Yessir," and headed upstairs. You knew he could take a minute getting upstairs because he would probably clean up a little. If there was one thing Adrian was, if he wasn't crazy about you, it was neat. He wasn't afraid to make a mess, but he wasn't fond of leaving it there either. You washed off the rest of the clay in the shower and made sure to hit your hotspots. You stepped out of the shower and hurried to lotion up and place your scents on as you heard him walking up the steps. Once he found you, he pulled you in for a kiss. 

"What time do you have to be up tomorrow?" he asked.

"Around 7, why?"

"You'll be cutting it very close," he replied, his dark eyes glued to her hips and thighs. He led you to the bed and laid you there gently. Removing the rest of his clothes, he joined you on top of the covers. You two made love all night. Where you were rough, he was gentle. Where he was deep and deliberate, you were quick and light. The two worlds collided again and again, leaving both of you with multiple organisms and a yearning to produce climaxes even more extraordinary than the last. Finally, at 4:45 am, you conceded. Rolling over, drained yet satisfied, you fell asleep to the soft pressures of him kissing the length of your back while messaging your ass. 

An hour and a half later, the sound of your alarm screeching causes you to bolt from your place under his arms. As you switch the alarm off, you slowly get out of bed. You felt like shit. You were sore, your neck ached, and you felt hungover, given your hour of sleep. As you reached the bathroom, you stopped and peered at Adrian. You would kill him if he weren't so damn fine. He kept you up all night on purpose for making him give up that first nut so fast—ever the competitor. Finally, when you got to the bathroom, you did your entire morning routine and dressed. The warm shower did help the soreness a little, but you would need coffee and lots of it for the tiredness. Feeling petty, you decide that you wouldn't be the only one suffering that morning.

"Wake up!" you scream, jumping on Adrian, almost knocking off the bed.

"What happened? Whats going on? You okay?" he blabbered, alarmed yet still half asleep.

"Everything is fine. I just wanted you to take me to work today," you said, planting a syrupy smile on your face.

"Alana, you have a car. I put gas in it yesterday morning. I took it for an oil change last weekend. Your brakes are new, and none of your lights are on. You can't take yourself to work?" he asked, slightly annoyed.

"I mean, I can, but I want you to take me. I love it when you take me to work. I like to remind all of them hating ass bitches that I'm fine and fucked— regularly," you lied.

"Uh-huh," he chuckled. "So it don't got nothing to do with the fact that you were up all night tryna out do me and you got an early day but I don't?" he asked in disbelief.

"Do you think I'm THAT petty?" you asked, feigning innocence.

"Yes. But imma take you anyway," he said, getting out of the bed and heading to the bathroom.

"Why?" you inquired curiously.

"To let all them hating ass niggas waiting in the wings to know that you're mine and you're fucked. Well," he said in finality. He freshened up in the bathroom and threw on a Fear of God sweat set. He grabbed his sneakers and headed down the stairs. He looked good even when he was annoyed and half asleep. It wasn't fair, but I never complained. In fact, I was calculating how late I could be getting to work in case I wanted another quick session.

"Move that ass, Alana," his voice echoed through the apartment.

You made your way down the steps, threw on your pumps, grabbed your briefcase, and opened the door. 

You both headed outside; he opened your door and waited for you to get in. He darted around and got in the driver's seat. The car ride was silent. You looked out the window, taking in the city's sights. Kids playing in the cool autumn air in jackets, shop owners sweeping the outsides of their shops, the homeless at bus stops turning to the morning air and the bodies passing by. The city awakening after its long slumber was a work of art you had hoped to capture one day in a photograph or on canvas. This was home. Arriving at the front entrance of the Library of Athena at Pembroke University, Adrian hopped out of the car, went around to your door, and opened it. He held your hand as you climbed out of the X7. 

"Damn, I forgot to remind you about taking lunch out of the refrigerator," he said. He rummaged through his pockets until he found his wallet. He handed you a hundred-dollar bill. When you looked at him puzzled, he added, "That's all the cash I have on me. Use it for lunch."

"I don't need this much, Adrian. It's okay. I'll eat something from the cafe. It's usually free for faculty," you replied

"Nah, eat something good today. You went through it last night," he smirked as he kissed your lips, making sure to remind you of last night. "Have a good day," he added.

"You too," you said, leaving him leaned up against the car, watching you walk into the grand double doors of the library. Before making it inside, you turned to see if he was still watching. He caught your eye and winked, making you blush. He climbed back into the car after giving a nod to some students who were passing through and drove off. 

You held that interaction and the night before in your heart as you straightened your face and walked down the long corridor of the library. You checked if anyone was watching or following you before you made a sharp right and opened the doors to a stairwell. Going down two flights of steps, you opened the door and made a left turn down another long hallway. Awaiting you at the end of the hall were two uniformed men. They parted ways, letting you into a service elector. You pressed "3". As the elevator descended, you opened your briefcase and switched tags, keys, and badges. You grabbed the claw clip stashed in another bag compartment and pinned your hair up. The compact mirror at the bottom of your bag contains the contacts you've been made to wear. Opening it, you placed the soft contacts from your eyes into their placeholders and put a pair of clear-framed glasses on instead. Once the elevator doors opened, the United States seal and coat of arms greeted you from their place on the floor. You smiled and nodded at everyone who turned to look at you from their desks. You made your way to your desk and quickly got settled before opening your computer to take on the tasks for the day.

"Now I know you didn't just waltz in here and not say a word to me about last night!" exclaimed your co-worker and good friend Brooke. "And from the way you tried to walk up those steps, I know he hit it GOOD. Spill now!"

"You know, when you're looking at surveillance all day, you're supposed to be looking for possible threats, not watching me!" I said, feigning annoyance.

"I review footage I think is pertinent to national security and honey, that man, very pertinent!" she stated as she nodded profusely. You laughed.

"You're a mess," you said.

"Y/N, my office, please," Deputy Assistant Director Moore barked.

"Damn, what did you do?" Brook asked.

"Hell, if I know," you replied, confused.

"Well, you better get up there. From how his eye blinks, he's not in a good mood today," she said.

You walked up the flight of stairs and knocked on the door.

"You wanted to see me, sir," you asked as he opened the door for you. 

"Yes. I wanted to receive an update on your current assignment. But before we do that, I want to introduce you to the ASAC of the criminal division. Special Agent Richmond. Richmond, this is SA Olisa, one of our best and brightest here in the intelligence division.

"That's kind of you to say, sir," you replied politely as you slowly turned your attention to the tall figure in a black suit approaching you. Tilting your head upwards, you realized you recognized those slate grey-blue eyes and thick lashes. That glow of toffee that scrambled your senses stood a foot away from you with a slight smirk on his face, most likely from the fact that you were gawking at him, trying to make sense of what he was doing there. That low tenor you remember vividly, once again, broke the silence. 

"Nice to meet you; my name is Terrance. Everyone calls me Terry." Tags: @thecapodomme @writers-of-tmblr @melaninpov @spaceslutsworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @mymusicbias @the-black-label @master-builder42 @miraculously-dumb-bitch @megamindsecretlair @hopefulromantic1 @tranquilfandomer @thadelightfulone @vivalaorgasm @hotgrlcece @planetblaque @blackgurlnhermoods @sweettea-and-honeybutter @andriaharris @kumkaniudaku @theblacklewinsky

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL - it was a pretty darn good time, frankly

Organized, in each category, with ones I'm enjoying most at the top.

Feb 2024 Wk 4

Ongoing Series - Thai

The Sign (Sat YT) ep 12fin - Everyone looked like they were having a lot of fun in the fight sequences. I’m very happy for them. I’m not surprised they shot Khem and Chart. A little shocked it wasn’t also Yai, TBH.

I found this final episode rushed. According to rumors, The Sign was originally slated to be 14 eps, and it probably should’ve been. And I don’t say that often about Thai BL. But we all knew it was getting too bloated for its britches, so I'm not surprised they fumbled the ending. For me personally, it just wasn't that bad. It was fine and I was fine with it.

Tho, Billy does not look good with facial fur, messes up those gorgeous angles.

I was ultimately amused that the solution to the mythology thread was simply to talk to the river god and persuaded him to give up... off screen. It felt very old school wuxia. Or like Aeschylus or something. I did adore the stinger, Saint was basically like “I want wings too”. 

FINAL THOUGHTS

This show is literally everything (except straight) all at once. It's BL, queer, band of brothers, romcom, erotica, PNR, fated mates, police procedural, fantasy, mystery, suspense, and slasher. It’s the king of genre mash-up chaos. Sure, it's madness but there is genius in it. Was it a crazy unhinged mess +1 roll for damage? Yes. Yes it was. Did it manage to hold all those tangled threads together? No it did not. Was it also a charming, sexy, engaging, non-stop piece of entertainment? Sure thing. I think this show is basically my KinnPorsche, and frankly I’ve been chasing that dragon naga since KP aired. Is it perfect? No. But it was balls to the wall FUN and that gets a 9/10 from me.

I'm thinking of doing a full recap review (partly because I have so many great screen shots.)

Cherry Magic (Sat YouTube grey) ep 10-11 of 12 - Since this series is following the yaoi so closely, I knew these were the separation eps. (Also I knew with would be a soft non-doom ep 11, Japan rarerly does these.) I like that they used it to show improve communication and development in all relationships, but, frankly, TayNew are just best when they are TayNew together on screen. So yeah. Let’s keep them back together, please?

Meanwhile, TayNew gifted us a gorgeous loving sweet sex scene. Thanks OG for doing us a solid. 

I wanna add, it sure is fun to see New play as soft and vulnerable character, I feel like he hasn’t done that since SOTUS. 

(Read all about distribution issues here.)

Cooking Crush (Sun YT) ep 12fin - 1/3 of this is a sweet romance about a student doctor falling in love with a student chef, and the rest of it is utter dross. Look the OffGun bits were GREAT.. In fact, I think they’re better AS A PAIR in this show than in any of their other BLS. And I'm a hard sell on any OffGun being better than PickRome. Saying that, how can I review a show where I could only tolerate 1/3 of it? Because I didn’t like any other aspect of this show, no other pairs and no other plots. That gives me: 9/10 for the OffGun bits, 5/10 for everything else. Frankly it probably should be an 8 but I gotta go with my gut and it's upset about this so 7/10. Sorry boys. It’s GMMTV’s fault. Your heart was in this show, mine wasn’t. 

City of Stars (Fri iQIYI) ep 4 of 12 - These two are so good at making heart eyes at each other. It’s ridiculous. They don’t need any cartoon images or noises. Moot crush but "I wanna flirt and court more" is so flipping awesome. I love this for them… and us. 

1000 Years Old ep 2 of 12 - It’s very silly and we have been gifted with the dorkiest vampire ever. But... the smell thing makes me so happy. And I like that the vamp uses chan/nai or tan = v old fashioned. Nahlak. I love our ghost girl. Did you notice she wasn’t in the room with them but they left an empty chair for her? Also nahlak.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Perfect Propose (Japan Fri Gaga) ep 5 of 6 - Kai was pretty much just “you're a workaholic but I basically married you whether you like it or not.” SMOOCH. What can I say? I'm a sucker for this dynamic.

AntiReset (Taiwan Fri Viki/Gaga) ep 5 of 10 - How is this show so cute? How do they both love and hurt each other so much. They are both just scared of loosing each other. Gah.

Unknown (Taiwan Sat Youku YouTube) 1 of 12 eps - Youku dropped the first ep to their YouTube channel but I doubt we can expect that to continue. Still, it was nice to be able to watch it in a convenient way. I enjoyed it. But I am cautious about it. Of course this is possibly two of my favorite tropes of all time (stepbrothers or a variation + hyung romance). So I’m looking forward to the romantic thread, but from the gritty style, it feels a lot more like a Taiwanese short. Which means it could go very dark and may not end happy. 

Although I Love You and You AKA Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yaro ka (Japan Thurs Gaga) ep 7 of 10 - I just don’t know if the main couple should be a couple. But when they finally get around to talking to each other, they sure are lovely. Also how great is it to see a uke initiate a kiss? Even if it’s not a very good kiss. 

