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sinsofsummers · 1 year ago

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push & pull

5.7k | din djarin x f!reader

summary: after convincing him to help you hide from the guild, you teach mando how to enjoy himself. this is the way. warnings: smut (duh), 18+, mdni. canon-typical violence, but otherwise it's super canon divergent. din is a touch-starved virgin, soft touches, lap-sitting, the helmet stays on, mask kink, din does lots of whimpering, experienced!reader, mutual masturbation, virginity loss (m), praise kink, creampie, brief aftercare at the end. note: look me in the eye and tell me he wouldn't crumble at the thought of skin-to-skin contact. yeah. you can't. anyways this is so long and so self-indulgent. pls forgive me. if mando takes his helmet off by the end of this, mind ur business this is sooooo not canon. note p.2: i'm so sorry this took so long but i was hungover. also this was not meant to be this long. so count this as a big fat thank you for 1.4k as well as my bday present to you guys (for my bday.) impaired editing i apologize.

With the light of both suns in your eyes, forcing you to blink the spots from your vision, you brushed a hand across your forehead. The dry, dusty atmosphere of Tatooine was no joke, and you scowled under the cloth you'd brought with you to cover your mouth and nose.

"Figures," you mumbled to yourself, looking down to see a small pile of sand building on the tops of your boots, the wind blowing it into place. "Why would anyone choose to live here?"

Of course, you weren't looking for a resident; you were looking for a fugitive. The infamous Mandalorion, no less. You'd been given less-than-satisfactory information on the bounty hunter and the reasons for such a high reward for his capture, but it wasn't like you had much choice than to accept the job. Despite what you told yourself, you did actually need the money.

That was before you'd figured out that everyone else in the Guild had been tasked with the same job, turning a high stakes bounty hunting gig into a near-definite suicide mission. Something you didn't want anything to do with.

But alas, here you stood, practically sinking into the hot Tatooine desert. You had to keep shifting your weight to keep at least one foot above the surface. You never knew when you'd have to make a quick getaway. There were still a handful of Guild members left that presented a challenge to collecting your bounty, and of course they were the most dangerous ones.

You kicked a foot forward and watched the sand shift, cursing the trouble that was inevitably on its way. You'd managed to bribe your way to Tatooine, where the Mandalorian was apparently hiding from the Guild. And if you had found the Mandalorian, there was almost no possibility that the others hadn't found him.

Because, if you were being honest with yourself—the one task you excelled in—being a bounty hunter wasn't exactly something you were good at. In fact, you were far from it. With luck and just enough anxiety to keep your feet moving, you'd floundered your way through three years in the Guild, searching for a way out just as quickly as you'd begged for a way in.

So you'd gotten yourself into this mess. Wasn't that how it normally went, though? Quick decision-making skills weren't necessarily a blessing if the decisions you made would determine your chances of living past thirty (spoiler: the chances were significantly slimmer).

You rubbed the dust out of your eyes once more and saw some movement in the distance, the subtle glint of beskar blinking toward you as it reflected the sunlight. Gotcha, you murmured inwardly. The Mandalorian was here, and you were going to get him. Not to turn him in, no; you held no loyalty to the Guild and its cult-like policies.

This job was an escape mission. If he could stay hidden, maybe he had room for one more. You'd cut a deal.

There had to be something you could offer him, if not your skills in combat, or stealth, or—

Or simply human mobility, you groaned inwardly as you felt your ankle roll underneath you, the sand softer than you'd anticipated. It'll be a good day when I leave this damn place.

—

It was a wonder that the two of you had survived. You'd hardly gotten the chance to give your proposal before he was aiming his blaster at you, and then at the Guild members that showed up in droves behind you. It was all you could do to get out of the way, knowing you'd be hopeless in the fight.

Now, with their bodies scattered around your feet, the Mandalorian standing a few feet from you with his chest heaving, and his beloved ship somehow still functional, you had your chance.

"You're not...very good at this," he said, the helmet masking his voice in a way that made it scratch along the insides of your ears as it traveled to your brain. "You do know that?" he asked, but it sounded more like an accidental insult than a real question.

You threw your hands up, letting them fall heavily to your sides. "Yeah, I told you that," you scoffed. "That's why I'm asking to go with you. Wherever you're headed."

His head tilted, the beskar shining in the setting suns, and you wondered what his eyes looked like under that helmet. Would they be sparkling with mirth or lined with mockery?

"I thought you were kidding," he said sheepishly, shifting his weight. "To get me to underestimate you." He looked like the picture of careful relaxation, although his blaster was still held tightly in both hands, poised in case he needed to aim and fire.

You couldn't help the exasperation in your tone as you lifted your head to the sky, squeezing your eyes shut and placing a curled fist over your eyes. "Why would I do that when I don't want to turn you in?"

He didn't answer.

"You know that there's only two ways out of this, right?" He still didn't answer you, just held his blaster taut and his head tilted to the side, so you continued. "You killed every Guild member that's left. Now it's just you and I. If I don't bring you in—which I'm not exactly dying to do—those rich fucks that are more powerful than us are gonna come find us."

"Find you," he corrected. "Why would I want to add another target to my ship?"

You shrugged. "Yeah, they probably will. But that's only part of the first option. Either they come for me, and you leave me here, and I die—also something I'm not particularly thrilled to think about—or the two of us..." you gestured with your hands to imitate the pair of you getting on the Razor Crest and flying away from Tatooine and its dusty expanse of a landscape.

"Could be a third option," he said quietly, "if you think about it." He lifted his blaster until it was lined up with your chest. "I might just kill you and cut my losses."

Fear might have struck you, but you didn't have the energy to entertain the panic unspooling in your chest. "That wouldn't be very humanitarian of you. Besides," you insisted, hands lifting to portray the image of surrender, "I'm light. I'm quiet. I won't stay with you longer than I need to. Once you get me off this planet, I'll find a place for you to drop me off."

He didn't answer for a moment.

"Literally," you pushed once more, "you can open the back door and push me out for all I care. I just want out of the Guild and all their dumb shit."

You'd known Mandalorians to be quiet, pious, and ruthless, but something about the way his helmet betrayed no hint to what he was thinking or how he might respond...it made you more anxious than you'd ever been in your life. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm. "Well...you're not coming with me. Ship's full."

"Your ship?" you said, incredulous. "That thing would be gone without me."

"Damn luck, that was." His voice had gone hard, but his body was still.

This was...partially true. Your mind flashed with a memory of the way you'd accidentally pulled the trigger on one of your blasters, effectively stunning the last Guild member who'd been attempting to strap explosives to the hull of the Crest. It was the only good thing that you'd done all day.

You curled your lip, annoyance rippling off you in waves. Lifting a middle finger in front of the helmet, you scowled. Hope he can see this under all that beskar, you snarled inwardly. "Still counts."

With a soft huff that you could hear come from under his helmet, the Mandalorian lowered his blaster. "One jump into hyperspace. The first little space rock that's big enough to stand on—"

"Perfect," you interrupted firmly. "I'll be out of you...armor...soon enough."

—

You'd missed your stop about three years ago. One jump into hyperspace had turned into four, and then ten, and...now you had your own spot to rest your head at night on the Razor Crest.

On that first day, you hadn't known the Mandalorian—"Din Djarin," he'd introduced himself reluctantly one day—was still traveling with Grogu, the sweet child that had begun his journey across the galaxy, hiding from the Guild. But you'd quickly decided it was nice to have another partner in crime, to interact with whenever Din was in the middle of one of his quiet days.

As the days had turned into months, and subsequently into years, the inability to meet Din face-to-face had become less frustrating, although sometimes you wished you could sneak a glance at his hands, or his wrists, or something that might resemble the human underneath the armor.

Once in awhile, deliciously, you could tilt your head just the right way and look forward at him when he was in the cockpit, his helmet pulling away from the cloth under his armor. Between helmet and armor, a sliver of golden skin would glimmer back at you, just begging to be touched. Of course, you never gave in to your silent desires.

This was not the Mandalorian way; you knew this well. Even when you felt his head turned toward you, even when you were sure his hands were reaching for you when you needed his help climbing somewhere, you kept your distance.

Well, for as long as you could. Until he forced your hand.

It wasn't long before you were unable to keep your hands away from him; going up and down the ladder on the Crest, or climbing over the occasional boulder on the routes you walked along when forced to take a respite on an unknown planet. His gloves were always rough in your grip, but you couldn't ignore the way his hands seemed to squeeze yours, tighter than might have been necessary.

And you'd begun letting your hands linger on the beskar of his armor for moments longer than you should—his helmet, tracing the indented curves of the spot where his cheekbones rested underneath, or on his chestplate, where you swore you could feel him lean into you, as if pressing your hands closer and closer to his skin beneath the armor.

You stood beside him as he sat in the chair in the cockpit, guiding the Razor Crest through the galaxy once more, aiming for some undisclosed location he'd neglected to tell you. He usually did things like that; you'd learned not to be offended by his unbreakable instinct to keep things to himself.

It hadn't occurred to you just how long he'd been wearing that helmet until you looked toward him again and noticed the soft curl of a few brown strands of hair that crept from the edges, kissing the back of his neck. They were short strands, but they were long enough to wink up at you as they curled around each other, begging to be touched.

"Din?" you asked, hoping to distract yourself from the thought.

He didn't look at you, but he tilted his head in your direction, just a centimeter. It was enough.

"Why'd you let me stay with you?" you gripped your hands together, as if they had a mind of their own and couldn't be trusted to remain at your sides. "I was horrible at any aspect of being a bounty hunter."

You were used to the way that it always took him a few seconds to answer, coming up with an evenly-expressed response. This, of course, gave you more time to stare at the tendrils spilling from the edges of his helmet.

"You were a risk," he admitted with a shrug, the helmet (of course) not betrayed anything. His voice was calm, even as he continued softly. "I have a particular...proclivity for picking up foundlings," he said with a tilt of his head toward Grogu, who cooed at the mention of him.

You lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not a foundling, though."

If you could have seen his eyes, you were almost positive that they'd be giving you a look that said, are you sure? Instead, he only spoke in his perpetually smooth voice. "You were lost, though, mesh'la."

You still weren't sure what each word in Mando'a meant—he'd been dropping a few words here and there, as if he knew you couldn't interpret them—but you blushed all the same. Before you knew it, your hands were releasing their grip on one another and reaching up to comb through the curls at the base of his neck.

They were softer than you'd imagined; smooth and thick in your grip. "Alright," you said gently, "maybe I was. I never got to thank you, you know."

Your hands were moving on their accord now, silently twirling the curls around the tips of your fingers. You were used to his silent, immobile exterior, so you didn't think he'd be able to feel the way you pressed your hand to the back of his neck. He'd never said anything before that gave the impression that he was aware of your ministrations, so when he leaned back into your touch then, something strong and addiction bloomed in your gut.

When he spoke, you were surprised to hear how shaky his voice was. After three years of hearing nothing but steady syllables fall from his masked lips, you nearly flinched at the stutter in his voice.

"Thank me?" he said quietly. "For..." you could have sworn you felt his heartbeat flutter rapidly in his neck when he trailed off. "For what?"

You pulled your hand away, pretending not to notice the way he shuddered at the loss of touch, his shoulders slumping as if in a pained relaxation. You hid your smirk. "You're not seriously asking that, right? Without you, I'd probably be dead by now." Or worse, you reflected with a quiet pang in your chest.

Din's response was quick this time, an unusual—but not unwelcome—surprise. "And without your perfectly timed luck, I might be without a ship." His voice was thick, trembling with something that might have sounded like desire had it been someone else speaking.

You didn't even think Din had the capacity to know something as heavy as desire. Well, not that he was incapable of feeling desire, just...you'd never thought about what he might do if he did feel it. Would he shove the temptations down, destined to die in the corners of his mind and body?

Your cheeks warmed at your next thought. Perhaps he took care of it himself in the dead of night on the Razor Crest, or on those mysteriously long patrol walks that he insisted on doing alone.

