#is it eman after a certain age

[auecho]

THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY ೀ kafka & blade ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ‘oh girl, don’t hold back - let it out!’

𝓦ARNINGS ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ fem!reader - threesome - drug use - dubcon [themes] - slowburn - ft. jing yuan - overstimulation - blade has a crush on the reader - cunnilingus - reader is a bit of a pushover - roommate!kafka - ex-stepsister!kafka - sexting - cum eating [?] - creampie - asphyxiation && gagging - praise - grinding - making out - spit - dumbification - kafka is . . kafka - masturbation [f. & m.] - orgasm control - squirting - creampie - mating press - everybody is slightly ooc - not proofread - minors & dark content antis do not interact ! ! !

𝓐UTHOR’S 𝓝OTE ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ hihii first full fic ^3^ n first post ! ! so welcome 2 my acc,, m name is echo n i’m pleased to meet u 🫡 eek ‘m so excited, i’ve been sittin n workin on this idea for a while so i hope u enjoy it ! i listened to kiss land by the weeknd writing this and i think it fits rly well sooo >_o this is dark content so viewer discretion advised ! please don’t read if not ur taste T_T im posting this later than expected m soo sry :c reblogs n feedback very appreciated cuz the guidelines r gna get mi < / 3 ! !

𝓔CHOES ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ kiss land , the weeknd - valentina , daniel caesar - fill the void , the weeknd - sdp interlude , travis scott - the worst guys , childish gambino & chance the rapper .

𝓦ORD 𝓒OUNT ֹ ﹒ ୨ৎ 20.7k+

SHE CARRIES A distinct scent with her: cinnamon, champagne…and a twinge of mischief. It flurries in the air and infects your brain like the plague. She had this certain cadence about her: an aura drawn up in a slick figure and even slicker tongue, characterized by a sultry red color. That was Kafka. She's a bombshell, delivering a traumatic shock that you can only hope to forget. You tried to forget — tried to cloud that era of your life to no avail. She kicked down the rock blockade you'd built, welcoming herself into your life again with an impressive amount of effort.

“Elio said she has nowhere to go! She can't stay with him because he moved into a one-bedroom after the divorce! She's about to be couch-hopping at 22 — it’s sad!!” your mother whined. Her emphasis lay on certain words, pathetic tones emanating from the manipulation of her words. You're weak, standing hunched with a backbone made of cotton candy. “But, mom—” “And she begged Elio not to bother us—bother you—but he did it anyway because we’re always family. Family needs each other, family depends on one another.”

She'd pestered a yes out of you, and since the syllable passed through your lips, you've been counting your blessings.

After all, Kafka was an all-devouring curse: blessings were her kryptonite.

Exactly one week later, you bit your nails anxiously and breathed deeply so much so that you got lightheaded. It's been years, she may have changed, you comforted yourself. Your mind worked on its splintering tooth and nail to soothe your wild imagination. Kafka was always going to be Kafka — it was just a matter of whether she developed or if she enabled perversion.

When she engulfed you in a hug you almost passed out smelling her again. Hearing her was another thing, seeing her was even worse. Smelling her — that warm, spicy scent that burns but entices was the pinch to reality you needed. In the flesh, Kafka stood. In all of her menacing glory - ready to flip your world upside down.

“Missed you, little mouse. Ugh, how’ve you been?” you fought the urge to shiver. The nickname and her ever-tickling tone — God, you weren't prepared.

“Good,” is all you muttered. ‘Way better before.’ you wanted to add.

“Mmm, good, I'm glad. I got nervous when Mom said my baby moved out all alone.”

My baby. You could really just…die. She was just as charismatic as before. Possibly even more, given her blatant maturity. You would think it was a play on your age, but truly it was endearment from her: her form of caring for you.

“Who would've thought we’d be living together again? We’re gonna have so much fun!” In the giggle that slipped from her throat, lies mischief. She picks up a box out of the trunk, turning on her heels with the biggest, most Kafka smile ever. She was always…unique in her definitions of fun. One could only imagine the roller coaster you were riding.

When you make your way to your apartment, you just breathe. Breathing is the only thing that can stabilize you. The jumble of nerves that bounce around inside of you relaxes at your exhales. You're not shaking anymore, or feeling your skin heat and clam up, making it easy to lead Kafka into her room.

“Oh, wow. All this space, all alone? You've really grown up, little mouse.” She compliments with a sigh. The box in her hands now sits on the ground. You flush, dusting your hands on your shirt, “Oh, thanks. Mom helps from time to time.” Even though you would much rather have your independence.

She looks around at the space, the room occupied by nothing except a naked bed and an empty dresser. It's an awkward 30-second silence before she breaks it, “Thank you, again. You're really saving my ass,”

And again, you're wrapped in Kafka’s arms, forced to awkwardly pat her back and stare at the wall across from you as if it were to save you. “No problem…again,”

The hug you share births goosebumps on your skin. Her hands glide across the small of your back, nimble fingers dancing lightly across the surface. The tickle is the least of your worries — the blooms of heat that surge in her wake are what blows your eyes wide open. Kafka’s hugs are tight and warm. Almost comforting if it wasn't for the way she ghosted her lips over your ear just right, making you tense. You hate it because it's something you've grown used to. You like it a lot more than you probably should, actively leaning into her touch after a few seconds.