My Strawberry Film (Japan Thurs Gaga) ep 2 of 8 - I am still not sure about this one. I am not contesting its quality, just saying it’s not for me. Also I’m not wild about what amounts to basically a redo of everything that already happened in the first episode from a different perspective. I know it’s a tall order with Japan, but I would like (when it’s a short series) for each new installment to actually move the plot (such as it is) along in someway. Am I asking too much?

It's done but I have no time

What Did You Eat Yesterday Season 2 AKA Kinou Nani Tabeta? Season 2 (Japan Gaga) 10 eps - will binge when I have any spare time. 2024 is crazy busy for me so far.

The Servant and the Young Master - from Vietnam, it's on YouTube. I will give it a try when I have a window of time.

Began Beginning (Myanmar YouTube) - A Burmese BL? @heretherebedork vouched for it, so I will give it a watch.

It's airing but...

Dead Friend Forever (Thai iQIYI) - rumors are it's interesting but full of unlikable characters. I'm waiting to know how it ends.

Ossans Love Season 2 (Japan Gaga) - 5 years later, will anything have changed? This is Japan so… probubly not. I won't be watching this. I disliked Season one and actively hated the follow ups. No thank you.

Playboyy (Thurs Gaga) 14 eps - Dear Playboyy, it's not you, it’s me… I hate you. You’re about as deep (and as palatable) as a shot glass of cum. While I'm sure you’re someone’s kink, you're my weakest link. Goodbye. I DNFed this at ep 5. Frankly I'm impressed with myself for getting that far. Ends next week TF.

Time the series (Tue Gaga/YT) 10 eps - dropped it at ep 4.

A Secretly Love (Thai WeTV) - I tried but I can't get into my WeTV account anymore and I'm way too lazy to figure it out. Should I bother to go grey for it?

To Be Continued (Thai C3 Thailand YT) - High school sweethearts who had a bad break up reunite when both of them have full time jobs but coming out is still a problem. You can watch this on YT but it has no Eng Subs.

Next Week Looks Like This:

We're light on content right now, but frankly I'm so busy with work I don't really mind.

3/6 Born to be Y (Thai ????) 10 eps - 14 contestants who audition to compete in Born To Be Y, a program that searches for the best couple of the year to work together on a giant project. Described as semi-reality series. So I probably won't bother.

3/7 Deep Night (Thai iQiyi) 10 eps - Multiple romances set in a host clubs. Nice to see First back on my screen but this is not my favorite setting.

Upcoming BLs for 2024 are listed here. This list is not kept updated, so please leave a comment if you know something new or RP with additions.

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

The eyes have it.

Your random BL moment brought to you by my ult-bias being a hyung smartass to his maknae.

(Last week)

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 1 EPISODE 12 || LALLYBROCH ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

Broch Tuarach means “the north-facing tower.”

From the side of the mountain above, the broch that gave the small estate its name was no more than another mound of rocks, much like those that lay at the foot of the hills we had been traveling through. We came down through a narrow, rocky gap between two crags, leading the horse between boulders. Then the going was easier, the land sloping more gently down through the fields and scattered cottages, until at last we struck a small winding road that led to the house. It was larger than I had expected; a handsome three-story manor of harled white stone, windows outlined in the natural grey stone, a high slate roof with multiple chimneys, and several smaller whitewashed buildings clustered about it, like chicks about a hen. The old stone broch, situated on a small rise to the rear of the house, rose sixty feet above the ground, cone-topped like a witch’s hat, girdled with three rows of tiny arrow-slits. As we drew near, there was a sudden terrible racket from the direction of the outbuildings, and Donas shied and reared. No horseman, I promptly fell off, landing ignominiously in the dusty road. With an eye for the relative importance of things, Jamie leapt for the plunging horse’s bridle, leaving me to fend for myself. The dogs were almost upon me, baying and growling, by the time I found my feet. To my panicked eyes, there seemed to be at least a dozen of them, all with teeth bared and wicked. There was a shout from Jamie. “Bran! Luke! Sheas!” The dogs skidded to a halt within a few feet of me, confused. They milled, growling uncertainly, until he spoke again. “Sheas, mo maise! Stand, ye wee heathen!” They did, and the largest dog’s tail began gradually to wag, once, and then twice, questioningly. “Claire. Come take the horse. He’ll not let them close, and it’s me they want. Walk slowly; they’ll no harm ye.” He spoke casually, not to alarm either horse or dogs further. I was not so sanguine, but edged carefully toward him. Donas jerked his head and rolled his eyes as I took the bridle, but I was in no mood to put up with tantrums, and I yanked the rein firmly down and grabbed the headstall.

The thick velvet lips writhed back from his teeth, but I jerked harder. I put my face close to the big glaring golden eye and glared back. “Don’t try it!” I warned, “or you’ll end up as dogsmeat, and I won’t lift a hand to save you!” Jamie meanwhile was slowly walking toward the dogs, one hand held out fistlike toward them. What had seemed a large pack was only four dogs: a small brownish rat-terrier, two ruffed and spotted shepherds, and a huge black and tan monster that could have stood in for the Hound of the Baskervilles with no questions asked. This slavering creature stretched out a neck thicker than my waist and sniffed gently at the proffered knuckles. A tail like a ship’s cable beat back and forth with increasing fervor. Then it flung back its enormous head, baying with joy, and leaped on its master, knocking him flat in the road.

“‘In which Odysseus returns from the Trojan War and is recognized by his faithful hound,’ ”

I remarked to Donas, who snorted briefly, giving his opinion either of Homer, or of the undignified display of emotion going on in the roadway. Jamie, laughing, was ruffling the fur and pulling the ears of the dogs, who were all trying to lick his face at once. Finally he beat them back sufficiently to rise, keeping his feet with difficulty against their ecstatic demonstrations. “Well, someone’s glad to see me, at any rate,” he said, grinning, as he patted the beast’s head. “That’s Luke—” he pointed to the terrier, “and Elphin and Mars. Brothers, they are, and bonny sheep-dogs. And this,” he laid an affectionate hand on the enormous black head, which slobbered in appreciation, “is Bran.” “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, cautiously extending a knuckle to be sniffed. “What is he?” “A staghound.” He scratched the pricked ears, quoting“Thus Fingal chose his hounds:Eye like sloe, ear like leaf,Chest like horse, hough like sickleAnd the tail joint far from the head.” “If those are the qualifications, then you’re right,” I said, inspecting Bran. “If his tail joint were any further from his head, you could ride him.” “I used to, when I was small—not Bran, I don’t mean, but his grandfather, Nairn.” He gave the hound a final pat and straightened, gazing toward the house. He took the restive Donas’s bridle and turned him downhill. “In which Odysseus returns to his home, disguised as a beggar,…” he quoted in Greek, having picked up my earlier remark. “And now,” he said, straightening his collar with some grimness, “I suppose it’s time to go and deal with Penelope and her suitors.” When we reached the double doors, the dogs panting at our heels, Jamie hesitated.

“Should we knock?” I asked, a bit nervous. He looked at me in astonishment. “It’s my home,” he said, and pushed the door open.

26THE LAIRD’S RETURN ~ OUTLANDER

[mothiir]

words rarely spoken

for @kit-williams, who requested perturabo and a praise kink. my first time writing the Big Iron Boy so apologies if his characterisation is a little all over.

—

cw: power imbalance.

—

The best thing that the leaders of your world ever did was die, and die swiftly, so cooler heads — those with a more accurate assessment of your ability to defend against the might of the Imperium — prevailed, and negotiated a surrender. Surrender is a delicate way of putting it — wholehearted supplication is more accurate. Levies and taxes and all sorts of sacrifices made; but the intricacies of the deal do not trouble you. The important thing is that you are still alive; that your cities may be rubble, but the land is not scoured and irradiated waste.

You were in a refugee camp, bird-boned and hollow-eyed from living off thin soup and stale bread, when the Iron Warriors swept through looking for serfs. You were picked because — though skinny — you were still able to stand on two feet, and were not actively dying of dysentery.

You are at the unveiling of the new barracks by pure chance. Your status is lowly enough that you are, in essence, the serf of a serf; the assistant to a housekeeper for the recruits. She attends, since she will be overseeing the running of the mighty kitchens, designed to deal with the appetites of baby Astartes; you attend, because she needs someone to take notes, since she’s almost completely deaf after years of dealing with neophytes who are unable to control the volume of their eardrum-busting voices, and she does not want to admit it.

A chill sea breeze whisks your hair back, carrying with it the scent of salt and the distant aroma of lasgun fire, still lingering even months after the capitulation of the system. The barracks is built along the coast, great buttresses of durasteel effortlessly blending in with the native black stone cliff, while the pinnacle of the building stretches towards the slate grey sky in a series of brutalist blocks that — despite their overtly industrial inspiration — seem perfectly at home in the bleak landscape. Already salt-stained and circled by dozens of gulls, howling to each other over the scream of the wind, you would think that the barracks had stood here since time immemorial.

You, and the other household serfs, are honoured with a place on the levitating platform that sweeps along the barracks’ length; you stick to the back corners, not held in place by chain or protocol, but by simple human awe — for at the head of the platform, atop a dais of raw iron, stands Perturabo, Primarch of the Iron Warriors; builder, destroyer, champion. His face is as hard and merciless as the ocean, and even his sons — terrifying creatures that they are — treat him with deference. You’ve heard rumours of decimation, of brutality your sheltered life can’t begin to fathom. So you avert your eyes. So you make yourself small. So you, like the other serfs, attempt to be as grey and faceless and featureless as the cogs in a machine.

The platform is silent, save the occasional hushed conversation between a nervous Iron Warrior and his Primarch. You cannot hear much, but occasionally make out a word or two —

“…not fit for purpose…apologies father —“

— it sounds like he is grovelling. You feel a strange stirring of pity and find yourself wondering: what is the point of all this? Peturabo built the barracks; his sons were overseen by him personally. Surely there is nothing here he has not already seen. And he cannot be trying to impress his serfs, or the native populace. Then why have this barebones ceremony at all?

You glance around the platform, as discreetly as possible. It is huge, larger than a town block (back when your towns still stood). Almost like it was designed to accommodate more people. Almost like he was expecting more guests.

You shake yourself out of your fantasy — you’re not one of those who fervently believe that the soldiers from the stars can read minds, but you don’t want to risk it. To distract yourself, you look back at the building — just as a bolt of sunlight struggles through the cloud, illuminating the barracks in streams of gold. All at once, it is transformed, sharp angles glowing, cavernous pockets of shadow providing dramatic definition against the light. Despite yourself, you whisper: “It’s so beautiful.”

You are not accustomed to how swift Astartes can be, nor how silent — and so when a low voice rumbles behind you, you almost jump out of your skin, heart leaping straight into your gullet.

“What did you say?”

The serfs around you peel away with astonishing speed; there is no solidarity here, especially not when a Primarch looms behind you like a threat. You daren’t turn around, through his shadow obscures the sun, and you smell him — hot iron, and burning plastisteel — and feel the heat of his armour radiating against the chill. You are no psyker, but you feel the weight of his presence heavy on your shoulders, and the prey-animal fear it ignite in you almost has you bolting to the sea, seeking the solace of the waves, and the drowning dark.

However. You master that feeling. You have lived this far; you will continue to live, so help you — not god. No gods here, not anymore. So help you you.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, then think that this is somewhat lacking. “My lord,” you add.

No one shoots you, so you assume this is the correct form of address.

“Beautiful? No. It serves the purpose it is intended for.”

You really should let it slide. You should. But your lips, numb with cold and salt-stained, are still moving. “It can do both — it can be both beautiful and functional. The way the buttresses slope to the waves, along the cliffs like veins or tree-roots; the way the buildings are angled just-so, looking like — “

You risk a sidelong glance; not at his face — you are not so bold — but at his shoulder-pauldrons.

“—looking like your armour, sire — uh, lord — it all has this rhythm to it, this poetry, this uh — “ Shit, shit, shit, you’re going to die, you’re going to die. “—pattern.”

Silence. Full, poignant silence. The serfs have now completely abandoned this corner of the platform; out of the corner of your eye you see that both they and the Astartes have taken up position at the far end, all making a show of looking literally anywhere but at the Primarch. Some are more convincing than others.