"Yeah, well..." your answer was pitiful and you knew it. But you were too busy looking at the way his body was slumped in his seat, facing forward despite every limb beginning to turn toward you, as if you were a magnetic beacon.

His fingers twitched in his gloves, angling toward you just as his knees began to do the same thing. "Will you..." he trailed off, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Mesh'la," he breathed, and he leaned to the side, as if his shoulder was chasing your touch. "Put it back."

You were going to ask what he meant, but you didn't have to. Even with his helmet on, you could practically see the pleading in his body language. Here he was, a devout Mandalorian, begging you to put your hands back on him.

"Please," he said quietly, almost a question. It sounded so unlike him that you wondered briefly if he'd been killed and replaced with an imposter. But by the way that his hand trembled as he took his focus away from flying the Crest and moved it toward you...this was Din.

"You...okay?" you asked, but you obliged his request in return, replacing your hand at the base of his neck. You watched in an unfurling dizzying sense of satisfaction as he reached up his own gloved hand to cover yours, squeezing it gently. "Din," you started, but he shook his head.

"I've never disobeyed the Way of the Mandalore," he said, his voice muffled under the mask. You strained your eyes, wishing you could see beneath the beskar. "I've never wanted to. Not before..." he brought your hand around to rest on his chestplate, and you could feel the pressure of his chest leaning into your touch. "Not before I knew what it might feel like to want someone like this."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull your hand away. "You...what?"

His head tilted down. "For once, I don't know how to manage this." He stood up, and suddenly he was towering over you, the cloth under his armor making your fingers itch to tear it off. "How do I manage this?"

"I..." you couldn't hide your shock. "I don't know. It's...isn't it against your religion? It's not the Way."

Din shook his head. "No, it's not." He spread his hand down your wrist and extended it toward your own chest, the leather of his glove seeping into your skin. "But I've also never told anyone my name. Never heard it spoken since I was a child."

You swallowed roughly. "So?"

He huffed a chuckle. Lifting your hands to his helmet, he let your fingers find the divots of the beskar. You didn't miss the way his chest shuddered with a stuttering breath at your touch. "So," he said, "to hell with the Way. For tonight, at least. I need to know you in every way I wish I could."

Such a harrowing request, given the circumstances. But you couldn't stop your hands from tracing the lines of his masked face. "Din..."

"Please." His voice cracked over the single syllable, and it was all you needed.

To hell with the Way, your thoughts echoed his words, and you nodded softly. "Alright," you acquiesced. With one look down, you saw the tent growing in his pants, sending a spike of desire down your spine, settling in your core. "How'll you have me?" you asked.

He let out a soft noise that sounded like a whimper. "Any way that I can," he choked out, his hand returning to your wrist and enclosing it in his grip. "I'll have you any way you'll have me."

You could hardly speak, so you didn't. With a gentle nudge, you pushed him back into his seat. When he sat back, his legs fell open; there was an inviting space between them.

Standing in the spot, just inches from his face, you stared into the black mass of his helmet, hoping you'd get a glimpse of his face. Of course, you knew he would only go as far as he wanted to. If the mask was destined to remain, then...so be it.

With your eyes on his, you moved his hands to your waist, pressing them to your skin and enjoying the feeling of his leather against your body.

He shook his head. "Take them off," he said, again with that whimpering voice. "Please."

You nodded wordlessly and shed his hands of the barriers, heat pooling in your core at the sight of long, thick fingers, his skin finally exposed to you. Returning his hands to your waist, you tilted your head back at the sensation. You were never going to forget what his skin felt against yours.

The melody of shuddering breaths that fell from his lips was unreal, and you wanted to soak up every second of it. Without more than a second thought, you slid your legs over his, straddling his hips and pressing your chest to his chestplate. His hands remained on your waist, but he let them wander, curling them around to cup your ass.

The feeling of his hands on your body made you unconsciously roll your hips forward, which released a strangled moan from his lips. "Oh, god," he mumbled. "Mesh'la, please take it off."

You paused. Your hands fell to your lap, and your eyes were wider than saucers in the reflection of his helmet. "What?"

He picked up your hands in his own, the rub of skin against skin an intoxicating intimacy. "Please," he begged. "If I'm going to touch you like this, I need to see you, cyar'ika. Nothing in the way."

You were going to argue further, but you couldn't ignore the pulsing need that was clouding your thoughts, the same need that pushed your hips further down into his lap. It was impossible to miss the way his cock twitched against your clit, eliciting a soft moan from your lips.

“Are you—”

“Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I’m sure,” he begged, and he squeezed your hips under his hands. “Never been more sure, mesh’la.”

This time it was your turn to let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, more to bolster your own confidence than his own. His resolve was clearly rather strong in this matter, and nothing would change his mind.

With a hand on either side of the helmet, you gently pulled it up and away from his face, hardly able to believe that he’d agreed to let you rid him of his every barrier. For a moment, as each inch of skin was revealed to you, you caught yourself frantically wondering what he might look like.

Would he look like anyone else? Would he look familiar to you in that way that only lovers can? Or would he be hiding a deformed brow bone or an abnormally small nose or a crude smile?

Of course, you shouldn’t have even worried. When the helmet lifted off of his head and you let it fall to the floor with a hard thud, you smiled at the face that blinked back at you in wonder. With those brown strands that were just long enough to hang down over his forehead, and the matching brown eyes that twinkled with the moonlight in his pupils, Din Djarin was exquisite.

“I knew it,” you hummed, your eyes tracing every line on his face, every strand of hair that clung charmingly to his forehead.

His response was a strangled moan, and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord when you dragged a finger along his jaw, then the hooked line of his nose. “Knew what?”

“I knew you’d be one of the pretty ones,” you grinned, and you leaned down to press your lips to his, swallowing his groan of ecstasy.

You drank it down like the sweetest liquor, the sound pulling your own moan from your chest. His lips were chapped and dry from lack of care, but his mouth was warm and wet and his tongue was deliciously shy as he darted it towards yours. His hands stuttered as they pressed further up your chest and felt for your breasts. You weren’t sure how long he’d last; his chest was already heaving.

“Din,” you pulled back with a grin. “Din,” you repeated when his eyes remained closed. “Thought you wanted to look at me?”

“I do,” he said, his voice choking in his throat. “I do, mesh’la, I just…I think I might come in my damn suit if I look at those lips too long.”

You cooed, letting a hand search for the roots of his hair, finding a home on his scalp. You curled your fingers in the strands and watched his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw go slack, and felt his hips buck up into yours. “You’re so sensitive, baby,” you hummed, your mind running wild with thoughts of what this could mean.

“Never been touched like this,” he mumbled, voice cracking again. “Feels perfect, mesh’la.”

“I need you to look at me, Din,” you nodded. “It’ll keep feeling good, I promise. I just need you to look at me.”

When his eyes opened, you could have fallen apart right there at the sight of his glassy brown depths. His lip quivered and you almost thought he’d cry, but then he was letting his hand fall from your chest to your waistband, trailing his thumb along the skin there. “Can I?” he asked gently.

Nodding, you stood up. “Just keep breathing, pretty boy,” you said softly. “I’ll make you feel good. Show you just how good it can be.” You guided his hands to your waist and let him pull your pants to your ankles, revealing the front of your glistening slit to him.

Din was just starting to understand the drug-like effects of physical touch, so you weren’t surprised when he leaned forward, fell to his knees, and pressed his forehead to the soft skin of your stomach, breathing deeply as if he were a zealot bent to pray at the altar.

“C’mere,” you whispered, though unable to hide the growing smirk on your face. There seemed to be nothing more addicting than the sight of the Mandalorian on his knees before you. “Sit back down for me, baby,” you said, tilting his chin up to look at you. “Take those pants off, they look awfully restricting.”

He nodded quickly and obeyed, slipping his pants down to his knees as he sat back on his chair. It was downright sinful—the beskar on his chest but his helmet removed and his cock springing free, the tip red and angry and leaking. “Please,” he begged. “I—”

“I know,” you breathed, stepping closer to him. “We’re gonna make each other feel good now, yeah?”

Din nodded once more, his eyes fluttering shut. “Please, please.”

Well, how were you going to deny him then?

You straddled him once more, your clit throbbing at the sight of his cock underneath you. But rather than shock him with the feeling of your pussy milking him for all he was worth, you hovered over him, just enough that the head of his cock lay just an inch from your entrance.

“Mesh’la,” he begged, “please don’t tease. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good, I swear to everything I’ve ever believed in—”

A finger pressed to his lips, you shook your head. “I know,” you repeated. “Deep breaths for me, Din.”

He inhaled sharply and shoved his breath out of his chest. For a moment, his eyes cleared.

“Good,” you encouraged him, relishing in the look of his wide eyes at the praise. “Such a pretty boy, baby.” You moved his hand to your core, guiding his fingers to your clit. “Rub little circles for me, baby. Make me feel good and I’ll make you feel good.”

He obliged quickly, rubbing tentative circles to your clit in a way that had you smiling gently, loving the sacrilege you were participating in. “Is that g—oh!”

Din’s question was interrupted by your hand reaching down to grip his cock, delivering a quick stroke and making his hips stutter. He tried his best to lift his hips from the chair, clearly aiming for your entrance, but one hand on the beskar on his chest had him sitting back.

“It’s okay, baby,” you cooed, “just like that. Just touch me for a while.”

Ever the gentleman, Din kept his eyes on you and his hand on your pussy, pulling sweet sounds from your lips just as you wrecked him beneath you. Your thumb slid against his tip and he almost came; you could tell by the way his breath caught in his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, lip trapped between his teeth.

You wanted his fingers to wander toward your dripping entrance, but you knew he might not last long enough for any more foreplay. Next time, you thought smugly.

Now…now you needed him inside you.

“Gentle, baby,” you reminded him when he gripped your hip too tightly. You didn’t want to tell him you enjoyed the near-bruising strength; that would be for another time. You could already see that you were close to losing him, and you weren’t going to end this experience without riding him until the both of you saw stars. “One more deep breath, yeah?”

He was a mess of tumbling words in Mando’a that you didn’t understand, and his brow was furiously furrowed, as if it was taking all of his focus not to come on your hand. As a matter of fact, it probably was taking all of his focus. “Please, mesh’la,” he said again.

You wondered briefly if you’d begin answering that now; treating it as your name. Mesh’la.

“Deep breath, baby,” you reminded him, and when he obeyed, you sank your hips towards his. The tip of his cock slid in with no resistance; you were wetter than you’d ever been in your life. “Good boy,” you moaned as you kept your hand on his neck, softly cupping the underside of his jaw to look at you. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

The stretch of his cock inside you was delicious, and pleasure licked sharply at your insides, begging for a quick release. You knew he wouldn’t be able to hold himself together much longer based on the whimpers that still crumbled from his throat, broken and jagged.

“So fuckin’ pretty?” he repeated, his voice a high squeak. He gripped your hips and threw his head back. “So fuckin’ pretty for you?”

Your breath rushed out of your chest in a strong blow and you had to take a deep breath yourself to calm down. “All for me, Din, that’s it,” you continued, and you lifted your hips up. Dropping them back into his lap, you soaked up the feeling of being filled so completely by his cock. With every shred of patience left in your body, you pushed your lips back to his and tasted his moans on his tongue.

His hips began lifting into your own, the only clue you’d get to his desperation for more. Without a word, you began moving faster, more rhythmically, as you bounced gently on his cock. With the base of his cock pulsing against your clit at every drop of your hips, you were approaching that edge quicker and quicker. “Din,” you moaned, “baby, I’m gonna—”

“Please,” he said, “I want you to feel good, mesh’la. Use me, please, use me, please…”

You were sure your brain short circuited. With no more patience left in your bones, you picked up the pace and chased your own orgasm, knowing he wasn’t far behind. With every squelch of your pussy on his cock, your moans became less coherent, and you leaned your head forward against his neck.