“—go on.”

You take in a deep breath, and continue. The windows, visible at a distant, small enough to insulate, large enough for natural light. The grey of the rock stained black by the waves. The craftsmanship of it all. Your voice trembles a little — after all, Peturabo still looms behind you — but the passion in your words is genuine. It really is beautiful, and more beautiful when you consider the context of it all: the coastline had been benighted by warfare and is now transfigured into something useful, something that will stand the test of time; a monument to endurance.

—

You have been talking for ten minutes and thirty two seconds and Perturabo has been hard for eight of those minutes — approaching nine. Now nine. Damn it all to the Warp, his body is a vile useless animal, and he despises its frailty, and you are a lowly mortal, your opinion is worthless, you are worthless —

“The craftsman really understood the native landscape —“

By the Emperor’s right ballsack, he’s going to go mad. He rests one hand on your shoulder — you oof at the sudden weight, peering up at him properly for the first time, all huge eyes and spit-wet mouth.

”Come with me,” he says, and strides off — you jog to keep up, managing three swift strides for each one of his, asking no questions, reeking of fear. And yet you were totally honest with him — he could sense it. Every word of your praise had been the unvarnished truth, even if your voice shook.

You genuinely thought the barracks beautiful, his craftsmanship without peer. Which - -yes, obviously, of course you would. It is. And yet — to hear it stated so plainly —

He does not say a word, nor look at you, the entire journey back to his quarters aboard ship. You trot in his wake the entire way, and when the doors roll open to his spartan accommodation you stare around: blank grey walls, a Primarch-sized bed, topped with a mattress roughly the width of a human thumb. A singular grey pillow.

“Um,” you say, and Peturabo ignores you, tapping at a panel on the wall to lock the door. His erection is acutely uncomfortable, sandwiched against his armour, and even thoughts of the least appealing things he can muster — Dorn naked, Dorn naked, that one time he saw Horus’s hairy arse in the shower — it isn’t going away. His thoughts, usually so regimented, keep turning back to the earnest praise you delivered in that lilting mortal voice, powered by lungs smaller than his palm.

“Talk,” he orders, striding towards you; you shrink back, and he huffs impatience. “I am not going to harm you; you are not in trouble. Talk. Repeat what you said about the barracks.”

”S-sure,” you say, and begin the tale again; it isn’t a duplicate of what you said before, but an escalation, going into more detail, more observations about the quality of the stone masonry. His cock throbs, and he fiddles with his armour, managing — with some indignity — to remove the crotch plate, and thumb aside the skin suit, revealing his hard, leaking member. It is roughly level with your chin, even as you stand, and the sight of your pink tongue gives him some ideas — but then you wouldn’t be able to talk. And he so wants you to talk.

“Touch me,” he says, and you reach up to obey, soft hands against his overheated flesh. Soft hands that have never known truly hard work, fingers that won’t span his girth, and a voice that continues praising him.

“And uh — making destruction into something functional, rebuilding, that’s — that’s a talent that —“

You’re starting to stammer as you stroke him, using both hands to do so. He feels his orgasm start to build — it has been far, far too long — and he moans throatily, his eyes half-closing with pleasure.

“Keep going.”

You are breathless with effort now; he’s heavy in your palms, and he’s crowding closer, leaving you with no choice but to angle his cock directly to your face.

“—and you’re good, you’re so good, you’re the craftsman who makes crisis into construction into cities —“

With a hard grunt, Peturabo cums — and keeps cumming. He paints your face and throat white, and knocks your hands away so he can milk the last little bit out himself, directly onto your chest, soaking the fabric.

“There,” he pants, self-satisfied and rose-cheeks. “Good girl.”

You look astonished more than anything else, reaching up to wipe your face. Once again, he catches your hands.

“Leave it on. I’m not done yet.”

[thegingerheed]

How DELTATRAVELER is the funniest UT fangame by complete accident.

Over the course of the past year, I've talked a ton about various UT/DR fan-projects and my thoughts regarding them and their writing. One fan-work I have talked extensively about on various forums and threads being DELTATRAVELLER. For a while, I didn't know exactly how to feel about this game. It felt like an enigma to me. 

The game was enjoyable to play, it was entertaining to read. Yet I could never get myself invested in anything regarding the game's narrative or characters. It was as if the game was unintentionally written to obliterate (pun entirely intended) any and all chances for narrative investment in its story and characters. What the game did have over me was that it had me in histersics for the majority of its runtime. Yet, paradoxically, none of the jokes written to be funny landed for me. For a while I didn't fully know why and how it made me feel about the game as a whole. How can you say you enjoyed  something a lot whilst also laughing at it and acknowledging that under any other circumstance, it wouldn't be something that you'd consider to be good?

Spoiler alert: I found that answer, which I will now be explaining to YOU in weirdly esoteric detail !!!

But before we start, let's start of with the basic premise of DELTATRAVELER for those not in the know. 

What is a "DELTATRAVELER"

DELTATRAVELER is a UT/DR fangame about Kris, Susie and Noelle being isekai'd from a Post-Chapter 2 DELTARUNE into the worlds of various different video games and UNDERTALE on a quest to find a way home. The game was inspired and made off the back of "GOD FUCKING damnit KRIS where the FUCK are we!?" which was a very popular meme at the time of DELTARUNE: Chapter 2's release. 

Like DELTARUNE, the game is divided and released in chapters (dubbed 'sections' by the devs). Each chapter is set in a different world and has the Shit Squad (The objectively best name for the heroes) explore, fight and eventually find that world's "grey door" which serves as the end goal for the chapter as that will take the Shit Squad to the next world after the boss of the chapter is complete. In total the game is slated to have eight total chapters with what they are based on being revealed in advanced:

Chapter 1: UNDERTALE 

Chapter 2: Earthbound

Chapter 3: GG!UNDERFELL

Chapter 4: The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past

Chapter 5: TS!UNDERSWAP

Chapter 6: Mario & Luigi: Bowser's Inside Story

Chapter 7: Toontown Online

Chapter 8: The Dark (the game's finale)

Currently as of this post, DELTATRAVELER is still a work in progress with Chapter 3 being released back in December. As a result all discussion of the game of the game will be on Chapters 1-3 as those are what's out right now.

I think I should preface this post with me saying, I don't think DELTATRAVELER is a bad game, quite the opposite, actually! I enjoyed my time with it.

Mechanically, the gameplay is really well done, the physics feel very on point to UT/DR, which is surprisingly rare for a lot of UT fan-games. It felt like I was playing UT/DR and was rewarded for the skills I had gained from the collective hundreds of hours I have played these games. 

Visually, I think it looks very solid and charming. Seeing various locales and characters from other games being translated into UT/DR's iconic, sometimes janky artstyle is always cool to see and it will be very interesting to see how games like A Link to the Past are adapted in future chapters.

Musically, I think the game is fine. The original songs in the OST doesn't have anything I'd point to as "bangers" but also doesn't have anything I thought was particularly hard to listen to (With the outlier maybe being Eye for an Eye. The obligatory Megalo for the Sans fight in the GG!UNDERFELL chapter. But even then, I wouldn't even call the song "bad". I just don't like it too much and that's fine! just how music taste works.)

But to get to the main point. The most intreasting thing about DELTATRAVELER to me, is the way the game is written which has proven to be quite the controversial topic within the broader fandom which is what I'll try to give an in-depth and nuanced disection of but to put a long story short, I don't think this game is written well. Most of the core issues I have with DELTATRAVELER's writing can be attributed to a single, fundamental flaw. That being how the game handles it's "tone"

Explaining Tone

In writing, Tone is a very multi-factor concept, working as the bedrock for a given work. To put it simply and cleanly, tone is basically "the vibes" of a given thing. Tone can come in a lot of different flavours. Whether that be the tone of a given scene, the work itself or even the tone of an entire series. Tone is important as keeping tone consistent with itself is one of the major factors in narrative investment. It essentially tells the audience what they can and can't expect from a work of fiction.

Let's use this as an example:

You're watching a movie, in the movie there's a scene involving the protagonist having an anvil inexplicably dropped on their head by the antagonist.

If this movie was a comedy for children and family, the tone of this scene would ensure that this be as funny a punchline as possible or the set up for a funny punchline. This expectation built by the previous events of the story shields the narrative and characters from anything that might be too ill-fitting for the "comedy for child and family tone" it's trying to go for. At most the protagonist could be expected to suffer from a Loney Toons-like knockout rather than ending in a hospital bed with a shattered skull. Or, at worst, splattered and crushed across the pavement in an intensely gruesome fashion. If that happened, it wouldn't pass the story's "vibe check" which can cause something that I'll be calling "Tonal Whiplash"

If you want an example of "Tonal Whiplash" and the effects it can have on the audience, look no further than Shadow the Hedgehog

This game, to be frank. Is fucking hilarious and this is in part due to the mere concept of the game about Shadow using a gun breaking the tone set series-wide by other Sonic games and media in the past. (Expect Sonic Adventure 2, that has similar issues to a lesser extent)

It takes a series about stopping egg-themed villain from ruling the world to trying to assassinate the president and watching as a innocent girl gets shot in the back by what is basically, the USA military. And it all tries to do this in the Sonic series' iconic, albeit rather corny writing while also intened to appeal to older kids and be "cool". It leaves the game being kinda a clusterfuck even beyond just its tone issue, in a very funny way.

Now, this isn't to say that breaking tone is necessarily a bad thing all the time. Sometimes it's intentional, a way to make a moment hit harder, surprise the audience or all of the above. However, breaking tone is a narrative risk and if it fails you risk hurting the narrative investment your audience has within your work and to top it off once tone has been broken, it can't really be put back together with a story. You'll basically be shifting the tone of the story from that point on.

An easy example of this tonal shift is UT itself with it's Geno Route.

How UNDERTALE handles it's tone

UT's tone is one that acknowledges its nature as a video game with the usage of diegetic game mechanics like SAVING and the battle system.

This has many unique effects, for example means things like death as a concept is something that is treated rather lightly within the game's tone, the game even joking about it on the occasion. It's rather pointless treating death as anything other than a slight inconvenience to the human when you directly acknowledge that they can undo it by simply not wanting to die.

This treatment of death intentionally clashes with how it's treated when you kill monsters in a Geno Route. Papyrus is a shining example of this. Being something of an emotional obstacle for the player. Designed to make the player feel shit. Basically UT's writing is effectively, unapologetically trying to guilt trip you as another test of your determination to see this run to its completion.

The emotional weight of this scene is less carried by the idea of death and more so the fact that you hurt one of your favourite characters and won't see him anymore for the remainder of the run. It's more character focused, if you've already begun to withdraw your narrative investment and attachment to the characters or if you simply just don't give a fuck, it's not gonna make you feel anything. It'd just be another monster to slay, another number to increase.

Now you might find yourself wondering. How can UT be funny and sad without it leading to side effects normally seen by "tonal whiplash"? UT is funny, sure. There's a lot of jokes, each joke told in UT is a joke told by either a character or the world. Each joke means something beyond it being a funny line. But UT can also be heartfelt, like the walk up to Asgore. It all further fleshes these characters out making them feel more deep and layered, it treats it's world and characters not as jokes to be laughed at but as people, people who can be funny, people that can be sad and down even if you and the game both know that deep down, they aren't real. Just bundles of pixels and dialogue for your entertainment which is what makes Geno's clash work.

Your attachment to the characters and world. It's sudden, yes. But that's why it hits. NPCs vanish and their absence is felt, the once lively music replaced with a slowed drone. It all feels empty. It's dark, all because you have killed the things that gave this game its "light". UT's tone is something that . The tone of Pasifist runs reinforce and bring greater impact to Geno runs and that's why it feels less like tonal whiplash to the audience.

Now, let's get to DELTATRAVELER. If we want to establish how DELTATRAVELER establishes a tone for itself what best than analysis the beginning?

How DELTATRAVELER handles it's tone

After an amusing title screen and a quick file selection, we open with Kris and Susie on a bed of flowers, the first room of UT. After a brief moment of the two getting their bearings, they stand up and Susie turns to Kris before saying "God Damnit Kris! Where the hell are we?!!" fit with a silly pose and sound effect. A reference to the meme that inspired the game's creation.