Pulling back to press a kiss to his jaw, you felt his loins tense beneath you. Something nearly snapped inside you at the sound and sight and sensation of his pleasure so close to release; at the knowledge that it was you who had done this to him. “Good,” you mumbled against his jaw, getting closer to his ear. “Pretty boy, just for me,” you mumbled.

Din’s chest tightened and his moans became longer and more high-pitched, true whimpers if you’d ever heard one. “Mesh’la,” he begged, “Mesh’la, I—”

You dipped your head down and, while grinding your hips back and forth on his cock at a feverish pace, you darted your tongue out to his neck. Licking a stripe from the crevice of his neck to the spot just behind the soft part of his ear, you groaned in his ear as you crumbled on him, releasing the tension in your body as you came hard.

Din was ruined beneath you, with his neck bobbing and his eyes shut, his head thrown back. Mouth opened in a wide moan, his voice broken over the sound, you felt his release sink into your fluttering walls. He let out a deep cry of words that you didn’t recognize, but you blushed all the same. With the way that his eyes glossed over when he said it, you were sure it was something that reeked of sin and sweat and sacrilege.

“So good,” you mumbled again, “you’ve done so good for me, Din.” Your face tucked itself into the crook of his neck, and you inhaled the heady scent that belonged only to him. You sat motionless on his lap, but you could still feel his head pulse inside you at the overstimulation. “Did that feel good?” you asked, your hand reaching up to smooth down his hair comfortingly.

He let out a breathless laugh. “If this is sin, I’ll want more of it,” he replied, his arms snaking around your middle to tug your chest closer to him. “I’ll never know how to thank you,” he finished, sighing deeply. His eyes twinkled at you when you pulled away to look at him.

You shook your head. “No need,” you assured him. “Just catch your breath, brave Mandalorian. Then we’ll talk.”

He nodded, his eyelids growing heavier with the expense of energy now catching up with him. His cock had grown soft inside you, but he made no move to lift you from him. “I did well?” he asked. This wasn’t surprising; you’d known him to be quietly confident, but the Mandalorian was never one to pass up the opportunity for someone to reassure his talents.

You grinned and leaned forward to press your lips to his hooked nose, fighting the urge to nip at it with your teeth. Next time, you reminded yourself. “You did well,” you nodded. “Feeling okay?”

He splayed his hands on your back and inhaled near your chest, his face buried into the soft skin of your breasts. “Never better,” he reassured you, rubbing his hands along your spine. “So sweet to me, baby,” he murmured, repeating your own affection back to you.

The two of you remained like that, just wrapped together in a mess of limbs and sweat and come mingling together. When he began to wince with the overstimulation, you lifted off of his cock but remained in his lap. You pulled back and leaned your forehead against his. You watched his lips, plump and sitting perfectly, waiting to be kissed again.

“What does mesh’la mean?” you asked instead, the word strange and unfamiliar on your tongue.

He looked at you for a long time, bringing a finger up to trace the line of your mouth. “Put your lips on mine again and I’ll teach you,” he offered casually, as if his pupils weren’t still blown wide, his eyelashes still fluttering from the power of his release.

You smirked. “This is the Way, huh?”

For once in his life, Din Djarin smiled at you. “This is the Way.”

tysm for reading! so glad to be back, i'm sorry if the smut scene seemed rushed and out of pace! again: i was hungover. pls forgive. lemme know what you think!

adding tags here cause i'm going grocery shopping at 8:30pm BYEEEE

this is a good morning fic for @thetriumphantpanda and the aftercare bit at the end was specifically for @cavillscurls i know u crave it girl

the rest of the taggies: @mingiast @iluvurfather @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @darkroastjoel @tightjeansjavi @chaotic-mystery @dinsdjrn @huffle-punk @tommymilllers @milly-louise @struig @butiknewyoudlinger @alejaa-a @worhols @thegreat-annamaria @easaud @country2212 @sleepdeprived-feelalived @pertinentpostmortem @lailaispunk

#din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #virgin!din djarin #din djarin x experienced!reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorian #star wars #star wars smut #star wars fic

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reality-detective · 3 months ago

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On this day in 1992, Randy Weaver and his family were attacked by Federal law enforcement at their home on Ruby Ridge in Boundary County, Idaho. What began on that day would quickly become known as one of the most egregious examples of Federal police tyranny in the nation's history. 👇

Randall Claude Weaver, who preferred to be called Pete as he hated his given name, was born in Villisca, Iowa to poor farming parents. One of four children, his family was extremely religious, though they often struggled to find a denomination that fit their beliefs. In 1968, Weaver dropped out of high school and enlisted in the US Military. 👇

While home on leave, he met his future wife, Victoria "Vicki" Jordison. In 1971, Weaver left the Army at the rank of Sergeant and a month later, he and Vicki were married. Randy quickly enrolled in Community College with the goal of becoming an FBI agent, but the high cost of tuition prevented him from completing school. He found work at the local John Deere factory while his wife became a homemaker as they began having children. 👇

Over time, they began developing a deeper and deeper distrust of the government, and Vicki began having "visions" that the Apocalypse was coming. The family decided their only option was to move off the grid. They spent time among the Amish, learning how to live without electricity. Then they emptied their life savings of $5000 to buy the small mountain property in northern Idaho. 👇

In 1984, their troubles began. Randy had a falling out with neighbor Terry Kinnison, over a $3,000 land deal. Kinnison lost the ensuing lawsuit and was ordered to pay Weaver an additional $2,100 in court costs and damages. Kinnison took his vengeance in letters written to the FBI, Secret Service, and county sheriff, claiming that Weaver had threatened to kill Pope John Paul II, President Ronald Reagan, and Idaho governor John Evans. 👇

Randy and Vicki Weaver were interviewed by the FBI, Secret Service, and the County Sheriff. Police were told that Weaver was a member of the white supremacist Aryan Nation and that he had a large gun collection in his cabin. Weaver denied the allegations, and no charges were filed. 👇

The Weavers filed an affidavit in 1985, claiming their enemies were plotting to provoke the FBI into killing them. The couple wrote a letter to President Reagan, claiming a threatening letter may have been sent to him, over a forged signature. No such letter ever materialized but, seven years later, prosecutors would cite the 1985 note as evidence of a Weaver family conspiracy against the government. 👇

One of the Weaver's neighbors, Frank Kumnick, was a member of the Aryan Nation, and invited Randy to attend a World Aryan Congress in 1986. Unknown to either man was that Kumnick was already a target of the ATF. 👇

While at this "Congress", Weaver met a man posing as a gun dealer who was actually an undercover ATF agent. Randy invited this man to his home to discuss forming a resistance group against what they called the "Zionist Occupation Government". 👇

Later that same year, the ATF would charge Weaver with selling that informant two sawed-off shotguns. 👇

The ATF offered to drop all charges, as long as Randy was willing to become a confidential informant. Randy refused. The indictments came down shortly after, claiming that Randy was a "bank robber" with an extensive criminal history. These allegations were of course fabricated. However, Randy was still arrested and then released, pending trial. 👇

Trial was set for February 20, 1991 and subsequently moved to February 21, due to a federal holiday. Weaver’s parole officer sent him a letter, erroneously stating that the new date was March 20. A bench warrant was issued when Weaver failed to show in court, for the February date. Randy was, despite being completely unaware of it, officially labeled a fugitive from justice. 👇

The U.S. Marshals Service agreed to put off execution of the warrant until after the March 20 date, but the U.S. Attorney’s Office called a grand jury, a week earlier. It’s been said that a grand jury could indict a ham sandwich and the adage proved true, particularly when the prosecution failed to reveal parole officer Richins’ letter, with the March 20 date.

The episode fed into the worst preconceptions, of both sides. Marshalls developed a “Threat Profile” on the Weaver family and an operational plan: “Operation Northern Exposure”. Weaver, more distrustful than ever, was convinced that if he lost at trial, the government would seize his land and take his four children leaving Vicki, homeless. 👇

Federal surveillance of Ruby Ridge began. Marshalls attempted to negotiate over the following months, but Weaver refused to come out. Several people used as go-betweens, proved to be even more radical than the Weavers themselves. In a rare show of reason under the circumstances, Deputy Marshal Dave Hunt asked Weaver neighbor Bill Grider “Why shouldn’t I just go up there … and talk to him?” Grider replied, “Let me put it to you this way. If I was sitting on my property and somebody with a gun comes to do me harm, then I’ll probably shoot him.” 👇

On April 18, 1992, a helicopter carrying media figure Geraldo Rivera for the Now It Can Be Told television program was allegedly fired on, from the Weaver residence. Surveillance cameras then being installed by US Marshalls showed no such shots fired and Pilot Richard Weiss, denied the story. Even so, a lie gets around the world, before the truth can get its pants on. (Hat tip, Winston Churchill, for that bit of wisdom). The ‘shots fired narrative’ now became a media feeding frenzy. The federal government drew up ‘rules of engagement’👇

On August 21st, 1992, six Deputy US Marshalls entered the property to provide ground level reconnaissance and choose a spot to ambush and arrest Weaver. Deputy Marshall Art Roderick threw rocks at the cabin to see how the dogs would react. The cabin was at this time out of meat and, thinking the dog’s reaction may have been provoked by a game animal, Randy, a friend named Kevin Harris and Weaver’s 14-year-old son Samuel came out with rifles, to investigate. Vicki, Rachel, Sarah and baby Elisheba, remained in the cabin. 👇

When Striker discovered the team's locations, on of the Marshalls shot and killed the dog. This caused a brief firefight. By the time the shooting stopped, Deputy US Marshall William Degan had been shot and killed by Harris. Tragically, 14 year old Sammy was also dead, shot in the back by the Marshalls while trying to help his dog. 👇

The situation quickly spiraled. The National Guard was called in, as well as SWAT teams and helicopters. The Weavers moved Sammy's body into a small shed near the main house, then retreated into the house. 👇

The next day, August 22nd, Weaver and his 16 year old daughter Sarah, along with Harris, left the main house to enter the shed Sammy's body lay. FBI sniper Lon Horiuchi fired from a position some 200 yards distant. The bullet tore into Weaver’s back and out his armpit. The three raced back to the cabin. Horiuchi’s second round entered the door as Harris dove for the opening, injuring him in the chest before striking Vicki in the face as she held baby Elisheba, in her arms. Vicki did not survive. 👇

Two days later, FBI Deputy Assistant Director Danny Coulson wrote the following memorandum, unaware that Vicki Weaver lay dead:

“Something to Consider

1. Charge against Weaver is Bull Shit.

2. No one saw Weaver do any shooting.

3. Vicki has no charges against her.

4. Weaver’s defense. He ran down the hill to see what dog was barking at. Some guys in camys shot his dog. Started shooting at him. Killed his son. Harris did the shooting [of Degan]. He [Weaver] is in pretty strong legal position.” 👇

The siege of Ruby Ridge would drag on for ten days. Kevin Harris was brought out on a stretcher on August 30, along with Vicki’s body. Randy Weaver emerged the following day. Subsequent trials acquitted Harris of all wrongdoing and Weaver of all but his failure to appear in court, for which he received four months and a $10,000 fine. 👇

In August 1995, the US government avoided trial on a civil lawsuit filed by the Weavers by awarding the three surviving daughters $1,000,000 each, and Randy Weaver $100,000 over the deaths of Sammy and Vicki Weaver. Randy would pass away on May 11, 2022, after a long illness.

The atrocity at Ruby Ridge would not be the end of the story. Six months later, many of the same agents would be involved at the siege of the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas.