The next scene is in the very next room and it's encounter with Flowey. Here he attempts the same speech he said in UT before Susie cuts him off, gets him to spill the beans that he was actually after Kris' SOUL before getting into a battle. Where they make a joke about DR battles being different from UT battles before Susie bashes her HUD into Kris' creating a unique one that DELTATRAVELER uses before blasting Flowey away with Rude Buster.

Off the cuff, DELTATRAVELER isn't really being serious. So far it's spent the first couple of scenes essentially making jokes around the characters, world and basic premise of the game and the game will continue to do this with inclusion such as Ralsei smoking a blunt, referencing a meme of the same name and Noelle making expressions referencing both a popular SpongeBob and MegaMind memes. On its own, this isn't really a bad thing, sure I may personally find it very unfunny but the game starting off with various memes isn't even a negative in principle, it just indicates that it doesn't want the audience to take it too seriously, which if that was the intention, would be fine. The issue DELTATRAVELER has with it's writing is that it unfortunately does want me to take it seriously.

The game makes an attempt to emulate UT's writing style, attempts to have serious moments sprinkled amongst jokes. However, unlike UT, DELTATRAVELER's brand of humour is basically solely self aware memes. Oftentimes, made at the expense of its own characters and world, leaving the moments where the game actually wants to be taken serious to fall flat.

Things like Kris' nightmare during Chapter 3, where they wonder why they are cursed with our control before lamenting about how much they want to rip their SOUL out and destroy it. Before crying out that they "Don't want to die alone." Doesn't have the impact the game wants it to have, because prior to that point, the game had basically already told the audience not to take the game too seriously, thus hurting any narrative and emotional investment the player could form with this interpretation of Kris as a character leading up to that point.

The same can be said with DELTATRAVELER's Geno Route equivalent, dubbed by the devs as The Obliteration Route watching the game in one route go from, "Ralsei Dobbie! No Bitches? Vine boom!" to beating and slaughtering a beloved protagonist and watching the kid bleed out on the ground as the other fights for revenge whilst a cover of (fucking) MEGALOVANIA starts playing in another takes what should be a very climactic and emotional moment and turns it into the single funniest boss fight I have played.

And that isn't counting the various other characterization issues present throughout the route as a whole. Characters like Noelle and Susie have no real reason to help Kris with the run once they notice them seemingly going around looking for people to slaughter. DELTATRAVELER especially when the game then goes out of its way to show the player that both party members have the digetic ability to reject the player's control, to the point where they can refuse to enter battles with Kris entirely.

But they don't, they'll even attack Ness and Paula under a certain percentage of health even after Susie tells explicitly Kris to not kill them. It leads to the game putting the blame on Kris and then The Player for a situation Susie and Noelle also have established agency over. Susie can help and kill a ton of monsters yet still be pissed at Kris for what is, under the game's internal logic, still a choice she chose to follow. The game tries to remedy this via Chapter 3's talk with the trio and it's better, sure. But it still leaves the writing in this strange place of hypocrisy with the characterization to me.

One scene that sticks out to me as particularly odd being after a secret Gaster lore dump cutscene on an Aborted Obliteration run has Noelle say:

"Kris..."

"If you were serious about not having control."

"You would've done it."

Directly implying that she thought Kris should've jumped off the cliff... which is just a strange inclusion, I feel is... Done more so to enlist a reaction in the player rather than creating important moments that respects the world and established characterization.

On the topic of weird characterization, let's talk Sans...

In the GG!UNDERFELL chapter, the main antagonists are Papyrus and Sans. Papyrus, is written, pretty recognisably from his Canon Counterpart. Sans however? Is a mess and a wonderful mess, at that. They take this very edgy, unhinged approach to his character, making him into an insane killer type of character similar to AUs like Dusttale. Throughout the chapter, he tries his damnest to kill Kris and take their SOUL, talking vaugely about a gurdge that doesn't ever get elaborated on. This approach creates a dynamic between Sans and Papyrus, where Sans is basically on Papyrus' metaphorically leash. Reaching a breaking point where he kicks Papyrus off a cliff, rushes at Kris like a feral dog before being being thrown off the bridge, leading to his battle.

His battle... oh my god his battle! It was easily the best part of the game, to the point it had to have its dialogue rewritten, the reason for this being honestly something I cannot begin to accurately describe to you while also doing the scene justice. So here's a clip from Andrew Cunningham's playthrough.

This isn't even the ironic either, this was just how Sans was written. The tone takes itself very seriously, this creates this type of divide where the game has already conditioned you not take it seriously, while trying to take itself completely seriously. It's peak tonal whiplash and it makes the scene, and the fight as a whole, unintentional hilarious.

Final Thoughts

The weirdest part? I don't even care. I've spent the better half of this essay arguing the flaws in DELTATRAVELER's writing, and while I do think they are all valid positions to have, for me? I don't really care about it that much, it's these issues that make me like the game. It's really funny in a very earnest, albeit unintentional way and at the end of the day. It's entertaining to read and there is value there. It's why I am not big on the rewrite of GG!Fell Sans. His issues come from fundemental aspect of his character that couldn't be changed with a simple rewrite, nor should it have it been expected to, as a result however, it doesn't really fix his character for me, it just takes a big part of what I enjoyed from him away. It's sort of a shining example on how when creating, you do not have a choice on how other people see your work. Some jokes you might tell might land and be funny, but also to some, may be brutally annoying and that's just the beauty of the beast. There's always room to analyse, to see if what the creator wanted to convey reads back to the audience. But even if there is critical flaws with the writing, enjoyment of that writing isn't inheritantly attached to author intentions or even the quality of the content, it's a feeling, a subjective one at that. It's why I could say I don't like Sonic the Hedgehog and Kingdom Hearts for being too corny and cheesey but to others, that's exactly what they love about it, and there's a lot of value in that.

There isn't a correct way to have an opinion, a right way to like or dislike something. You like things for the reasons you like them, you dislike you dislike them and that's fine.

However, I do want to take the time in this post to address pretty plevalent fandom issue perpetuated by the wider.

In the past, the UT/DR community was, to be frank rather toxic and elitist, it still is, depending on where you look. Overtime though, there's been a shift, whether be because those types of people moved on to other things or simply grew out of that behaviour, it doesn't matter why just that it has happened. There's a lot more positivity in this community and that is great to see. All healthy communities need such things. However, I do believe that as a result of this, the fandom now is suffering from a "rubber band mentality" where we've pulled too far in the opposite direction, leading to what feels like ironically "toxic positivity".

A lot of people feel very passionate about these fan-projects and that should be celebrated. However a trend I've seen in this fandom, one which has had a net negative effect on this community, is how we as a community react to people voicing opinions/ making jokes or just talking negatively about these beloved works.

You see it a lot with works like UNDERTALE: Yellow, DELTATRAVELER, Inverted Fate, all of the big fandom projects. Everytime a critique or just a joke about a fan-work gets more than like 10K Views on social media, the entire fandom begins to fold into basically damage control, regressing into "can we just not be so negative about the super popular fandom work loved by thousands?" People that voice their opinions on these work, especially negative opinions, get dogpiled, mocked and dismissed because according to them they "don't understand the writing", "hate fan works" or are just being "bitter about works made with passion and love and should simply shouldn't engage", even when said people once taking the time to actually hear them out, provide criticism that's honestly pretty valid.

I'd understand if people were directly going after devs, commenting under their tweets, invading their own communities just to mock and be the answer to a question nobody answered. That is wrong and should be called out. Voicing how funny or even terrible you think certain scenes are on your public social media? Ultimately, that's harmless in the grander scheme of things and I feel like fans and creators should be mindful of how they react to things because at the end of the day. People are allowed to voice their opinions, they are also allowed to make jokes and laugh at the writing, they are allowed to do all of that. People want to treat fan works like works of art and I am right there with them, but if you want to do that, you have to actually start treating them like art and accept it's a completely subjective thing. People will have different thoughts about them and that's okay! The moment you start policing what thoughts should and shouldn't be expressed is when any meaningful discussion dies. This whole mentality that since it took hard work and dedication to make a fan project should be celebrated to the highest order and treated as an object of reverence, absolved from all criticism is a harmful mentality to fall into. A thing can both require hard work and dedication and also be criticised and joked about by people. These two can co-exist. One doesn't somehow counteract and invalidate the other.

For some, analysing and critiquing media is a fun thing to do! It helps you get a better understand of the medium you're analysing, what works and what doesn't. It's legitimately fun to have discussions about. Being negative about works, even if they are works of passion aren't the end of the world, especially when they are just posts made by people just minding their own business. Jokes? Shitposts? They should all be allowed, because that's also how some people enjoy works of fiction. And if you don't want to see it? Valid but there are countless methods available to ensure that that don't involve creating a "good vibes only" type of fandom environment that everyone is forced to adhere to. That helps nobody and only breeds division within this community, I think.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Hold Me Like A Knife (i) (ao3)

In the words of our lord and saviour Taylor Swift, it's been a long time coming but... presenting, for @nessianweek day 4, viking!Cassian 🖤

After a decisive battle forges a peace treaty between the king of the West Saxons and the leader of the viking horde, Anglo-Saxon Nesta Archeron is brought north for the first time in her life when the king’s court travels to Jorvik to settle the terms and draw up boundary lines. After centuries of bloody raids, she should be terrified of the invaders from across the sea— after all, tales abound of their violence and their brutality. And yet quickly she discovers that there are some things about the heathens that she can’t help but be drawn to… especially when a chance encounter brings her face to face with one viking in particular. 

Jorvik, 884 AD

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

With each step of the horses’ hooves beyond the borderlands of Wessex, the priest muttered those same words; a prayer offered at every turn, the sign of the cross made with stiff hands and a darkened brow as mile after mile gave way beneath their feet. Through the countryside and long grass, beneath the grey sky that loomed heavy above, the king’s court made its way north— and all the while, Osbert the Holy Man whispered. 

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

Like the ground itself was cursed, and only his prayers could save them. 

It was maddening.

With a scowl, Nesta Archeron cast her eyes to the sky, rolling her eyes as Osbert began another rotation of prayers, his fingers tripping over the rosary at his neck. 

She hadn’t ever wished to head north.

It was full of wild-men, her father used to say. Wild-men with bloodied swords and even bloodier hands, invaders who set fire to the coast and laughed as it burned. Men from across the sea, who spoke in strange tongues and worshipped strange gods, who murdered priests and monks and nuns only to revel in the violence. From the places civilisation had forgotten to reach, he said, they made their home beneath grim skies on stolen Saxon land.

Nobody wanted to head north these days.

Even the horses had slowed their pace, like after days of traveling they were reluctant, now, to reach their destination. Nesta scanned the landscape with narrowed eyes as her grey mare shook her head, the reins she’d held so loosely for the past hour becoming taut, and though Nesta hadn’t spoken to her father in two whole summers, his words came back to her now, as if carried by the wind that blew cold towards the south. Aedwulf had said many things over the years that Nesta had stopped believing in, but he had gotten one thing right. The skies were grim up here, overcast and heavy, the clouds like a swathe of slate rolling in from across the sea. The April sun was well hidden, and as the bite of the wind numbed her cheeks, it made her think of the depths of winter rather than the first breaths of spring. With another scowl aimed at the sky, Nesta pulled her fur-edged cloak more closely about her shoulders, the tips of her fingers aching as she clung to the fabric.

For what must have been the hundredth time, she cursed the day they’d left Wessex.

Ahead of her, as the sun made a rare appearance from behind the clouds, the gold of the king’s crown glinted weakly, like a spark attempting flame. She wondered if anybody else had noticed that the garnets studding the band about his temples gleamed dark like pools of fresh blood; reminiscent of the battles that had brought them here.

Their side will be known as the Danelaw, the king had announced after the last pitched battle; the one that had ended with weapons on both sides laid down, a tentative peace agreed as the Norse leader had the sign of the cross traced on his brow with holy water. They will have their own laws and customs, but their leader will be baptised a Christian.