The story of the Weaver family and Ruby Ridge reminds us all that just wanting to be left alone is often not an option. The Federal government, in particular the FBI, ATF, and US Marshalls, used deception, outright lies, and terroristic tactics, all in an attempt to entrap a man who refused to become an informant against his neighbors. 👇

History is not what we were told. Everything is a fμ¢%in' lie. 🤔

Posted August 21, 2024

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latenightreadingpdf · 8 months ago

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Criminal Minds Fic Recs

₊‧⁺˖⋆ Navigation ⋆˖⁺‧₊

Platonic!BAU

Cases and Candies Sweet Pea

Spencer Reid

Clingy Fell in Love Copycat Part 2 The Receptionist Nice to Meet Ya Exchanging Gifts Too Clingy My Good Luck Charm Part 2 A Case of the Sleepies Serendipitous Korean Film Festival Study Buddies Swooping In Double Vision in a Rose Blush Sugar, Honey, Iced Tea A Real Head Scratcher Withdrawal Emergency Contact Rose-Tinted Glasses Reuniting Magic Hands Don't Think I Don't Like You The Boy Next Door Regrets Sting She Blinded Me With Science Fugitive Affections Friends to Lovers Birthday Boy Kids Table

Aaron Hotchner

Pure Intentions Like Dad Does Something Exhilarating Sleep Snuggler Monday Hugs Momma Bear Never Let You Go FBI Triathlon Suit Jacket Pure Intentions Love Letters

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

#fanfic #fluff #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #spencer x reader

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poisonsage808 · 3 days ago

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Ma Meilleure Ennemie

Steb x Reader

warnings: set before and in season 2, language, angst, violence, police brutality

Judgement was a hard thing to shake. Topsiders were wealthy in their demeaning ideas of how the undercity worked. Fortunately, it often would work in your favor. They could say what they wanted about Zaunites, you took care of your own. Rumors and lies didn’t spread half as fast as a warning.

“Enforcers!”

Promises sacred down here too. Deals? Made to be broken, everyone knew that. Anyone could make a deal knowing full well that double crossings were a daily occurrence. Promises were special, though. Friends hooked their pinkies together in sincerity, a vow to uphold; while lovers whispered sacred oaths coated in devotion. A promise is a promise.

You should’ve known a topsider wouldn’t keep one.

Fuck, your lungs burned and itched like they were turning to cinders. You were on fire from the inside out, set ablaze when you couldn’t outrun the giant, moving, grey cloud that chased you. You could barely breathe inside of it, choking on the ashes of your lungs while your body tried to force them out.

You were staggering blindly on your hands and knees just trying to make it out of the death cloud alive. Another cough racked your body, desperate for air. Through your closed eyes you were blinded by white light. You fought against the hands that gripped you.

Swearing with a scratchy throat, you growled out, “Leave us alone!”

You heard your name, felt an obscenely gentle palm at your cheek and instantly knew who it belonged to. Behind that soulless mask was—

“Steb?” You croaked, peaking out of one bloodshot eye to no avail.

It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t do something like this.

Not-Steb ripped off his mask and pressed it to your face. The hissing noise made you wince and pull away but the enforcer held it firm against you. Air— real air; not the poorly filtered kind that you were used to— rushed to your lungs. It was frightening, addictive. Something topsiders took for granted every waking day.

Barely clear headed, thoughts and questions began battling in your mind. Weakly, you wrapped your hand around Not-Steb’s wrist. The grey smoke was lingering in the distance but you’d been dragged just far enough that you could breathe again. Suddenly, you shoved the hand and mask away. You kicked back, hitting a wall that you used to get back on your feet. Blinking away the sting, you shook your head until your vision focused.

Your heart sunk.

“You’re…” Your brows stitched together in confusion and rising anger. “What’re you doing?”

Steb, the Steb that you loved and trusted, straightens at your accusatory tone. He blinks carefully, eyes darting all around as he tries to come up with an answer.

“I thought when you wanted to become a fucking bucket head, it was to help.”

You never minded that he was quiet, never made him talk when he didn’t want to. The two of you could sit in silence for hours. Sometimes the conversation would go on and on with only your voice filling the gaps, sometimes he felt like contributing more and you’d tease that he was being too chatty. He’d laugh, a sound you loved, and find a way to get back at you.

You and Steb found a way to communicate without words.

“How is this helping, Steb?”

However you needed a fucking answer for this.

Hurried footsteps rush towards you just when his lips part. A smaller enforcer, but an enforcer all the same. Orange whisps peak out from under the barrette and you can feel their glare underneath those haunting goggles. They point their gun at your nose, voice distorted from the mask.

“You got one!” They say, rather cheerfully, to Steb. To you, “Do you have information on the fugitive Jinx?”

You spat at their boots.

Steb’s eyes widen slightly, his brows tilting up. He’d never seen this side of you before. He’s never had to.

The enforcer turns their weapon and the butt of their gun comes crashing, aimed for your shoulder. You didn’t flinch, so you didn’t miss Steb throw his arm out to stop his colleague. There’s a moment of confusion, a struggle as he grabs their weapon and wrenches it away.

“What the hell, Riba!?”

“Yeah, what the hell.” You mock.

“That’s enough, Nolen!” Steb’s deep voice holds a bizarre sense of authority. You’re not used to seeing him this way either.

You’re almost jealous of the silent argument he shares with the enforcer, Nolen, until he pushes their gun into their chest. You smirk, feeling mildly satisfied at their walk of shame back into the grey but it falls the minute you find yourself back in Steb’s gaze.

“So that’s how it is, huh? Gas and beat the answers out of us?”

He reached for you quickly, desperate to tell you that wasn’t what was happening; it wasn’t what you thought it was; this was important. Something along those lines you were sure. Enforcers were predictable that way. And you knew if he managed to get ahold of you again, that you would melt into his touch and believe him because you so very badly wanted to.

“Why d’ya wanna be a bucket head anyways?”

Hopping off the last stone, you made it over the stream only to slip backwards. A hand shot out immediately and locked on your arm, yanking you to the rocky shore. You laughed but your friend didn’t. Steb’s vicious side eye was halfhearted but serious all the same.

“Yeah, yeah, you wanna help people. I didn’t forget! Jus’ think it’s stupid s’all. Never met one enforcer that wanted to help.”

Your heart constricts so tightly it brings tears to your eyes. Anger turns to mourning before you can stop it.

“We pretended as long as we could Stubby, but we can’t ignore it anymore.”

A familiar warmth encased your wrist, smaller sliding down until a smaller digit curled around your pinky. Your shoulder slumped upon contact. You knew when you turned around his ears would be flattened and his big, blue, crystal eyes, soft and pleading.

“Please,” he manages. His mouth open and shuts but he can’t summon any other words.

“Riba!”

You can see his ears flattening at the sound of returning footsteps, and more. Locking eyes with him, you make sure he knows what you can’t bring yourself to say. Steb winces as his name is shouted again, unable to tear his eyes from you. He’s scanning you like he’s trying to commit your face to memory, something he’s done in adoration and longing when you’re forced to part. This time it’s fear. His boot shuffles back, body angled to leave but he refuses to move, torn between duty and love.

“Go do what you have to.” You said as sweetly as you could in hopes it would cover the venom of your words.

“I didn’t forget, Stubby,” you tilted your head, wearing a lopsided smile. Intertwining all your fingers, you held his hand firmly and continued tugging him down the path, “You promised to be the first.”

You made the choice for him and took off running.

comment jinxer or firelight to help me decide part 2

firelight 3 _ jinxer 0

come talk about arcane (and more!) with us on [discord]!

#x reader #imagine #arcane x reader #arcane imagine #arcane x you #steb headcanon #steb arcane x reader #steb imagine #steb arcane #steb x reader #angst

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gh0stsp1d3r · 5 months ago

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ℱ𝓊𝑔𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓋ℯ𝓈

req: for cowboy!jj, I imagined something like reader and him having to host john b for a while (fugitive perhaps?) and since then, they can't have a moment together (I don't know if you see what I mean) I find it amusing then bromance or romance? (Jj must make a choice)

req by @nemesyaaa

Warnings: Suggestive ending, jealousy :3

“Okay, warning, she is a little…” JJ started, standing in front of the door.

“Just say it.” John B sighed.

“Hesitant about this whole hostin’ thing.” He tilted his head to the side, and opened up the door.

“Y/n?” He called out, hanging his hat up on a rack, and motioning for John B to do the same. You came into his vision, eyes widening at what you saw.

The man that the police had put up posters of was in your living room. He was considered “armed and dangerous.” But he looked like neither. He peeked out from behind JJ, clearly hesitating to be inside your home.

“H- hi.” You gave him a little wave, JJ wrapped his arms around you, hugging you and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“He’s fine, honey. He ain’t gonna do nothing.” He told you quietly, stepping away from you.

“I uh- fixed up a spare room.” You motioned to the room on the side.

“Thank you, ma’am.” John B nodded, following JJ to the room.

Now JJ had always been the best husband you could ask for. He supported you in your dreams and decisions, even when it went against a bunch of the towns norms, he was the sweetest, most caring man you could get.

His flaw? He was an outlaw, and tended to get into business with the wrong people.

JJ came back out the room, letting John B get settled in.

“How long did you say was he gonna be here again?” You asked JJ.

“However long it takes to get the sheriff off his back. But you don’t gotta worry about him, swear.”

After a few days, you got used to the man. He was kind, always thankful. You didn’t have to worry about him. At least not in the way you thought you would.

JJ had spent every living moment with John B. More than you, you felt like. Were you jealous? Nope. Absolutely not. Maybe a little…

You pretended to not care, acting like it was fine.

You both sat on the porch, finally getting a moment to yourselves. He sat with his head in your lap, your hands running through his hair, that was until the door opened and he jolted away, looking over to John B.

“Hey, dude!” JJ cheered, you huffed and just leaned back, watching them talk, John B sitting next to him. You played with the hem of your shirt, letting out quiet sighs, hoping JJ would pick up on your feelings. He didn’t.

It was that night in bed, when he said goodnight to John B and went under the covers, that you asked him.

“Are you in love with him or something?”

“What? No.” He laughed at you. “What’s this about, baby?”

“It’s just..” you huffed again. “I feel like since he’s been here, all you’ve been doing is talking with him. I don’t wanna be that jealous annoying wife but..”

He smiled, finding your jealousy amusing.

“He’s my best friend. Sorry if you feel like that, but I ain’t trying to ignore you.”

“It feels like you are.” You muttered, pulling the covers over you, turning away.

“Aw. C’mere, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arms around you, his front facing your back. “I love ya. You know that. No need to feel jealous.” He nuzzled his face into your neck, pressing a kiss onto your skin.

“I know.” You murmured. “Love you too.”

“You’re so cute. Gettin’ jealous over everything and anything. I like it. It’s hot.” He spoke against your skin, his talking muffled slightly.

“Oh, yeah?” You asked, turning to face him with a quirked brow.

“Hell yeah.” He smiled, both of you going underneath the covers.

#cowboy!jj #cowboy!au #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank drabble #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank

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waiting-for-a-sunny-day · 1 year ago

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If Geto and Gojo were so close, why didn't Geto try to convince Gojo to defect with him?

Because Geto knew that Gojo’s support would guarantee his success, but that success would come at the cost of hurting Gojo.

I believe that Geto cared more about protecting Gojo than he cared about building a better world.

Let me explain…

First, let’s talk about why it would’ve made sense for Geto to ask Gojo to join him:

(1) Gojo would’ve been Geto’s most important / most powerful ally

By the time of Geto’s defection, Gojo is already the strongest sorcerer in existence. He and Geto are two of only three special grade sorcerers. Having them both on the same side is essentially an automatic win.

(2) Gojo should’ve been (relatively) easy to persuade

Gojo had already told Geto that he didn't like having to save the weak and didn't care about the moral justifications for it…

…Geto has also seen that Gojo doesn’t always value / protect human life. He was ready to massacre the Time Vessel Association without reason, but ultimately he didn't, because he deferred to Geto's judgement…

…and, most importantly, they are best friends on a DEEP, unparalleled level. Geto is Gojo’s “one and only” best friend.

If Geto was truly dedicated to changing the world order, Gojo should’ve been the first and most important person that he tried to recruit to his insurgency / cult / mission.

BUT

Not only does Geto make zero effort to reach out to / recruit Gojo, he actively avoids him and pushes him away...

- - - - - Keep reading cut - - - - -

After he kills the 112 non-sorcerers, Geto runs into Shoko in Shinjuku. He happily approaches her and willingly answers her questions.

Look at his smiling face in their interactions:

But, when Shoko calls Gojo, Geto leaves before Gojo shows up. Gojo tracks him down anyway and demands an explanation. Geto still doesn’t want to talk about it (“You already heard it.”)

It's strange, right? Geto loves talking about his vision of a better world with everyone else.

Then, there is this confusing progression of dialog:

Geto is hurt/annoyed that Gojo doesn’t believe in him, so he points out that Gojo’s argument against his plan is invalid. The plan is possible (“You could do it”), therefore (according to Gojo’s own logic) it’s not “pointless.”

In a way, Geto is admitting that he knows it would make the most sense for Gojo to join him.

But before Gojo can respond, Geto pivots to saying something extremely hurtful. He's questioning who Gojo is / would be if he wasn't the strongest. Is there really anything more to him? (See more detail in my post here).

Then, in the very next panel Geto turns and starts walking away.

In summary: (1) Geto avoids Gojo, (2) Geto only argues in favor of his plan when Gojo forces/baits him, (3) Upon invalidating Gojo’s opposition to his plan, Geto immediately puts emotional distance between them, (4) Geto then puts physical distance between them.

Why is Geto trying so hard to make sure that Gojo won’t follow him?

Is he just being prideful about doing this on his own? Is he so angry at Gojo's arrogance that he'd jeopardize the success of his life's mission over it?

These arguments aren't in line with Geto's characterization / known motivations (see the end of this post, if you're interested in more on that.)

Geto's main motivation is (a twisted form of) compassion. He wants to end the suffering of sorcerers.

He is a thoughtful, contemplative person, and would've thought about the ramifications of recruiting Gojo.

What are the ramifications?

If Gojo joins the cause, Geto’s plan would succeed, but Gojo would suffer for it.

Like anyone who joins Geto's cult, Gojo would become a pariah / fugitive from Jujutsu society. He’d kill people. He’d kill other sorcerers.

But because Gojo has the singular level of strength/ability to kill non-sorcerers en masse, he would commit the vast majority (or all) of the murder / destruction. The legal, social, and mental impacts would be most severe on Gojo.

(Also, at this point, I think Geto may still question whether he’s made the right choice. It’s difficult to go from a hardline stance on protecting non-sorcerers to wanting to gen0c1de them, within the span of a year, without any lingering ethical qualms. So he may be worried about moral costs to Gojo as well.)

Let’s remember that Geto (canonically) deeply loves Gojo. Gojo is his one and only best friend. Geto worries about Gojo when he overworks himself protecting Riko. Geto is shocked when Toji kills Riko in front of him, but he only flies into a rage when he thinks Toji has killed Gojo. (Again, see my post here for more on how much Geto loves Gojo).

So, it makes sense that Geto is ready to make sacrifices to create a better world, but it’s a cost he’s willing to put on his own head. Not Gojo's.

Ultimately, Geto cares more about Gojo than he cares about achieving the mission he has dedicated his life to.

The last thing Geto says to him is this:

What he's really asking Gojo is: "Have you stopped loving me, now that I've committed myself to this dark path? Would you kill me to save them?"

If Gojo hates Geto enough that he’d kill him, then Geto never had a chance of recruiting Gojo in the first place.

Of course, Gojo can’t make himself hurt Geto. He still loves Geto too much.

Geto protected Gojo by pushing him away.

___

Addendum:

I'll also argue against two other possible explanations for Geto's behavior.

(1) Geto is jealous / prideful /wants to build his own legacy without Gojo stealing the spotlight

Geto has clear motivations for his goals and they’re not egotistical. He wants to end the suffering of sorcerers caused by non-sorcerers’ existence (e.g., Riko’s death, Mimiko & Nanako’s abuse).

Geto’s pride isn’t hurt when Gojo becomes the strongest. The only thing that bothers Geto is that they’re getting sent on separate missions.

After Gojo becomes stronger that him, Geto still has overt affection for Gojo (e.g., he asks Haibara to bring back sweets from his mission so he can share with Gojo).

Although Geto does believe in his superiority over non-sorcerers, he doesn't feel superior over other sorcerers and doesn't struggle with his 'inferiority' to Gojo.

Does Gojo’s lack of faith in Geto’s ability (calling his goal “impossible”), spur Geto to want to prove himself? Yes, probably. But Geto had already been avoiding Gojo before he said that. And I don’t believe that wanting to prove himself to Gojo would overshadow his stronger motivation to build a better world for sorcerers.

(2) He thinks Gojo actually is too moral to join him

After Geto kills the 112 non-sorcerers, Gojo is shocked and upset by what’s happened, but not once does he insult Geto or imply that Geto has done something unforgivable. In fact, he’s practically begging Geto to explain himself because he wants to be able to justify his actions. And, again, Gojo’s argument against Geto’s plan is NOT that “it’s wrong,” it’s that “it’s impossible.”

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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 3 months ago

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9: ONE

Chapter 8 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 10

SUMMARY: You run away with the Winter Soldier, a man who has recently discovered his identity and is in search of his truth.

Word Count: 3.8k

Warning: SMUT: Mutual hand job, Fugitive situation — If there is any more you find not listed here please be sure to let me know so I can add it.

Your heart was pounding, the blood rushing through your ears so loudly that you could barely hear anything he was saying. There was a feeling bubbling up inside you, a potent mix of excitement, fear, and anticipation that threatened to consume you whole. Your breath came hard and fast as these turbulent emotions threatened to overwhelm you, your chest rising and falling rapidly. But through it all, your hand remained firmly in his, a grounding anchor amidst the storm raging within.

The darkness had fallen early where the clandestine facility was situated, far removed from the trappings of real civilization. The dismal weather offered convenient camouflage, the overcast skies and biting wind masking your presence as you scanned the area, searching the shadows for any sign of your soldat. Just as the feeling of dread began to creep in, his hand suddenly clamped over your mouth, muffling the surprised yelp that escaped your lips at his abrupt appearance behind you. In that moment, time seemed to stand still as the world narrowed to just the two of you, hidden away from prying eyes in the enveloping darkness. The adrenaline coursing through your veins was nearly overwhelming, but his steady presence grounded you, reminding you why you had risked so much to be here, in this precarious but electrifying moment.

“Shhh, Kotyonok. No noises.”

His voice was a deep, authoritative whisper, the harshness of his tone at odds with the gentleness of his touch against your mouth. He held you firmly, his body a solid presence pressed against your back, his hand a warning against any further sounds. His breath was warm against your ear as he spoke again. "Follow me.”

You followed him, your feet stumbling occasionally over the uneven snow-covered ground. The world around you was a blur, the snowflakes dancing in your vision like swirling stars. His hand was a strong, guiding presence, pulling you along without pause or hesitation. He moved with purpose, his steps swift and sure, leading you down alleyways and side streets, always keeping to the shadows, avoiding the dim pools of light cast by the street lamps.

As you moved, your mind was racing, desperately trying to come up with an escape plan. But there had been no time, no opportunity to discuss anything of the sort. You were both acting on instinct alone, following Soldat's lead blindly, trusting him to keep both of you safe. You could sense his tension in the rigidity of his body, the way his grip on your hand tightened every time you stumbled or slowed. He was on high alert, his senses sharp, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows for any hint of danger.

Soldat's mind was a maelstrom of thoughts and calculations. He had a plan, but it was not one he had been able to fully think through. It was more instinct than strategy, more desperate gamble than foolproof escape. He had spent precious minutes scouting the area before coming for you, searching for the most efficient route out of the town and into the vast expanse of wilderness beyond. It was a dangerous venture, one fraught with risks and uncertainties.

"Where’re we going?" You whispered.

Soldat paused for a moment, pulling you into a small alleyway between two buildings. The shadows concealed you well, the only light coming from a single, dim street lamp at the end of the alley. He turned to face you, his eyes meeting yours in the darkness. "Somewhere safe," he replied, his voice a rough whisper. "Somewhere they won't find us.”

"Where, Milyy?"

Soldat's heart clenched at your question. He wished he had a better answer, a definite destination he could name. But he didn't. All he had was a rough plan, one that relied heavily on luck and the element of surprise. He sighed deeply, leaning against the cold brick wall behind him. His eyes flicked downwards, avoiding your gaze for a moment.

"We're going east. Towards the river. There's a farmhouse there. It's isolated and remote. We should be able to lie low for a while.”

Soldat gently pulled you along once again, his hand still firmly around yours. He moved carefully, silently through the shadows, his footsteps making almost no sound against the snow. You followed him, your footsteps slow and faltering. The snow was starting to fall more heavily now, making the ground slippery and treacherous, but Soldat seemed unfazed, his stride never faltering as he made his way towards the river.

Soldat felt you stumble, his grip on your hand tightening as he slowed his pace momentarily, allowing you to catch up. He kept his gaze straight ahead, his expression unreadable in the shadows. He knew you were struggling to keep up with him, your steps slower and more labored, but he couldn't afford to slow down. Every minute counted, and he could feel the urgency of the situation like a weight on his shoulders.

“Sorry, Kotyonok.”

He could see the tiredness in your eyes, the trembling of your body as you struggled to keep up with him. It tugged at his heart, but there was no time to rest, no time to stop and catch your breath. He glanced back at you, your face barely visible in the darkness. His voice was a mere whisper, a soft, ragged edge to it.

"We're almost there," he reassured you. "Just a little further.”

Just when you thought you couldn't go any further, Soldat pointed out something in the distance. You followed the direction of his gaze, your eyes struggling to make out anything in the falling snow and fading light. For a moment, you saw nothing, just the endless expanse of white snow and shadowy trees. But then, faintly, you saw a silhouette flickering in the moonlit distance.

Soldat nodded, his grip on your hand tightening momentarily. "That's it," he said. "The farmhouse. We're almost there.”

Soldat helped you settle by the fireplace, wrapping the blankets tight around you as you shivered slightly. Lighting a fire was out of the question. Even the smallest flicker of light in the window could give away your location and alert your pursuers to your location. The farmhouse was small but cozy, the shelter and isolation offering a much-needed respite from the bitter cold outside.

He pulled you closer to him, the blanket wrapped tightly around both of you as you sought each other's warmth. His flesh arm was wrapped around your shoulders, his body a solid presence against yours. He was silent for a moment, his body was tense, his senses on high alert as he listened for any signs of danger outside. You watched him listening to the quiet stillness of the house and the faint sound of the falling snow outside.

He tensed for a moment at your touch, his body instinctively responding to any contact. But then he relaxed, his muscles unfurling under your hand. He looked at you, his gaze soft and tender in the dim light.

"Sorry," you whispered.

He shook his head slightly, his gaze locked on yours."Don't be sorry," he whispered back. “Your touch... it grounds me. It helps.” He placed his metal hand over yours, covering it with his own. The cool metal contrasted against the warmth of your skin. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance.

"Do you hear anything?”

Soldat tilted his head slightly, his senses straining to pick up any sound in the stillness of the farmhouse. His ears were tuned to the slightest noise, his body taut and ready for action at a moment's notice. He shook his head slightly after a minute. "No," he said softly. "Nothing. Just the sound of the snow outside. We're safe... for now, at least.”

You were both silent, contemplating your choices, the decision you had made to flee from HYDRA.

"Tell me again," he asked, suddenly. Soldat's voice was quiet, but there was an intensity behind his words. His eyes flicked to your face, searching your expression in the low light.

You looked at him in confusion for a moment, trying to grasp his meaning. And then you understood. He wanted to hear it again, to remember the words that had started this journey. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before speaking softly. "You’re James Bucky Barnes," you said, pronouncing each syllable carefully. "Not the Winter Soldier. You’re more than what they made you. You’re free.”