With that hammered diadem about his brow, King Alfred led his court north now, chasing peace as they neared the city of Jorvik, where the pagan lands were to be ratified; the boundaries between their peoples hammered out like a sword fresh from the forge. The women, Alfred had insisted, were to be present too - to add ‘an air of civility’ to the proceedings, like he thought the Danes might stay their hand and sheathe their blades in the presence of ladies. 

Nesta had barely been able to suppress her snort at that.

They’d all heard the stories— gruesome ones, of the pagans and their rituals. Tomas had even taken great pleasure, once, in describing to her, in detail, the horrifying blood eagle. The way the Danes delighted in breaking a man apart, in snapping bone and twisting ribs until they spread apart like wings.

If the treaty between them wasn’t enough to ensure peace and prevent violence, Nesta doubted the presence of a handful of noblewomen would be enough to convince the Danes to behave.

And yet as the wife of the king’s right hand, Nesta had no refusal she could offer, and no reason good enough to keep her in Wessex when the king insisted that his court accompany him north— to that lawless place, where even the soil was saturated with Saxon blood.

Or so it was said, anyway. 

“We used to call it Eoforwic, you know,” Tomas muttered from the space beside her.

Her husband’s voice was a scathing rasp barely even audible above the sound of a hundred horses’ hooves. He looked ahead at the horizon, nodding to the city walls before them now, piercing the sky in a great wooden structure, stark against the grey of the countryside. Even from a distance Nesta could see that the ramparts were topped with wooden spikes, sharpened to a point that, she suspected, would be lethal if climbed. And yet, riding at her husband’s side, Nesta Archeron said nothing.

“And then the heathens took over,” he finished through gritted teeth. 

The heathens.

The word was almost enough to drive fear into the heart of any proper Saxon woman, but as they approached the gates in the long train behind the king, Nesta didn’t feel so much as an ember of it stirring in her breast. After all, for almost two full decades now the heathens had occupied the city that had been Eoforwic, and yet by all accounts the city behind those walls wasn’t lying in ashes like the monasteries scattered along the coastline.  No— it was flourishing. The men from across the sea that had raided these shores for so many years, to murder and pillage and burn, had settled. Renamed the place Jorvik, set down roots. And as the gates before them opened with the sound of creaking wooden beams, Nesta waited for all the signs of such infamous brutality to hit her— the smoke and dead silence, the smell of rotting flesh. The empty eyes of the people living behind those walls, the cruel smiles of the men from across the sea.

Without pause her horse crossed the threshold. She looked up— saw the symbols carved into the gate posts, the sharp lines of an alphabet she didn’t recognise. 

And still, she waited.

There were no screams, no rivers of blood pooling in the streets.

Instead, Jorvik stretched ahead of them, the roads wide enough for carts to pass two abreast.

Wattle and daub houses lined the roads, old Roman tiles decorating the walls of a select few— as well as old bricks and white stone, repurposed and used again, like the Danes hadn’t destroyed the city at all, merely… expanded on what they had already found. Woven fences separated buildings, clothes hung on lines strung in the narrow alleys between houses, and all around them the air was filled with languages that landed strangely on the ear, tongues both harsh and soft that Nesta had never heard before. Not the Saxon she was used to nor the Latin she heard in church, but something else, something that felt richer, somehow. And as she watched with a slackened jaw and widened eyes, her attention followed the sound of those voices, her focus dragged towards the river where the ships came in, laden with goods imported from all over the continent and beyond. 

Nesta had only ever seen her corner of Wessex before, but here— here it seemed like the entire world opened up before her. 

And though she knew she shouldn’t…

She wanted to see more of it.

With her eyes fixed on that river, on the horizon that seemed to hold so much in the way of promise, a kind of longing rose within her, and suddenly Nesta thought she understood just a little of why the Danes chased their home on the seas. 

Beneath it all, in the distance, there was the tell-tale sound of a forge at work too, the clatter of a hammer against an anvil. As it rang through the winding streets, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of blade the smithy was beating into shape. Would it be great and heavy when it was done— as grand as the king’s own sword, kept in its sheath until battle called? Or would it be practical and small, light enough for even her own hands to wield—

“Nesta,” Tomas hissed at her side, little more than a scold as he leaned over and took the reins of her horse in his gloved hand. The horse whinnied, like even the mare couldn’t stand his closeness. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“No,” Nesta shrugged, her eyes drifting back to the river, to the lines of ships gathered there. Ships that sat low in the water, heavy with stock. Ships that were wide and flat-bottomed, so unusual she couldn’t look away.

“I said, the pagans are too brazen. This was a Christian city.” 

He pulled away, shoving the reins back into her hands as he sat back in his saddle, his lip curling in disgust. His features twisted into a grimace; a sneer that held as his eyes roved over Jorvik’s streets. 

“Barbarous,” Osbert muttered, scowling as he rubbed a thumb over the cross he wore at his neck. “A violent and brutish people.”

Tomas hummed his agreement. The priests’s white robes fluttered in the wind, and Nesta glanced at the mud-spattered hem as the priest ran a thin hand over his tonsured head. His face was stark, all bloodless cheeks and dark eyes, and though she hadn’t ever been able to put a finger on it, there was something about the holy man that unnerved her, made her shudder whenever she found herself too close to him.

And she had been too close to him for days now.

Osbert had been by the king’s side almost as long as Tomas, and had struck up a companionship with her husband that meant the priest was frequently lingering in their rooms at court, never too far from the side of either the king or her husband. Both men rode directly behind King Alfred now, in a position of prominence that spoke to their influence, and as the streets of Jorvik grew even wider, leading them easily to an open courtyard close to the centre of the city, Nesta wondered how easy it might be to slip from her horse and disappear through those streets, never to see either of those men again.

Before she could let the thought take root, the king stopped his horse.

Ahead of them a great hall loomed; a towering wooden structure with two floors, its thatched roof a meeting of two large, carved wooden beams at the front— two serpents twining at the apex where they crossed.

The lord’s hall.

They could get no closer— the door was closed, the windows of the ground floor shuttered. Nesta frowned, taking in the crowd that had gathered before that closed door, assembled in a circle to leave a great space empty in the centre of the courtyard. At least fifty Danes she counted, all of them waiting, she thought, for the arrival of the King of Wessex.

But then there was the sound of steel ringing out upon steel, and as the crowd before them parted to let the horses through, Alfred’s trail of Saxons caught their first glimpse of the spectacle taking place just a stone’s throw from the lord’s hall and it’s resolutely closed door. As the spectators closed the circle behind them, she realised that the Danes weren’t there for Alfred at all. 

At the centre of that circle, two Danes prowled around one another like wolves. Nesta felt her eyes widen— her knuckles tighten on her horse’s reins. 

The nearest Dane towered above the rest, his skin like burnished bronze even in the dim grey light. In one hand he held a great steel sword— in the other, a short-handled axe. A seax. He wore a thin tunic, already clinging to his skin, and his hair curled haphazardly to his shoulders. Around his neck a silver pendant hung in the shape of a hammer, and when he lunged it danced, catching the thin light as much as his sword. The second Dane was similarly built, yet lighter on his feet and a touch more lithe, and as a manic grin split across the face of the first, a whisper rippling along the gathered crowd as coins exchanged hands, Nesta realised that the crowd had gathered to place their bets— to watch the fight like one might listen to a minstrel. 

The second Dane tilted his head, his raven hair cut short, and when he turned Nesta saw the smile that pulled at his mouth, like the fight… excited him.

Like there was no malice in it.

Like it was… fun.

The first was handsome in a rugged kind of way, a single scar splitting through his eyebrow and a hundred more littering the arms laid bare by his rolled-up sleeves. Tattoos snaked their way across his skin, shifting with each flex of muscle, and it was an effort to tear her eyes away from him, like somehow she needed to discover just how he’d earned each and every one of those scars. 

As the second Dane moved into her line of vision, she noticed that he had scars too— far more brutal ones that consumed both his hands, like he’d been caught in a fire. Like perhaps he’d started the kind of fire his people were so infamous for, burning down monasteries up and down the eastern coast. 

Nesta blinked once. Twice.

The first Dane dropped his sword to the ground, letting it clatter against the packed earth. He flipped his axe, clever fingers wrapping around the hilt as he crooked the fingers of his other hand in invitation. He murmured something in his native tongue, and Nesta tilted her head as he grinned again, shifting his weight and readying himself to make the next strike. The second smiled grimly, and even though both were already marred with blood - and a thin cut left a trail of blood weeping along the arm of the first - neither seemed particularly concerned. Like a little bloodshed was nothing.

The first wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned as that, too, came away smeared with blood. 

“Barbarous,” the priest muttered again.

“Brutish,” Tomas agreed, an echo. 

The sun broke from behind the clouds, briefly illuminating the fighters in gold. They wore no armour, and Nesta’s mouth felt dry as she watched the first one fight, his arms corded with muscle that she suspected could break a man’s neck with ease. And he did make it lookeasy, the way he lifted his axe. The way he swept forward, dipping low enough to the ground to pluck up his discarded sword. 

The second warrior held his own, just as adept, but when the first landed a kick to his thigh that sent him stumbling—

Within a breath, the first Dane had his blade levelled at the neck of the second.

For a moment, Nesta’s heart was in her throat.

Here was the bloodshed— the easy violence that made the Danes so fearsome.

Would the first one cut the second’s throat with that smile still plastered on his face? Would he make that look easy too, when he opened his fellow countryman’s neck? 

Nesta held her breath.

Waited.

But after a moment, the first tossed his head back and laughed, grinning at his victory as his curls spilled across his shoulders. Then he extended a hand, helping the second to his feet even as the latter muttered something under his breath that Nesta couldn’t understand— something she suspected might have been good-natured grumbling after a fight lost between friends. 

Their hands clasped; all blood-stained skin and scars. 

“Next time,” she heard the second warrior say darkly, his chest rising and falling rapidly after the exertion of the fight. “Next time, It’ll be you on the floor.”

The first grinned, his victory lining his face with mirth. He opened his mouth, his dark eyes shining, but before he could speak, the doors to the hall behind them opened. Silence fell as a figure filled the doorway, dressed in deep black that almost made him one with the shadows of the hall behind, and as the warriors sheathed their blades, Nesta noted how the smile on the mouth of the first refused to fade, even in the presence of what was surely his lord.

“King Alfred.” The figure in the doorway stepped further into the grey light, his voice smooth and lilting beneath his accent, and as the weak sunlight glanced off the sharp planes of his face and illuminated the angular cut of his jaw, he looked like a man entirely content with command. His hair was smooth and black, kept short, and the deep black of his tunic was interrupted only by the silver rings on each of his fingers and the silver torc about his wrist.

“Lord Rhysand,” Alfred answered, his voice tight even as they met under the banner of peace. Tension wove through them like a breeze; the treaty between them hardly stronger than a reed in the river. Animosity was buried too deep, mistrust a currency of its own between their peoples. No matter what peace their leaders had agreed, Nesta hardly thought any of them were fooled.

Peace was a powder keg, just waiting for a spark.

Still, the leader of the Danes made a show of flashing a smile towards the Saxons. 

“Ignore my brothers,” he said, flicking a hand towards the two warriors they had witnessed sparring. “As Danes, the fight is embedded in our blood. We train for hours against one another,” he continued as he moved with purpose down the three steps that led up to the hall’s imposing door. His eyes glinted with something like arrogance as he canted his head, slowly, to the side. “To achieve the kind of prowess that wins our battles.”

Unease whispered through the gathered crowd, the smile on the first warrior’s face dropping to a darkened smirk as he looked up at the assembled Saxons from beneath his eyelashes. His hand shifted— fingers twitching towards the handle of his seax.

There was a threat there, Nesta thought, left so thinly veiled by Rhysand’s words. 

Alfred said nothing, only nodded sagely before glancing back, briefly, at his priest. Osbert’s scowl had deepened, his lips pressed so thin they were almost entirely invisible, and yet with a nod, both men’s horses stepped forwards anyway. The King of Wessex slid to his feet when his horse stopped in the centre of the courtyard, opening his arms in a show of perfect companionship as he walked towards the Danish lord.