“You’re from Brooklyn, New York. You were born in 1917, on March 10th. Your best friend is Steve Rogers, Captain America. You fought in the second world war, in the 107th unit but you were part of a special team called the Howling Commandos.”

Soldat - Bucky - was silent as you spoke, his eyes fixed on your face as you recited his history. He drank in your words, processing each one with an intensity that was almost physical. With every name you mentioned - Steve Rogers, the Howling Commandos - the memories stirred deep within him, faint at first but growing stronger with each passing moment.

He sat frozen, his breath coming in short, sharp puffs. The words were like a lifeline, pulling him back from the darkness of his past, reminding him who he truly was. His eyes never left yours as you spoke, his expression intense, as if he was trying to hold onto every syllable, to commit each word to memory. With every new detail, his expression shifted, recognition and realization slowly washing over his face. His eyes widened slightly, his expression almost pained, as if the memories were both a revelation and a torment.

"Buc-ee..."

His voice was rough, the syllables coming out slowly as if his mouth was unaccustomed to forming the words. He repeated it again, the nickname rolling off his tongue with an effort. The foreign sound of it was unfamiliar and yet, somehow, it felt right. He repeated it, his voice rough and ragged.

"Bucky," he repeated, his lips forming around the syllables. He looked at you then, his eyes searching for confirmation, for reassurance that he had said it correctly. He fell silent for a moment, his gaze distant as he seemed to lose himself in his thoughts. But then he blinked, his eyes clearing and sharpening once again as he focused on you.

“Why?” he asked.

You tilted your head slightly, not quite understanding his question. "Why what?"

He looked at you intently, his eyes studying your face in the dim light. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, struggling to find the words to express what he was feeling.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice a low, barely audible whisper. "Why did you help me?”

It was a question you'd been asking yourself. Why had you left the security of your position to run away with a man who didn't even know who he was?

You had contemplated your decision the night before as you lay awake, waiting for him to come out of cryostasis. "Because you deserve more, because this isn't who you are... because... I love you.”

Bucky's eyes widened at your words. He hadn't expected that. But as he looked at you - your eyes, your face, your expression - he saw the truth in them. He understood then, the depth of your feelings for him, how much you had cared for him even when he hadn't remembered you. It was a strange sort of paradox, your intense connection and devotion to a man who was both himself and yet not himself at the same time.

He felt a mixture of emotions then, a cocktail of gratitude, guilt, and something more tender he didn't quite want to name. His heart gave a painful lurch in his chest, and he found himself struggling to speak for a moment. He was not used to expressing himself, not emotionally, not about things like love. But for you, he would try.

"I..." he started, his voice hoarse. "I don't deserve you.”

"You deserve so much more. You deserve to know who you are, you deserve to live a life of your choosing.”

Bucky stared at you, he had spent so long not thinking about what he deserved, living in the shadow of his past actions, that your words were almost too much to bear. He took a shaky breath, his gaze not leaving yours. "I don't know who I am. There's so much in my head... memories, thoughts, feelings... I don't know what's real and what's not.”

“Let me help you.”

He wanted desperately to believe you, to trust you, but there was a part of him that was still wary, still distrustful. He swallowed hard, his hand clenching unconsciously in the fabric of the blanket. "You'd... do that? You'd help me?" he whispered.

"I'm here, aren't I?”

A small, humorless chuckle escaped Bucky's lips. You were right. You were here, risking everything to help him, to be with him. He looked at you, his eyes softening as he took in your expression.

His right hand came up to cup your cheek, his flesh and bone fingers gently caressing your skin. "Yeah," he said softly. "You are.”

Bucky's touch was gentle but possessive as he leaned in to kiss you. His lips were soft, a stark contrast to the rough stubble on his face. He tasted of bitter cold and a hint of fear, and yet, underneath it all, there was something else - something undeniably warm and familiar.

He pulled you closer to him, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your neck, keeping you closer as he deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entry into your mouth. Bucky felt the shift in you, the way you pressed closer to him, seeking more contact, more intimacy. His touch was a desperate caress, his fingers tracing the curve of your back, your thighs, every inch of skin he could reach under your thick coat. He pulled down the zipper, longing for more.

Bucky's hands stilled as he felt you shiver under his touch. He looked at you, his eyes dark and intense as he realized the effect his touch was having on you. A spark of concern flickered in his gaze, and he shifted you slightly so you were tucked tightly against him, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist.

"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice husky.

"It's fine, I'll be fine," you answered, dismissively.

He raised an eyebrow at your response, his expression saying that he didn't believe you. Bucky reached out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. He studied your face for a moment, taking in the way your teeth were clenched together to keep yourself from shivering.

"You're shivering," he pointed out, his voice a low murmur.

Bucky's hands moved gently as he zipped up your coat, his touch careful and considerate. He knew you were frustrated, wanting more, but his concern for your well-being outweighed his own desires. Sitting back, he studied your face, his expression torn between pulling you into his arms and his need to keep you safe. As you placed your hands on his face, Bucky felt the warmth of your skin against his, your touch gentle and soothing. He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek into your palm and savoring the sensation - a tenderness he was unaccustomed to experiencing.

"I just... I don't want you to get hurt… because of me," he whispered.

Bucky's breath caught as you kissed him, his body instantly reacting to your touch. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in tight against his chest, craving to feel you, to have you as close as could be. His lips moved with yours, the kiss starting soft and tender, but soon intensifying with desire and passion. He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth, one hand gently cradling the back of your head, holding you firmly against him.

"Still feeling cold, Kotyonok?" He murmured against your cheek.

His whispered words, the low timbre of his voice, and the gentle caress of his lips against your skin sent a delicious shiver down your spine, igniting a smoldering heat within you. You instinctively pressed your body closer to his, craving the warmth and comfort of his touch.

You let out a soft, breathless chuckle, your voice a little hoarse as you spoke. "Not anymore," you whispered.

"Kotyonok, can I... feel you?” Bucky's words were a soft, hesitant question, his voice a low whisper in the quiet of the farmhouse. His gentle fingers traced down your clothed arm, the warmth of his touch perceptible through the fabric. Your eyes met his as you considered his question.

Bucky's hand slid around your waist, dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, as you shuffled closer to him. His touch was warm and possessive, pulling you firmly against his body. A wall of heat radiated from him, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers traced lazy circles over your skin, his touch gentle but purposeful.

He spoke in a ragged, husky whisper, "You feel so soft."

Exhausted from the day's stress and harsh weather, you sighed with relief as you were finally able to rest and be cared for.

Bucky heard your weary sigh, and it stirred an ache deep within him. He knew you were exhausted, worn down by the tumultuous events that had unfolded. Yet, despite the immense stress and peril, you remained by his side, still allowing his touch. Holding you close, his solid form anchored against your back, Bucky's hand moved in slow, gentle caresses. His fingers traced delicate patterns on your skin, eliciting soft moans and sighs to escape your lips.

"Just let me take care of you," he murmured softly.

Bucky's breath caught as you parted your legs, hooking your left knee over his right thigh. His hands gripped you tightly, responding to the heat of your skin against his. His body reacted instinctively, muscles going rigid at the intimate contact. Desire burned in his eyes as he looked at you, his fingers moving slowly, deliberately. He felt your body responding, your breath hitching, your muscles clenching under his touch.

Bucky's body stiffened involuntarily as your hand slid into his pants. For a moment, he tensed up but made no attempt to stop or pull away. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips seeking the sensitive spot behind your ear, where the familiar scent of your shampoo lingered. The hand on your thigh tightened slightly as your fingers found their mark, drawing a low, rumbling groan from deep within his chest.

"Easy, Kotyonok," he rasped, his voice a gruff whisper.

Bucky's breath came in ragged gasps as your hand moved over him, your touch igniting a fire in his veins. He fought to maintain his composure, attempting to mirror your movements with his own fingers, sliding them up and down your slick folds. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he sought your skin with his lips, grazing your pulse point with his teeth as he fought for control. Yet, your touch overwhelmed him, eliciting an involuntary physical reaction he could not restrain.

"That's it, Soldat. You like that, Milyy?”

Bucky's breath caught in his throat as you addressed him as 'Soldat'. The name felt cold, distant, and out of place. It no longer fit, not with the way he was feeling, not with the intimate touch of your hand. Bucky pulled back, his eyes locking onto yours, a desperate plea in his gaze. "Not Soldat," he ground out, his voice rough and urgent. "Call me Bucky. Please."

"Bucky," you moaned.

Bucky's breath hitched as he heard his name on your lips, the desire in your voice making something primal flare inside him.

"Tell me!" he growled. "Tell me again... who am I?”

He looked down at you, his gaze dark and intense as you spoke.

“You are James Bucky Barnes… you were born…” you whimpered softly as his fingers rubbed your clit. “...in Brooklyn… New York… in 1917.”

Bucky's gentle yet deliberate touch accompanied his soft-spoken words as he took control. He sensed your responsive movements and the soft whimpers escaping your lips, which ignited a reciprocal reaction within him.

"I fought in the Second World War," he continued, "and was captured by HYDRA and turned into the Winter Soldier. But now, I am free. I’m Bucky.”

"Oh, Bucky," you moaned.

Hearing his name on your lips, hearing the way you moaned it, sent a jolt of desire through Bucky's body. He couldn't deny it anymore, the heat between you was building, and it was intense.

He pulled you closer to him, his hand continuing its slow, deliberate movements. His other hand came up to cup your face, his touch gentle but possessive.

"Say it again," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "Say my name, Kotyonok.”

"Bucky!" You stroked him faster.

Your breathless, urgent utterance of his name sent Bucky reeling. Tension coiled through his body as your hand moved over him, quickening with mounting urgency. He pulled you in closer, face buried in your neck, lips trailing over your skin as he panted against you, voice a low, ragged whisper.

"Yes, like that," he gasped, his hips arching into your touch.

"Come, Bucky,” you encouraged him gently. “That's it, come for me.”

Bucky let out a strangled gasp as you encouraged him, his body responding instinctually to your command. Your words and your touch were all too much, and he couldn't hold back anymore. With a low, guttural cry, he came undone, his release pulsing over your hand. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in shuddering gasps as he tried to regain control of himself, his body trembling against yours.

"Fuck,” he whispered. “Love you, Kotyonok.”

Bucky's fingers resumed their movements, his touch more urgent and insistent as he focused on your pleasure. Desperate to give you the same intense sensations you had provided him, he kissed and nipped at your skin, his fingers circling your clit in slow, tight motions. He yearned to hear you cry out his name, could feel your body tightening in anticipation, knowing he had pushed you to the edge.

"Bucky, oh Bucky... I'm... I'm gonna...”

He continued his ministrations, his fingers relentless as he worked you towards your release, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered your name again and again, a low, ragged incantation.

"Come for me, sweetheart. I want to hear you. Let go.”

“BUCKY!” Your shout was swallowed by the wind howling around the desolate farmhouse.

Chapter 8 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 10

#winter soldier smut #bucky barnes smut #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier fan fiction #bucky barnes fan fiction #winter soldier x you #bucky barnes x you #behind blue eyes

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takahas · 1 year ago

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Yearning - geto suguru

-> in the years where geto left jujutsu high, he never completely left and was always watching from afar.

It's not the first time, the two girls realise.

Nanako acknowledged it first, the difference in the way geto would look at you, the lingering stares whenever he saw you together with satoru and the sad smile plastered on his face.

Geto would often bring them out for sweets or cakes if they ever wanted which made nanako wonder if he was a fugitive, why was he so willing to bring them out often?

The time her question was answered was when mimiko and her were digging into their shared crepe geto bought them and when she looked up at geto, although his body was facing them, his eyes constantly drifted to his left. He smiled when nanako met his eyes which nanako gave a smile back while digging into her crepe.

Geto sama obviously doesn't want us noticing.

Geto might not have said anything about his past, but nanako and mimiko had an inkling that they knew what it was about.

Nanako constantly stole glimpses towards geto, each time seeing how his eyes would look towards his left, head slightly turned towards the same direction, his eyes having a soft look in them.

Mimiko on her right had nodged her lightly and her eyes moved between geto and her, nanako knowing that mimiko probably realised and had the same question too.

So the girls decided to sacrifice their crepe in order to figure out what geto was so invested in.

Feigning it as a mistake, nanako took advantage of geto being distracted and moved as little as possible to drop the crepe onto her left, watching as the cream and strawberries spilled over the ground.

So well, crepe (nanako internally cried)

Upon hearing the noise, geto's attention was brought back to them and he scrambled to his feet to clean up their mess. While geto was asking them questions about how they dropped it and mimiko blatantly lied to him, nanako looked straight at the direction geto was staring at.

She noticed three students in a jujutsu high uniform (geto had told them to avoid people wearing those) talking and laughing with one another.

Among them was a tall guy with white hair wearing sunglasses (who was relatively good looking, though nanako would never admit), a girl with shoulder length hair with a cigarette in her mouth who was up to the guy's shoulders height and the last person, she didn't scrutinise her looks and her vision instead zeroed in onto the necklace hanging lightly on her neck, having a heart pendant, one that she remembered seeing somewhere before.

And when geto rised up from his crouching position, she spun her head back to geto, pretending that she hadn't been looking elsewhere and her eyes caught onto a chain dangling from his neck.

The same necklace that the girl she just saw was wearing, except this time she had a closer look.

A silver thin necklace that was long and had a heart pendant that could be opened, a locket, not a pendant, nanako realised. The necklace was easy to hide in shirts, geto immediately pushing the necklace under his shirt when he stood tall in front of the girls, patting their heads before he went to buy another crepe from them.

Nanako might be young, but she knew the importance of matching jewellery.

The cycle repeats the next few times.

The girls wanting to eat crepes, geto bringing them to the same spot, geto (not bring subtle enough) staring at you.

The cycle breaks when geto was bringing the girls out to the supermarket, the girls sitting snugly into the cart and helping to take whatever their small hands could reach, though it wasn't much.

Geto parked the cart while they were sitting in the cart and searching for the item needed in the list on the shelf when she saw geto looking in a different direction.

She heard laughter and looked towards the source when she saw the same three students she saw each time together, you with the pendant sitting in the cart while the guy in white hair pushed you, the short haired girl just laughing along.

Nanako looked back to geto, having the chance to observe the way he looked at you upclose, being right under his nose.

His eyes that were usually stoic and cold were filled with warmth and adoration as he stared at you, his brows that were usually furrowed were relaxed and at that moment in time, geto looked tranquil.

His hands clenched around the handle of the cart as the white haired guy reached down to push the hair out of your eyes and a blush sprouted on your cheeks.

Mimiko, who was standing beside nanako, also noticed the difference in geto.

'Geto sama?' Mimiko perks up.

Geto faces mimiko 'yes?' He hums, he smiled the same way, but nanako notices that it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

'Who is she?' Mimiko points to you and nanako tenses up, bracing herself for the scolding the both of them might receive for looking at the people that he had told the both of you to ignore and avoid.

Geto only smiles sadly 'She's my last girlfriend'

Nanako relaxes and thinks over his words. Last? But geto was still young so what did he mean by last?

'Geto sama? Are you going to die? Why is she your last?' Mimiko frantically asks, pushing herself up higher towards geto.

Geto chuckles 'no, it's just that there isn't anybody else that I'd want to be with except for her'

As geto asks the girls if they have gotten what they needed and pushes them to the next stop when they nodded, his eyes drift back to you, sadness and longing in them.

Nanako makes her final conclusion that you must have been very important to geto, because as she watches him try to avoid you but fails, at that point of time she knew that instead of fulfilling his goal of eradicating the non-sorcerers, geto just wanted to be yours, to be the person who would make you blush, be the one who wakes up to you every morning.

You're his last girlfriend because you're the one person geto can't get over, the one person he constantly regrets leaving.

I found these few things (I forgot what their called?) And I like them soooo I'll be using them from now on :>>>

I was working on a satoru fic but I accidentally misclicked and my draft was deleted 😭😭 (it was quite long too) I wrote in to tumblr, hopefully I can get it back 🙏🙏🙏

#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #slight angst #daddy geto #nanako #mimiko #geto #suguru #geto suguru #suguru geto #suguru geto x you #suguru geto x reader

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little-red-fool · 8 months ago

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Ok, I have a vision: Higgs in casual dad vibe clothes. I want to see this cyborg man in some dad fashion. Baseball cap with sunglasses on the brim, with maybe a hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts? Maybe he's going to a neighborhood bbq with sam and lou, idk. Maybe the Venom: LTBC fugitive/end credits beach scene look. (We are going to Mexico/Central America in DS2 after all) But, I'll leave that up to you. But most of all I NEED to see this boy in birkinstocks/sandals and socks, its mandatory for me. I just gotta see what he looks like in em

Average Southern cyborg father.

#i just realised i forgot the sunglasses im sorry ajdnsjdnjenf #also i forgot how much i loved this brush i might go back to this one for proper drawings #asks #my art #death stranding #death stranding 2 #higgs monaghan

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dariaslookalike · 10 months ago

Text

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 8: Bad Lungs and Choking

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter: Pt 9

-----------------------

You wake up with a harsh gasp, but the pain is barely present and your fever is gone. The sleep in your eyes makes your vision blurry and you rub at it lazily. You’re still half asleep and if you relax yourself just a bit more, you’ll slip back into your dreams.

Usually, your dreams were an awkward combination of things: going to your grandparents house in your swimmers or being back at highschool and forgetting algebraic factorisation. Of course, in the past few months many had been about House. He had been looming over you in your waking hours, so it made sense he did it while you slept too. But really, what kind of fucking dream did you just wake from? House, in your house?

You walk with bleary eyes to your bathroom. You brush your teeth for the first time in days, and scrub your tongue, and repeat the process until all you can taste is toothpaste. You stare at the centre of your tiles. It all seemed so vivid in your fever. Standing there with House. Undressing. Your eyes trail over to your bathtub and you send a prayer out, thanking whatever higher being, that biting House was a dream. You make your way back to bed, but decide you don’t want to fall back into that dream. House was still a prick. No way in hell would you have gone ten feet near him after the charity ball, even with a fever, and you want to scold your brain for thinking something so ludacris. Instead, you stretch out in the warmth of your bed, sunning yourself in the light drifting through your windows. You roll over, snuggling your face back into your pillow but you stop with a jolt.

Fresh sheets.

Your heart makes itself known by pounding against your ribcage, and you sit up as silently as you can. You study your room with new eyes. Your top draw is open. Your desk chair is pulled back. Even the final box that you have been promising yourself to unpack is tipped over, its contents spilling out against the floor. Suddenly your throat feels tight and you drag your hands down your cheek. Then you look down at your pyjamas, and flashes of your ‘dream’ rush back to you. Vomiting. Naked. Watched.

Fuck.

You tip your legs over the side of your bed and pad silently out of your room. You’re still weak, and you stop every few steps to lean against a wall with a heaving breath. Like a fugitive being tailed, you peek your head around each corner and slowly edge out.

It’s only when your smoke alarm goes off do your muscles grant you enough power to race towards your kitchen. You expect a great, grand fire, but you stop suddenly and stare at what you’re met with. House is standing atop one of your ikea chairs in the middle of your kitchen, with a screw driver jammed to your smoke alarm.

“What are you doing?” Any thought of the previous night is pushed aside for now, as the high pitched ringing continues to sound out.

He huffs and says something that is lost in the sound, but at your quizzical look he repeats himself. “I wanted to test if it worked.”

“Why?! And can you shut it up?”

Your hands fling to your ears but House simply lowers the screwdriver and the screeching stops. House stares up at it as if he wants to jam the screwdriver back to one of the crevices, so you stride forward and yank out of his hand. He wobbles atop the chair and scoffs. “That’s the thank you I get for saving your life?”

He gingerly lowers himself, but you don’t reach to help him down. You take a step back and lean against one of your kitchen counters. “I would hardly call last night saving my life. I was already over the worst of my sickne-”

House raises a hand to silence you. “I wasn’t talking about last night yet, vomit-comet.” Your eyes bulge, but what he says next has your jaw dropping. “Your smoke detector is clearly faulty, because it didn’t detect the smoke from the fire. Who knows when you would have been caught in an inferno?”

“What fire?”

He gestures over his shoulder to your toaster, which you suddenly realise has fading smoke the top. “You have a lot of CDs for me to pick through. Very distracting when I’m trying to make toast.” You deflate against your counter and pinch the bridge of your nose. When you look back up, you see House staring intently at you. Studying you.

You’re the first to break in your weird staring competition, and your eyes trail off to the side where you see House’s cane propped up against a cupboard. You exhale. “Thank you, I guess for last night. And for destroying my broken smoke alarm. And my toaster.”

House doesn’t take the hint, and across the small space of your kitchen he pushes himself up to sit on the top of a counter. Your eyes catch on the flex of his forearms and you curse yourself when he smirks at you. “All in a day’s work for the world’s greatest doctor.”

You stand in awkward silence for a moment before you jut your head at him. The movement makes you dizzy, but you steady yourself against the counter. House’s brows pinch together before he exclaims, “Oh! That wasn’t you thanking me, that was you trying to get to me to leave. I’m like a mould, sweetheart. I’ll grow on you.” He tilts his head. “Or in you, I suppose.”

“What? What are you talking abou…” Your words slur off into a trail and you raise your hands in front of your face. They’re shaking. “I thought- Was better. Whass happing?” Your tongue is heavy in your mouth.

House clicks his tongue and slaps his hands against his thighs. “Well that’s the exciting part! I thought you were getting better too!”

Your head starts to loll forward and you lose sight of him as he keeps speaking. “But that’s because I thought you had something boring. A flu. A cold. Maaaaaaaybe pneumonia. But then I saw your bathroom. Let me guess, the mould was there when you moved in? That’s what made this shithole so cheap right?”

You’re using all your willpower to stay standing but then your knees buckle and you lower yourself to the ground as gently as you can. Still, you thud to the floor. House tuts from somewhere above you, and you hear him push off the counter. “It was everywhere though. Even on the back of some of your canvases. I thought I paid you well enough that you could at least afford a sponge and some bleach. Clearly not.”

From the floor, you manage to raise your head. You can only look at his ratty sneakers as he limps closer. “Walking home in the snow should have killed you, with what’s being festering in you by now. But I guess I-” He clears his throat, “you got lucky.”

Your vision blurs and you hear House groan, as he reaches down and drags your limp body upwards. “You can’t stay here anymore though. You’ll be a walking fungi by noon.”

—----------------

You expect to wake in the hospital. Most people do when they collapse.

Instead you wake in a dark room under heavy blankets. You lay there for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the lack of light. You turn your head to your right, taking in the empty armchair and small cabinet beside you. There’s a phone handset, a clock and a lamp that is no help in the dark. It’s a weird jolt of terror that you get when your eyes trail down to the end of the bed, and only after seconds of staring into the darkness do they make out the form of House, perched on the end. You scramble up as fast as you can, tucking your knees close to you.

House rolls his eyes. “This isn’t my sex dungeon.”

“Oh,” you scowl, “Do you prefer the term basement? Or oubliette? Where am I?”

House squints his eyes and you can tell he’s debating whether or not to tell you. You kick out deftly under the covers and land a softened blow against his arm. He swats at your foot and you retreat. House clicks his tongue. “Mine.”

You laugh. “No, no, no. Not yours. Where are we actually? Where did you kidnap me to?”

House pins you with a glare. “It’s not kidnapping if its done for a perfectly medical reason and you can’t really call yourself a kid anymore, can you?”

“That’s not what that mea-”

He cuts you off and effectively silences your words with his own. “Mine. We are at my apartment.”

At his words, your eyes trail away, instead surveying the room with a new hunger. The bookcase is filled to the brim with novels and texts, and there’s a cluttered desk opposite you. You’re trying to digest that you’re probably in House’s room. House’s bed.