It was a display Rhysand echoed, clasping Alfred’s hand as they embraced. The silver of his rings contrasted the gold of Alfred’s, and though no crown encircled Rhysand’s brow, authority rippled from him in waves. The warriors he had called his brothers took up a position on either side of their lord, like dark shadows that threatened violence, and as the rest of the crowd dispersed and serving men stepped forward to take their horses, they watched.

Smoothly, Nesta dismounted and handed her reins to a waiting groom. Beside her, Tomas still scowled, like just breathing the same air as the northmen was an affront to him. But then again, Nesta thought silently, most things proved an affront to Tomas Mandray. Even being one of the king’s right-hand men wasn’t enough for him. That scowl was permanently etched across his brow, like nothing and nobody was ever truly good enough.

Lifting her chin, Nesta straightened the silver rings that wound around her fingers. A sure sign of wealth— as sure as the belt at her waist decorated with gold, and the gold and garnet-inlaid brooches that held her cloak together at her collarbone. Tomas’ proximity to the king might not have given him land or a real title, but at least it had given him some wealth, and if gold and garnets were the only thing Nesta was to get out of this godforsaken marriage… well. 

She smoothed a hand down her cloak. 

So be it.

He left her standing alone as he drifted towards the king, a Saxon in a Norse stronghold. His gait was heavy as he stormed forwards, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, and as their leaders spoke together with heads bowed, voices too low for Nesta to hear, all she could do was clasp her hands and wait for somebody - anybody - to show her to their lodgings. It took effort, sometimes, to keep her tongue behind her teeth. To keep from screaming as the rest of the king’s court moved to make way for the men, whilst the women lingered in the dust. 

She looked forward, cast her eyes over the Danes that remained standing before the lord’s hall. The warrior with the curling hair and scar-split brow glanced up, a soft breeze shifting those loose curls back to reveal both the high cut of his cheekbones and the curve of his ear, studded at several points with silver rings. His arms were folded over his broad chest, and when his eyes flicked to hers, Nesta felt his attention as sharply as the blade of the seax he had tucked into his belt. 

He was from another world— one so foreign to her that she didn’t know what to do when their eyes met, and yet there was something warm in it when he smirked again, a base heat that gathered at the bottom of her spine, constricting her lungs as she kept her head high. With a jolt that sent lightning forking down her spine, that mouth of his split into a grin as he inclined his head towards her in greeting.

“Come,” Rhysand announced, his voice echoing through the courtyard as he drew away from Alfred. With a sweep of one arm, he motioned broadly to the open door of the hall. “Let us get the business over with. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can drink.”

Several of the Danes let out a low cheer at that, more than one of them lifting an arm into the air as if to appease their gods. Skol, one of them proclaimed loudly, hammering a fist against his chest. 

Nesta didn’t pretend to understand, but as Rhysand led Alfred through that door, Osbert and Tomas in tow, she lingered in that courtyard, even as the cold air nipped at her skin. And as Tomas looked back over his shoulder and called her name with irritation lining each syllable, she looked back to the Dane that had snared her attention and watched as his lips kicked up at one corner, his head tilted as he looked at her with the full force of that determined gaze.

And as she watched, the Dane winked.

“Skol,” he echoed. 

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In Stitches 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

We've all agreed that The Quiet Ones, Follow You Anywhere, Hidden Treasures and this fic (maybe more) have built the deluluverse.

Summary: You find your work hindered by your client's son.

Characters: Loki

Note: I had to do it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You’re not late, but you’re too dang close! You pride yourself on being at least fifteen minutes early wherever you go. Being self-employed, you make a point of always being on time. And you are but that long hand is a bit too close to the tick mark. 

It doesn’t help that Mrs. Odinson is one of your best and favourite customers. You hate to let her down. You shake off that rattly feeling as you pull up to the gate and glance at the time again. Still a couple minutes to spare. 

You buzz in with the button and wave at the camera. You’re never quite sure who’s at the other end but they always just let you through. You suspect it’s standard business and all the help know every face that comes and goes. 

You roll through and steer around towards the vehicles along the east side of the curved driveway. You’ve never seen the sleek silver car you pull in next to but you know Mrs. Odinson’s pear-coloured porshe and Mr. Odinson’s slate grey beemer. They must have company. You can’t remember if she said there was a special occasion. 

You slide into the space and grab your bag from in front of the passenger’s seat. You push open the door and gasp as the seat belt keeps you from climbing out. How forgetful! You unbuckle and untangle yourself, stepping out in your heeled oxfords and cigarette pants. 

Your reflection looks back at you from the sleek polish of the unfamiliar silver car. You smile and shut your door, locking it with a chirp from your key fob. You tuck the key ring into your blazer pocket and bounce up towards the front door. You climb the stone stairs, broad and trimmed with curled railings. You stop at the top and clang the large knocker, a raven’s head with a ring in its beak. 

A man in a dark suit answers the door. You’ve seen him before with his steely hair and sleepy eyes. He’s often the one who opens the door but he says nothing and shows you to Mrs. Odinson’s salon, as she calls it. 

As the man leaves you just outside, you peek in through the open doorway. You see your client before the standing mirror in the corner, swirling as she checks her reflection. You cough and give a gentle knock on the door frame. 

“Ah,” she spins to you with her pretty smile, “just in time, darling.” She struts over breezily, “the hem has come undone on this.” She smooths her elegant hands over her bodice, “so much for designer, eh.” 

“Oh, my,” you give her a look up and down, “shouldn’t be any trouble.” 

“Thank you, darling,” she trills and strolls back to the mirror. You follow her and pull up the stool you often use for such a fix. You have a routine between you, you know what she expects and you do it. 

You sit and open your bag. You pull out your needle and stir through your spindles to find a matching thread. As you thread the eye, she continues to preen in the mirror. 

“Something special going on?” You ask in your usual small talk. 

“Didn’t I mention? My son’s come home at last.” 

“Your son?” You look up as her curiously. 

“Oh, not Thor,” she laughs, “no, no, he’s always about, isn’t he?” She tugs on a blonde wave, trying to make is stay in place, “my other son. Loki. Finally decided to move back home. Not here, certainly, but close by. Near to his mother.” 

“Mm, that’s exciting,” you comment as you grab the hem and work around her movement. 

“Isn’t it? We’re having a little luncheon. At the tea room, I feel a public place will deter an outbursts,” she pouts at herself, “you know how family can be.” 

“Erm, sure,” you agree dulcetly as you tie off the thread, “all done.” 

She swirls, her skirt nearly hitting your face. You lean back on the stool and wiggle your nose. She admires herself. She is beautiful. Her age takes nothing away from her natural grace. You could only dream of having a similar bearing; you’re a bit too short, a bit too clumsy. 

“Mother,” a voice drawls from the hallway. You glance over as you wrap up the thread around the spindle, “we’re due to be off.” 

You don’t know that timbre. It isn’t Thor’s rumbling baritone, rather something smoother, something refined. You tuck away the thread as a slender but tall man appears in the doorway. He tugs at the cuff of his jacket as he furrows his nose. 

“Ready, just needed a touch up,” she faces him, “darling, I’ve a rack for you to take. Wouldn’t want you to make the trip just for a loose hem.” 

She points to several garment bags hung from a rack against the wall. You stand as her son’s green eyes find his mother then drift over to you. His sharp features turn imperious. 

“Must you trouble so,” she swats at him as a loose thread dangles from his cuff. 

“Wasn’t me, mother, I only just purchased the piece,” he counters, “quality, these days.” 

“Darling, come, you’ve some scissors,” she beckons you forth with a flutter of fingers. 

You reach into your bag and take the silver scissors from their sheath. You approach them with a smile as the man stares at you, eyes narrowing. He’s much unlike his brother. Much calmer. 

“May I?” You ask and Mrs. Odinson forces his arm towards you. 

He hums but offers no protest. Your fingertips brush his shirt sleeve as you roll back his jacket cuff and snip the offended thread. You feel the seam with your thumb. 

“Should do for the day,” you advise, “but it’ll come loose eventually. I could do a quick sew-off...” 

“We’re already late,” he declares and rescinds his arm. “Mother.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” she pats his chest gently, “go on then, get yourself off. Your father and I will catch up. Oh, are you taking Thor with you?” 

“I believe he is capable of tending to himself--” 

“Yes, but... he does enjoy indulgence,” Mrs. Odinson girds. 

“He is an adult and it isn’t yet noon,” Loki reprimands, “I shall drive on my own, then.” 

“You always do as you wish, don’t you, Loki?” She rebukes playfully. 

He grumbles again and his eyes flit toward you one last time, “you might have the tailor see my brother. Perhaps she could sew his lips shut so we might have a peaceful lunch.” 

Your cheeks bulb a bit larger at his joke. You can't entirely disagree.

“Eh, don’t begin,” Mrs. Odinson giggles as she snaps shut a compact and shoves it in a clutch, “you’ve only just returned.” 

“Mm, yet it feels I never left at all,” he frowns, still watching you.  

You chalk it up to curiousity, perhaps he feels it improper to ask, you do feel it a bit much to introduce yourself without prompting. The Odinson household always holds an air of formality you can never quite riddle out. You keep a smile on your face as his cheeks dimple and he tilts his head. 

“Right then,” he straightens his posture and tugs his jacket straight, “suppose I should go and hold our reservation before they think to give it away.”   

He inhales and pivots away, striding off with long, stiff steps. You watch after him before you turn back to the room. You go to slip your scissors back into their sheath and drop them into your bag before lifting it. Mrs. Odinson holds a cape and a jacket before her. 

“Which do you think it better?” She asks as you cross to the rack to gather the waiting hangers. 

“I think the cape would be better, it is rather warm. It shouldn’t rain I think,” you proffer, “is this the hounds tooth?” You peek through the opening of one of the garment bags. 

“Yes, dear, it is so lovely and yet that dang clasp is giving me such trouble,” she sounds ready to swoon at the tragedy, “might you replace it? Perhaps a button might do instead?” 

“I’ll have a look,” you fold the bags over your arm and hike up your bag, “I’ll be off then. Hope you have a good lunch.” 

“Thank you. Don’t you work too hard, dearie,” she trills after you, “much too nice a day to be pent up.” 

You sweep off with your armful. The dresses are heavier than one might expect. You find it surprising how fabric can add up. You go downstairs and once more find that stoic man in his dark suit. He opens the door for you and you thank him brightly. 

You amble down the steps, looking around your load to keep from stepping on the treacherously low edges of the bags. You would hate to trod on one of Mrs. Odinson’s dresses. You’re so distracted with your efforts to keep from mussing up the hems that a honk has you jumping in your boots. 

You yipe as you turn to face the silver car, its bumper stopping just short of you as the headlights flash. Your lips make an O and you quickly scurry out of the way.  You dip your head down guiltily. You should’ve been paying attention. 

The car door opens on the other side as you approach your own. You peer over with a sheepish look, “I’m sorry--” 

“You should be careful. I could’ve hit you,” Loki says, more accusatory than concerned. 

You smile, “I know, I’m sorry. I was distracted--” 

“Certainly, you were,” he affirms, as if telling you exactly how the world works, “and what would I do should you be caught under my tires? Can you patch yourself up so easily as a stray cuff?” 

“No, sir, I’m sorry. Again, I wasn’t meaning to get in the way--” 

“You don’t look very sorry. Not so many people smile in the face of mortal injury.” 

Your cheeks wobble but you keep your smile. You can’t help it. When you’re happy or nervous or even confused, you just tend to smile through it. A smile makes everything a little better. 

“I’m not smiling at that--” 

“Then what are you smiling at?” He hisses harshly. 

You bat your lashes and look side to side, “you.” 

“Me?” His forehead wrinkles. “Are you being smart?” 

You shake your head and your lips twitch, “smart? No, sir, I’m only... I suppose I just smile at everyone.” 

“So you would,” he mutters and angles back to his car, “be sure to stand back then. Wouldn’t want to run over your toes.” 

He drops into the car seat and slams the door. You stand back and watch him buckle in. He takes his time, adjusting his mirror, then his long fingers tap his shifter before he cranks it into reverse. He swerves around and hug the pile of clothes.  