You run your hands down your face and groan. “What the fuck is happening, House?”

He huffs and looks away from you, head tilted back to stare at his ceiling. “You literally have mould growing in your lungs. But, a handy dandy course of pills and you’ll be fine. I already gave you the first two doses while you were out. You’ll be good for a few hours and have to keep taking some if, you know, you don’t want to breathe like a deformed pug.”

“No, no, I don’t give a shit about any of that. Sure, hypersensitivity pneumonitis or aspergillosis, whatever. But what the fuck is happening right now?” You lower your hands and glare at him. “Why did you bring me here? I pass out and your first reaction is to drag me to your apartment?”

And really, how? You get an image of him dragging your down the stairs, thumping the whole way, and shoving you into the boot of his trunk. House doesn’t sound quite as cocky or self-assured as he usually does when he speaks. “Your place is basically a cesspool of fungi. You won't be able to get better there.”

“So why am I not at the hospital?”

There’s a heavy beat of weighted silence, and he still doesn’t look at you. “Because I wouldn’t be able to take care of you there.”

You deflate almost against his pillows, like a tire with a slow leak. “Oh.”

“Yep.” He says, popping the p.

“House. I can’t actually stay here, with you, after…everything.” ‘Everything’. What an odd way to sum up the feelings in your chest, the screaming matches between you two, and all that lay in between.

He sucks in air and it hisses through his teeth. “You kinda have to. According to the state of New Jersey, reported cases of severe aspergillus mould have to go through months long strenuous, and I mean rip-up-the-carpets-just-to-rip-up-the-floorboards-just-to-clean-the-foundation kind of strenuous process for a place to be legally habitable.”

You clench your jaw. “But that’s only reported cases, right?”

House nods inconspicuously. “Right.”

“Mm,” You nod along, “And no one reported anything, right House?” Silence. “Right, House?”

His blue eyes flick to yours. “I mean…. I think I might have accidentally sent a text to someone. Or a phone call to an office. Or a 32-page email with photographic evidence to the New Jersey state health department.”

You groan, and throw yourself at him. You grab onto his shoulders and with surprising strength, or perhaps a lack of resistance, push him down against his own bed. You swing yourself over him, straddling him deftly, and you squeeze your hands lightly against his throat. “I can not fucking believe you!”

House’s hands reach up and steady themselves against your hips. “Glad to hear it, Newbie. I was always told I was mythical.”

You apply pressure against his throat, and lean down, sneering. “You’re not mythical, you’re goddamn infuriating.”

You expect him to spit something back at you or to swat your hands away easily, but instead he lets out a near-inaudible groan. He shifts against you, and his hands tighten on your hips and you suddenly realise the very compromising and very close position the two of you were in. He rocks against you now, with more force, and you feel him drag against you between your legs. You suck in a harsh breath, and let your hips roll as he grinds you down against him.

He says your name quietly, a whisper echoing between the two of you. You freeze, and stare at him, his own pupils blown wide and looking back at you. He’s breathing deeply underneath you, and you’re nearly certain that you’ll both stay like this forever, too scared to stop and too scared to continue. But then House knocks you onto your back and now it's you who falls back against the mattress, with the wind knocked out of you. You gasp, and try to push against him, clawing like a feral cat to sit up, but he shifts his weight against his good leg and manages to manoeuvre himself quickly into the position you were in.

He laughs at how easily you’re defeated, and quickly places his hands against your neck. While both your hands were barely wrapped around his throat, House’s palm presses against your windpipe and his fingers curl around your neck with ease.

He applies the same, soft and mocking pressure you did. You both know you could get out of it if you tried, and that he would let you; a deep flush settles on your cheeks when you make no move to do so. He leans closer, his breath fanning against your ear. “You like that, Newbie? Which one’s better, choking me or getting choked by me?”

When you don’t answer, House tilts his head, leaning to nip against the corner of your mouth. He speaks your last name into your skin. “I asked you a question.”

You laugh, soft and breathy. “You were the one practically humping me, I didn’t think you had it in you to interrogate me too.”

He gnashes at the corner of your mouth now, and you desperately want him to move a little bit to the right, to connect your lips. Instead, you try to focus on not whimpering in front of him; only one of you should be pathetic in this situation, and it wasn’t you.

“Interrogation? That must be why I found those fluffy little handcuffs at your apartment.” House tilts his head, and you hold your breath, waiting for him to land against your lips. Instead, he drags his head down, and you feel him breathe against your neck. Your hands land against his shoulders, and you briefly think of them as traitorous. They could be pushing him away right now, or slapping him, or scratching his eyes out. Instead, they dig into the fabric of his shirt, and grip it as if your life depends on it.

House’s mouth is oddly soft against your neck. You don’t know why you were expecting it to feel rougher, but he’s slow and meticulous against your skin. He sucks at a spot, and even though you clamp your mouth down, he still hears the embarrassingly loud noise you make. You feel him smile against you, and you dig your nails into his shoulders in response.

He only has to press down with his palm against your throat to remind you who’s in power, and you can’t close your mouth in time to stop the groan spilling out. House looks up at you, blue eyes piercing through you with electricity. “Rethinking that question, sweetheart?”

You don’t like the thing that curls in you at his words- sweetheart. “Nup.”

He leans down, sucking against your throat and squeezing it with the other hand at the same time. He still stares up at you, and this time when you moan, you feel him rut against you. He releases your skin, biting at it only to soothe it with his tongue. “You sure? Cause, I can stop. I’m sure I could find something better to do; chase some poor undergrads around at the hospital or annoy Cuddy. If you don’t like it-”

His hand begins to loosen at your neck and your head is reeling, and you can’t believe you’re even answering, but the words tumble out in a blubbering mess. “Choked by you. Mmhm.”

He chuckles. “Slut.”

You laugh, staring down your nose at him. “So says the manwhore.”

He smiles but still squeezes against your neck, forcing you to exhale harshly. He props himself up, looking down at you. You can’t imagine the mess you are right now. You’re more than ecstatic that you’ve showered and scrubbed your teeth after being sick for so long, but you know your hair is sprawled beneath you and you’re losing miserably against the flush spreading across your face.

House’s eyes are…tender, almost, as he looks down at you, where his hand connects the two of you. It strikes you as out of place, that look. It was too tender, too love-like, to be seen in this dark bedroom where he was still choking you. You wondered what your own eyes were revealing, blown wide and gazing up at him.

But then he smirks and that look is lost, replaced by something darker. “This is just sex, right?”

You blink, shocked by his question. “Um, I-”

A knock sounds out, and you stop, head craning to look over House and towards his door. He doesn’t turn, still staring down at you and seemingly content to leave the unknown guest alone. But then another knock rings out, and another, and another, each with more force than the last.

When your eyes flick back to House’s you nod towards the doorway. “You should probably go check that. Might be one of your hookers.”

He doesn’t miss the snark in your tone, eyebrows furrowing, but before he responds, you scramble out from beneath him and drag yourself away. He stares at you where you sit, and you gulp lightly, trying not to betray any emotions across your face. But when another knock thuds somewhere from his apartment, House breaks eye contact with you and slips out of the bedroom door.

You sit on his bed, and try to slow your breathing. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Was this happening? After all your stupid wet dreams and stupid pining, was this happening? You feel your core throb in confirmation, and you flop against the bed, squeezing your legs tightly.

You stare up at the ceiling and your thoughts are projected against it. You were about to fuck House. And, if you’re honest with yourself, you think you still will. When he pops back into the room, tear off his clothes, ravage him and destroy him. But ‘This is just sex, right?’

Right?

You breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Right.

It’s not like that question pissed you off. It’s not like he was bringing up everything you two had fought over, about you possibly feeling something for him and him hating you for it, and waving it in your face like a pathetic schoolgirl who couldn’t control her heart. It’s not like he admitted he felt nothing for you but just wanted a quick fuck.

You could do this. Push aside everything that lay inside your bleeding heart and push aside all your fights and all you hatred, and finally get laid again.

You nod in determination. You were going to fuck House, and you were going to make sure it was everything you wanted, and you were not going to let any miniscule emotions get in the way of it.

Right.

Now, with your own pep-talk done and dusted, you register the voices ringing out in the hallway. Loud. Angry. Deep

You push yourself off the bed, grateful for whatever medication was coursing through you right now. You tiptoe to the doorway, casting a look out into the hallway. To your left is a bathroom, bare of anything but the real essentials. You peer the other way, and past a desk and bookshelf, you see House standing at the door.

You toe forward, trying to make sure he doesn’t see you spying on him. You hear House speak, back to the monotone, dry voice of his. “First Wilson and now you. I am helping her, not stringing her up in my attic for occult rituals.”

You miss the first part of the deep reply, but manage to catch the second. “She hates you, Mr Home. She’s coming with me, now.”

Your heartbeat picks up and House laughs, “Oh, she hates me so much that she was practically riding me back there-”

There’s the deft thud of knuckles on skin, and House stumbles to the side. Your stomach twists, and you push yourself forward, rushing forward on suddenly shaky legs. “House!”

House’s head whips to you, and you see the dark mark already appearing on his cheek from where he was punched. But then you spy the source of the deep voice, and stop in your tracks.

“Pops. What are you doing here?”

The burly man rushes forwards in spite of House’s exclamation, and wraps you in a tight hug. Your face is smothered in his chest, and you hear him above you. “Are you alright?! I haven’t seen you since that night and then I see him,” he spits, “taking you away! We go now, you’ll be safe.”

Finally, Pop’s puts you back to the floor, and you heave in the air that rushes forward. House grunts from where he stands. “You really are a bumbling idiot, aren’t you.”

Pop’s whirls, and you see fury on his face. You’re struggling to draw in breath. “I should hit you again, you dogish-”

House laughs. “Really? And then who’s going to help her when she collapses?” He gestures to you, and Pop whips his head back. “You and that awful moustache?

Your hands are at your chest, and you’re rattling in breaths. Pops face is filled with worry. “Kid, are you okay? What’s going on? What’s happening?”

House rolls his eyes. “She’s sick. That’s why she’s here, and why if you gave me three seconds, I would have told you not to pick her up and squeeze her like a stress toy.”

You wheeze out soft words, “He’s right. He’s getting me medication and getting me better,” You draw in more air, “But I’m still bad, Pops.”

Pops looks at you with concern. “You need to stay here? With him?”

You nod, abandoning words and focusing on drawing in breaths. Pops clenches his jaw. “Okay.” You can see the millions of thoughts that he wants to speak, but he simply says it again. “Okay.”

Pops steps forward, still wary of breaking you it seems, but places a gentle kiss to your forehead. He peers down at you. “You need me, or Ella, we’re there. No matter what.” He throws a look at House as if to say no matter who, too.

You smile weakly, and Pops retreats from the apartment with a fleeting glance towards you. House quickly steps forward, and locks the door.

You speak softly, with evening breathes. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes flick to the mark on House’s face, and he turns the other way. “You should go to bed. You’re gonna need the rest, especially after that.”

You blink. Just like that, you’re dismissed. "Are you...serious? After all that, I'm sent to bed like a bad kid?"

House rolls his eyes. "Don't make this into some big deal."

You laugh, and it sends you into a coughing fit. "Big deal? We're about to have sex and you get decked, and don't think it's a big deal?"

House's gaze flicks to yours and he sneers. "Exactly. No big deal. Because you hate me and there's no need to get worked up over someone that you 'couldn't stand being near'."

"Is that what Pops said?"

His jaw clenches. "You're not even denying it, are you?"

Your eyebrows cinch in. "You can't act surprised. You're the one who picks fights with me at work or at the ball! You're the one who hates me and hated that I even thought about loving you!"

Silence.

House stares at you, but you get the sense that he's looking through you, far away. "Take two of the tablets beside the bed before you go to sleep."

And with that, he grabs his cane and coat from beside the door and leaves.

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