You don’t blame him for being agitated, you’ve had a few close calls yourself. Accidents are never fun. His adrenaline was just going and at least he cared enough to be upset. It’s a good reminder to be more aware. 

🪡

The fabric store isn’t very busy. The higher-end boutiques never are. You don’t often come to them yourself but you desperately need a yard to match Mrs. Odinson’s crushed velvet jackets. You need to replace a full panel and you can’t compromise; she’ll notice. She has a good eye. She never seems to miss. 

Time is hardly on your time. You agreed to drop off the lot the next day. She has a gala and needs that one dress in particular. You know she’ll expect the rest.  

You walk around with a swatch in hand, comparing the hue and feel. You don’t want the new material to contrast. You can’t forget the thread; you don’t have quiet that shade of magenta. 

You stand amid the velvets, flipping over the large rolls, tugging the end, rubbing the fabric between your fingers. Your advance is patient even as your inner expediency nips away at you. As you come to the end of an aisle, you stop short as you look up. There’s a shadow there, waiting. 

You stand still, waiting for them to come down that aisle. You’d hate to get in their way. But they don’t and in an instant, the shadow flickers away. You hear them retreat down the next row and you curl around, seeing no more than a leather heel before the figure disappears. 

How odd. 

The mysterious entity doesn’t distract you for long. The pinks are close, each of them seems just a shade off of what you’re looking for. You sigh and breathe out between your lip, rolling your tongue around the tip of a needle that isn’t there. A habit. 

You lug out each roll and carry them down to the front counter. You lift each up as a woman greets you from the other side. You smile and clear your throat. 

“You don’t happen to have any in the back,” you wonder, “I’m looking for something in between.” 

You show her the square of crushed velvet and she sucks her teeth, “not quite, I think. I think we’ve something close in our catalogue but it wouldn’t be at this location. The north end may have it but I can’t confirm. 

You sniff and nod, still smiling. It isn’t her fault she doesn’t have it. You remember the days you worked in a fabric shop, though it wasn’t as nice as this one. You thank her and take the rolls off the counter. 

“I’ll just put these back then. I need thread anyhow,” you announce. 

“Wonderful, you just let me know if you need anything, hon,” she beams at you. 

You nod and turn back. You take the rolls back and set them away how you found them. When you spin, you feel something shift, as if there’s a breeze in this stagnant shop. You peer around. It’s strange, it’s as if you’re being followed but you haven’t seen a single other customer in the shop. 

You tilt your head and cluck your tongue as you carry on to the racks of thread near the counter. You dive into the search for the perfect thickness and colour. It’s a much more fruitful hunt. As you pluck out the very strands you need, you hear the door. Your head pops up and you glance behind you curiously. You don’t see much of the other person as they leave the store, you never even saw them pass. 

You shrug and take the spool to the counter, “thanks again,” you say to the associate, “better get out of here before temptation gets the best of me.”

[frostironfudge]

Redemption

Summary: Max Burnett taught you everything and so did Nick Fowler. Now, they don't appreciate being double crossed. So naturally you have to pay up to earn forgiveness. Will you earn redemption?

Paring: Max Burnett x F!Reader x Nick Fowler, F!Reader x Special Guest.

Word Count: 4.0k || Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, you are responsible for the media you consume. smut, shameless smut, darkish content, a spoiler for sharper and 355, p in v, edgeing, multiple orgasms, oral m recieving, dom/sub, hard doms, degradation, punishments, spanking, choking, fingering, clit play, nipple play, swearing, possessive behaviour, use of drugs for kidnapping, Max and Nick are well hard doms, even though max might have a bit of a switch vibe, knife play, cuffs, aftercare, hickeys, nicknames meanings will be mentioned on first use of the nickname, praise kink, mild dub-con vibes, if i missed anything let me know

A.N.: i didn't know i could write this much filth also these two together menaces, but i love them.

Main Masterlist // AO3

Keep your breathing even. 

Let them think you’re knocked out cold still. 

Don’t flinch at the pinch in your arm. 

Stay alert. 

Footsteps, retreating, one person. Medium build. 

Chair scarpes, neglected and worn wood.

Beeping, microwave. 

Scents, cheese melting.

Don’t move a muscle. Don’t give away your hunger. Don’t think about it.

Rustling, foil unwrapping.

Clinking, cutlery on a plate.

Footsteps, moving closer, one person. Medium to heavy build. Two total. 

Hands on yours, the rope being cut. Soft breath. 

The rope remains tethered.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.” The male calls out, the cutlery clinks against the plate again.

The earlier footsteps come closer again. 

Max. You recognise the voice a moment too late. 

Why would he? No.

“You knew all about it.” Nick keeps his voice even. You hear Max chuckle and hum.

Nick’s palm cups your cheek. Max tuts disapprovingly. The warmth from Nick’s touch recedes. 

An unspoken conversation occurs and Nick stands back.

“Agent Fowler, don’t they teach you not to touch what belongs to someone else?” The plate is set down, Max grabs your hair, “Wake up, little tesoro (treasure).” He tears the blindfold off and you blink. You’re pulled off the bed, on your knees.

Shitty hotel room. Curtains drawn. Another room outside this bedroom. 

You look up at Max.

“I’m very cross with you.” He states, “Double crossing me?”

“Max it isn’t–,”

“Fucking liar!” He grabs your jaw harshly, “Don’t give me those damn doe eyes I taught you to use.”

“Max.” Nick warns, you hear the click of a gun. You don’t look at him. He wasn’t supposed to find you. 

You had made sure to cover the tracks. Lead Nick down a cold trail ending somewhere on the west coast.

“Agent.” Max says with equal mocking. Staring at you. His blue eyes blaze with anger. 

You try to speak but he tightens his grip, all that moves past your lips is a squeak.

“You can’t be this upset being fucked over, what did you consider her your protege?” Nick takes a step to the foot of the bed. Gun still pointed at Max.

“Aren’t you?” Max finally looks at the CIA Agent.

Nick clenches his jaw, eyes falling to you. You take a peek at him from the corner of your eyes. Slate blue-grey eyes regard you with disappointment. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Nick shrugs.

Max laughs, hollow. The way he did when he told you about Madeline. You hated the sound of his hollowed out self.

“Oh please, you trained her yourself. To come after me. She’s as much as your little subordinate as she is my little protege.” Max looks back at you, tilting your head back, he leans in, remnants of his aftershave flood your senses, “Aren’t you?” 

He makes you nod your head, your lips unable to move.

“Max, let her go.” Nick warns.

“You know Nick. I don’t want to, and she’s going to help me teach you a little lesson.” Max beams brightly. Your stomach twists.

“Ask your superior to hand over his gun. You know the same way you asked him to fuck you in his office.” Max lets go of your jaw.

You remain silent, Max tightens his grip on your hair, you whimper.

“Max.” Nick warns, your eyes meet his, you blink back the tears.

“Ni-Nick,” You plead.

“You know I can’t.” Nick states, you shift, kneeling on the rough carpet hurting your bare legs. 

“Nick please, please. Just listen to him. I gave you everything you’d need. Please. I won’t let him hurt you. Nick please.”

“So pretty when she begs isn’t she?” Max wipes the tear from your cheek, “But you know all about that, tell me Fowler, fucking her part of the teaching act? Or did you actually feel for the little base level bright eyed agent?” 

Nick’s eyes widen in the slightest. 

“Oh please, you think I don’t keep an eye on broken little things I take in? Or keep an eye on fuckers that have their eyes on me?” Max chuckles, “Now hand over the gun or it won’t do either of us good seeing her in pain.” 

“You wouldn’t.” Nick calls his bluff.

“I wouldn’t? Did the little baby lie about the time I left her out in the cold? Did she not tell you how harsh I can be to her? The way I can be both her punishment and salvation.” Max raises a brow, he makes you arch your back, lips brushing against yours as he bends close enough, “You only sang my praises? Good girl.” he whispers against your lips.

Then turns your head to look at Nick, he bites the inside of his cheek at the display.

“Are you jealous?” Max sneers, free hand trailing from your neck to your collar bones and then sternum. Nick’s eyes follow the movement, “Hmm, he is, well, well, well.” 

“Nick, the gun. Hand it over.” Your voice is even this time. The agent’s nostrils flair.

Nick aims the gun to Max’s leg. Max holds a small gun to your head. Nick’s stance waivers, he gazes at you. Your eyes are on him. 

Nick exhales, irritated, he turns the gun, holding it out for Max to take. The conman undoes your binds. 

“Go on little tesoro, take the gun of the nice agent.” He coaxes. The heavy metal comes into your hands. You swallow, “Point it at him.”

Nick raises his hands as you point the gun at him all while you knee. Max pats your head, kneeling his palms slide over your outstretched hands, he gingerly plucks the gun from your hand. Kissing your cheek.

His actions and his words have your mind reeling. 

Was this a con you were pulling on Nick? 

Was Nick working with Max to get you behind bars?

“Now go get the other little toys he’s carrying.” Max instructs, standing and pointing the gun at Nick. 

You move to stand, Max tuts again. “Crawl.”

“You’re fucking sick, you son of a bitch,” Nick growls.

“Oh please, I’m letting you enjoy the show.” Max shakes his head, tendrils of his hair brush his cheekbones.

Your skin heats, cheeks aflame. You crawl to Nick, kneeling at his feet. He watches you with an apologetic expression. He reaches out to touch your cheek. Your eyes close at the contact.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you Nicky?” Max mocks. Nick glares at him. 

“Pupils dilated and well those pants I hope are doing you justice unless that is another gun. Look at that little tesoro, he’s turned on by you like this, he’s turned on by seeing me order you around.”

“Get the guns.” Max reminds you, making you look back at him. Then up at Nick. 

“You know where they are, don't you prinţesă (princess)?” Nick speaks softly, you nod. 

Your hands reach for his left ankle, the smaller holster sits there, you turn to Max. 

“Crawl.”

“Max, please.” You plead, he had to be fucking with you. He couldn’t be this cruel. 

Max narrows his eyes, then rolls them, “Check him for other ammunition then you can stand, little tesoro.” 

You knew from experience where Nick hid weapons on himself. He had a gun tucked into the back. Your hands tremble in the slightest, as you move behind him. Underneath the navy suit jacket tucked is the gun with the silencer. 

You take it away, Nick keeps his gaze steady on Max. 

“Why are you demeaning her?” He questions.

“Playing good cop? Okay I’ll bite.” Max gestures for you to stand. You grab both the guns and walk over to him. 

“You see Nicky,” Max’s smug smile only adds to Nicky’s ire over the nickname, “I’ve been fucked over by a redhead before, I’m sure you know what that feels like so when,” the tip of his gun touches your temple then your cheek, he tucks it under your chin, “This sweet little prize waltzed into my life you could colour me surprised.” 

“She’s fucked you over.” Nick states. 

“She fucked you over too.” Max adds. 

The two stare at you, you look at the wall ahead. 

“So what should we do with you?” The cold metal taps your jaw. You look at Max. 

“Get on the bed prinţesă.” Nick orders, you look towards him. He’s leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Go on, listen to Nicky.” Max prompts stepping away from you. He smiles at you, there isn’t an aota of anger in his demeanour anymore. 

“Max.. what is going on?” He doesn’t answer; you turn to the other man, “Nick?”

“Get on the bed, don’t make Max angrier, I don’t think you would prefer me to be angrier either.” 

You get on the bed, both of them on opposite ends of the room. Watching you, their blue and grey predatory gazes drinking you in, you pull down the hem of the dress on your thighs. 

“Nick, Max…” You want to ask, all of your facial reading abilities give you nothing from their masks. 

Nick saunters over, a relaxed smile on his face. He hands Max the two pairs of cuffs. The bed dips under his weight. Your hands spread out each cuffed to one end. 

Your breathing hitches when Max’s palm is wrapped around your throat. He smirks, giving your neck a squeeze. 

Your thighs clench, your body betraying you. 

Nick chuckles, “Always so responsive isn’t she?” He muses. Max nods pulling away from you. 

The two of them observe you from the foot of the bed. Asking questions is not productive. You know they know about the double cross you pulled on either side. 

Your I-will-disappear bag and passport aren’t here, which means you never got away quick enough. From either of them. 

“It’s clicking into place.” Max grins at you, “Always so very smart. Always such a good girl, little tesoro. Till you weren’t.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. 

“Well, you’ve learned a lot from the both of us. You tried to keep us both happy and fucked the both of us over. You know you have to be punished, prinţesă.” Nick licks his bottom lip. 

“I wasn’t going to betray—,” 

“Oh you weren’t?” Max exaggerates his words. 

Nick pulls out your bag from under the bed, you stare at it, “Little liar aren’t you?” 

“I wasn’t! I promise.” You plead, pulling against the restraints. 

“You want to make it upto us?” Max questions, tilting his head to gauge your response, searching for even a flicker of insubordination. 

You nod, “Please.” 

Max looks towards Nick. The latter hums audibly, contemplating but the gleam in his eyes has you know he already decided. 

Max hands him the small blade. Nick climbs in next to you. The flat edge of the knife trails over your right leg, when Nick reaches your thigh he taps the blade twice. 

Your legs part for him, the blade catches on the hem of your dress. He begins to tear it apart. Leaving you exposed to them. The dress hangs off of your shoulders. 

“I think we need to see a little more skin don’t we Max?” Nick asks rhetorically, your breath hitches as he traces the tip over the swell of your breast, the straps cut through. 

You bite your lip, Nick presses a soft kiss to your sternum. 

“Be good.” He warns, your bra falls in tatters around you. 

Max joins in on the bed, fingers brushing along your inner thighs, then higher he hums appreciatively as the wetness seeps onto his fingers.

“My, my, little tesoro. You really want to be a good little slut for us.” The panties are shifted to the side, his fingers brush over your folds, you whimper. Max keeps his teasing movements going, watching the way you keep coating his fingers. 

Nick cuts through the fabric, leaving you fully at their mercy. 

Nick reaches forward his thumb and index finger twisting your nipple. Max begins to circle his thumb around your clit. You bite your lip not to make a sound. 

A sharp sting on your cunt has you cry out. 

“You do not hold back those sounds.” Nick reprimands and Max’s palm stings against your pussy. You clench around nothing as you moan. Twisting against the cuffs. 

“You want our forgiveness?” Max taunts, his palm leaving redness in its wake as he spanks over your inner thighs. Nick strokes your cheek, softness in contrast with Max’s harsh spanks. 

“Please.” You plead, Nick shakes his head. 

You’re turned over, hands crossed and laying on your stomach. Max breathes deeply, the fabric of your dress cut further and taken off. 

You feel Nick grab your hips lifting them higher, your shoulders strain as the pull of the cuffs has you arch to find comfort. 

Max sits next to you, making you look at him. He smiles, your lips part to apologise but you cry out as Nick’s palm comes into contact with your ass. 

“Trusted you prinţesă.” He hisses, massaging the flesh, then alternating his harsh spanks you twist and wiggle to no respite. Tears brim over. Max’s index finger wipes over them and then the other side with the back of his fingers. He provides you with no other gentleness. Instead watching Nick continue. 

How long had it been you don’t understand or perceive. Spanking alternated between the two of them. After their set of ten they’d tease your folds, cooing at the needy way your pussy would want their fingers to fill you up. And they did, long thick digits stuffing you. Getting soaked by your arousal. Thumbs tapping your clit, at the edge of bliss and then nothing. 

Nick switches with Max again, he offers his soaked fingers to you, your tear stained cheeks pull no leniency this time. Your lips part to clean his fingers. 

Not a word of praise. 

You’ve been good, you apologised. 

Yet nothing. 

Just pain. 

It stopped feeling good too. 

“I’m sorry!” You cry out at the next spank. Sniffling you bury your head. 

Body fell flat against the bed, your arms stretched to their maximum to opposing ends. You feel the sting of both their palms spanking you at the same time. 

You sob, crying out broken sorries. 

The cuffs are undone and you’re turned around again, Max unzips his jeans, his cock hard and waiting. He pulls you down along the bed. The sheets add to the burn on your ass. You grip them. 

Max rubs his cock over your folds, “You thought you could lie to us?” 

“I’m sorry.” You hiccup and then moan as he slams into you. Filling you up so good the burning ache numbing with each thrust. Pleasure overtakes your body. 

“Little tesoro, I’m so fucking mad. I trusted you so much.” Max grunts, “Fucking pussy’s so fucking,” he groans, your leg wrapped around his waist, “Addictive. Going to make you our little cumslut.” 

You clench around his cock. His thrusts are hard and fast, “Look at Nick.” Max grunts out, “Fucking vice like grip.” 

You look up, Nick watches you, his hand leisurely moving over his cock. You lick your lips. He smirks. 

“You want a taste, prinţesă?” 

“Oh she does, fucking velvet walls can’t get enough.” Max pulls out, you mewl at the loss. 

Nick stands, cock bobbing against your cheek as they have you lay across the bed so your head hands off of the edge. 

Both of them thrust into you, your mouth and pussy fill at the same time, eyes rolling back as they thrust in sync. Nick tweaks your nipples and you moan around him. Large hands on your breasts, cupping and squeezing. 

“Fuck—I missed this lying mouth.” He groans, he places a hand on your throat feeling himself thrust deep. “You’re going to make such a pretty cumslut, prinţesă.” 

Max grabs your hip, fingers on your clit circling adding to the unravelling pleasure that begins to take over after all the edging. 

Pleasure courses through your veins, you arch up, the sheet fisted both of them moan your name. 

Max fucks you through your orgasm, your mouth slack even as Nick pulls out. Hoarse moans of Max’s name leave your lips. 

“Going to fill you up.” Max’s hips stutter, he groans spilling into you. His palm grabbing your jaw, your knees pressed to your chest as he kisses you. It’s sloppy, needy, all consuming. Biting down on your lip as he pulls out of you and pulls his lips away. 

Your chest heaves, Max sits back against the bed and Nick grabs your legs, you’re pulled to the edge and flipped over. He grabs you by your neck, pulling you up.

Your back against his chest, your hands grab at his, his cock spears you, you cry out his name. Nick’s thicker girth makes you feel fuller, his head brushing against the spot that has your legs trembling. 

He knew you wouldn’t last, he was counting on it, “such a pretty cunt. All ours to use isn’t it?” He squeezes your throat, his fingers rub harshly on your clit. You nod, “Please, please, please—,” a strangled plea leaves your lips as you cum yet again, slumming against Nick as he ruts into you. 

Your spasming walls don’t allow him to last long, “Your mouth is fucking wonderful but this? Divine. You aren’t getting away from us.” He promises, your lips meet his as he cums inside you as well. His kiss is equally claimant, his dominance harsher. His stubble burns against your skin.

As if the two of them want to share you but want the other to know who actually owns you. 

Aftershocks thrum through your body. Nick pulls out, you feel the mess coat your thighs. Max kneels on the bed, holding you up as Nick leaves. He wipes your tears, cupping your face. 

Water runs and the door shuts, a warm cloth is moved upon your body, you hiss as it brushes over your sensitive flesh. Nick turns your head to the mirror on the opposite wall your body is littered with hickeys and marks of them. 

“There isn’t going to be a punishment next time if you pull this stunt, prinţesă.” Nick warns.  

You blink, they meet your gaze in the reflection. 

“Exactly little tesoro. You did well for us. Maybe there is redemption for you after all to be our good girl.” Max kisses your cheek. 

“Do you understand?” They ask, you nod. 

“I do.” 

“Whose are you?” Max raises a brow. 

“Both of yours.” Your answer pleases them. 

“Will you ever run away?” Nick narrows his eyes. 

“Not unless you both are where I have to run toward.” 

You’re kissed again, one by one. 

Rewarded by tongues and wandering hands. 

Laying between the two their fingers inside you, making you cum apart between them. Over and over. Late into the night or early into the day they allow you rest. 

You pull away from bed carefully, the two of them in the seating area talking softly, you search for clothes but you only find Max’s hoodie and Nick’s briefs. Your bag had the other essentials but not any clothes. They would sedate you to move you again. You try to not let the thought curdle in your chest. Wearing the clothes, you head into the kitchen.

Bags from a local burger joint are on the small table. You stand at the doorway, fiddling with the sleeves. 

“Ah there she is, my little thief.” Nick chuckles, “Come on we have your favourite curly fries.” 

“And strawberry milkshake mixed with half of vanilla.” Max holds up the cup. 

You stare at the food and drink. 

“Oh you don’t trust us?” Max shakes his head amused, “Told you.” He says to Nick. He reaches for the fries and eats a random one, making a show out of chewing it. Holding his arms wide as if to show no damage to himself.

Nick does similarly with the milkshake, taking a sip and making a face at the combination but again nothing happens to him, “We’re good to you. We’re safe. Unlike the place you planned on running toward.” 

You giggle at their antics. Padding over to them and taking the spot between them. You eat the food, and drink your milkshake, being their good girl. They smile, no anger or disappointment in their eyes. 

“So will the two of you ever be inside me together?” You ask randomly, popping a fry in your mouth the two of them begin coughing not expecting that question. You laugh padding over to the counter that harbours the water bottles, unscrewing them you quickly hand them their bottles and take your own. 

“Sorry, I thought…” You look away shyly.

“Maybe we do your fantasies after we’re done with your punishments.” Nick suggests, rubbing his chest.

You look from him to Max, he takes another sip of water, “Little tesoro, we aren’t done punishing you yet.”

“I understand. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking clearly.” You agree with them. They nod.

Max reaches for a french fry and slumps forward. Your eyes widen, “Max!”

Nick’s eyes turn from the slumped over conman to you, you stare at him accusingly, he stands, you watch him reach for the gun on the side table but he falls forward as well, “Nick!” 

Their eyes are open, you wipe the panic from your face, rolling your eyes. 

“Oh don’t worry, soon it will be a nice little sleepy time.” You promise, eating another fry and dusting your hands off, “Well these past hours have been very entertaining but I have some very important business to attend.” You stand, moving over Nick’s body towards Max. Their eyes have the anger yet again.

“Oh it’s just a little drug. The way you drugged me.” You smile at Max, taking a deep breath before dragging him along the carpet to the bedroom. You cuff him to the bed frame. Leaving him watching you from the ground you head back to drag Nick back inside.

“Max and Nick, the two of you were right, strength training has its perks.” You grin, cuffing Nick works the same way. You sift through their bags for clothes opting for Max’s since they wouldn’t have any stitched in trackers. You’d ditch them anyways. 

They helplessly watch you strip down, and put on clothes. You open your seized bag, the hidden pocket still has the keycard you need. You smile at them.

“Well boys,” you saunter over to them, then spot your shoes, wearing them you make your way back. You place a kiss against Max’s soft cheek then Nick’s stubbled one, “Thank you for the fuck, I don’t appreciate the spanking.” You wink, “Maybe we can continue this another time.”

You close the door gently, you’re just outside of New York you crack your stiff neck. Reaching for the burner tucked into the sole of your shoe you dial the number. 

“Hansen and Barnes’ or Barnes and Hansen’s Services.” The cheery voice greets you.

“Llyod.” You greet walking down the steps towards the road. Hailing down a cab.

“Ah, sweetheart, grumpy here was angrier than ever.” Lloyd informs, you shake your head at his nonsense.

“Well he can meet me at his favourite place. Oh and I have Fowler and Burnett tied up.” You inform, he whistles, impressed by your antics. 

“Get there, I’m sure he’s excited to meet his Doll.” Lloyd teases, “I’ll tell him. Text me where they should be.”

You hear a muffled sound then punches and groans, you use the time to text Lloyd. You get down from the taxi at the first subway station’s steps. 

“Doll.” Bucky greets over the call, making you smile.

“Hi, Bucky. I missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. I hear you’ve earned redemption?” He enquires.

“I have.” 

“Good girl. Knew you would make me proud. I’ll meet you at our favourite place in an hour.” He promises.

“An hour Mr. Barnes.” You affirm, he chuckles.

“I’ll see you, Doll.” Bucky promises before the line goes dead. 

You break the flipphone, dropping it on the platform, kicking it onto the tracks and then leaving the station with the hood up.

-x-x-x-x-