“We should probably get the rest of your boxes…” You mutter. Kafka sighs, pulling off of you slowly. It's almost as if she's savoring the feeling of you in her hands. “I’ll get them. I shouldn't inconvenience you more—”

“—It’s fine. I don't mind helping,” She laughs and squishes your cheeks between her fingers, “You're too cute.” booping your nose for emphasis.

And she couldn't stop saying it. It almost felt condescending the way “You're so cute,” fell from her lips every time you did something. Your out-of-breath huffs or triumphant sighs elicited the remark again and again as you hauled her luggage up to your apartment. You gave up by the last box and stretched out on her floor, and Kafka only laughs harder as she begins to unpack.

“Do you want me to help you?” You groggily breathe out. Moving is exhausting, and you're not even the one moving.

Tucking the sleeves of the shirt as she folds, Kafka shakes her head no with a chuckle. “You can help me by showering. I'll finish up and order some food, ‘kay? Consider it my thanks.”

“But you've already thanked me—” “—And I'm doing it again.” She cuts you off. Your eyes meet and she cracks a smile, “C’mon, up you go. The longer you take, the longer you have to wait to sleep.”

Kafka is someone impossible to argue with. You swipe your tongue over your teeth to fight off a smile…but her gaze is warm. It makes you nervous in the weirdest way, and your lips stretch wide. Defeatedly, you nod, “If you say so.”

ೀ

The sun retired for the night and in an hour, you'd showered, dressed, met Kafka in the living room, caught up with a shot or two slipped in the mix, and dug into the XL pizza she ordered. It was your favorite toppings—you were shocked, to say the least, that she remembered.

“Enough about me,” She grabs hold of the conversation, placing her plate down on the coffee table—and you hide the cringing your face defaults to with a crooked smile and nod. “What about you? How was finishing high school? Starting university? Is Mom still…Mom?”

You awkwardly giggle, placing the plate in your lap. “The answer to the last question is yes. She's never changing, I fear.”

“But…I've been good, really. I keep saying it but it's true; grades are good, friends are good, and Mom is as good as she could get—” more laughter, “—but, yeah. I'm not traveling like you, Kafka. I barely leave my apartment unless it's to go to class. I'm stable, and I'm good. Nothing to tell.”

Kafka eyes you critically as if she's trying to read you. There's nothing to find because as you said, there's nothing to tell. You've always been the stickler goody-two-shoes type: abiding by rules and expectations and never deviating from your white-picket-lined path. It wasn't perfect, and never always good, but it was enough. Enough that you could say with your whole chest that you're okay with being boring…because, well—it’s all you've really known.

She walked into your life as your sister at eleven and walked right back out at fifteen. In four years, you'd been enlightened to a dark side of the world, but you were always too timid. Kafka was a playful cat, ready to paw at her sheepish little mouse until you played back.

Back then, you were too young, and under the palm of your mother to enter rebellion. Now, you're free…somewhat. Kafka was determined to help you spread your wings. She was going to plant the seed in your ear and let it sprout: “It’s your world,” She says. “isn't it about time you live? The way you want to? You're a big girl now — you deserve a story to tell.”

She can tell by the widening of your eyes that the conversation is bordering on too much. “Uhh, I don't know. I'm happy right now—”

“Happiness is temporary. Memories are forever.”

And while she makes a good point…what exactly would you do? How?

Her head tilts and her eyebrow lifts tentatively. She wants to ask how far are you willing to go, but the conversation is far too premature. “It all depends on you, little mouse,” is what she settles on instead. “I’ll be ready to lend a helping hand when you need me.”

The conversation takes a thoughtful pause. Your head seems to fill with thoughts and returning to her now chilled pizza, Kafka pats herself on the back. You're going to spread your wings and flourish, and she prides herself on giving you the route. It's only a matter of time, she thinks. A matter of time before the real fun emerges.

“Oh, by the way,” she interrupts the silence, “do you mind if I have a few friends over tomorrow? They wanna throw me a housewarming party.”

“Um, no, it's fine. My study group is coming over tomorrow after my classes so try maybe before? Or after that—we won't take long.” You miss the deviousness in her smirk.

With a final bite of her pizza, she nods. “Of course.”

ೀ

Jing Yuan is so charming.

He flashes you a Cheshire smile and you find yourself stumbling over your sentences. You palm your face, embarrassed, and let out a shy giggle. His deep chuckle follows and you almost don't want to look at him again.

Fu Xuan kisses her teeth and rolls her eyes. “Lay off the flirting, would you? Can't leave you two alone for a second...”

She joins the pair of you at the end of the courtyard, golden eyes narrowing. There's an awkwardness that creeps up, and you smile nervously while Jing Yuan scratches his neck. He displays a coy smirk that you avoid looking at — opting to rock on your heels and check in the distance for Yukong.

You and Jing Yuan are classmates; friends, even, if he were to agree with that sentiment. Though your crowds don't particularly mix, you find some comfort in one another. Albeit, most of your time is spent tutoring him. It's nice, nonetheless.

You're not opposed to liking him—in fact, you're smitten with him—but you doubt the feeling is mutual. He's Jing Yuan and you're…you.

His question reaches your ears, breaching your train of thought: “Is Yukong still joining us?”

The way he turns to you makes you shy, and you shrug in place of your words. “Umm, ‘dunno. She said so, but something must’ve come up.”

“Well, in any case, let’s just head to yours. She has the address.” Fu Xuan replies exasperatedly. Jing Yuan shrugs, “If that’s okay with you?”

You perk up at his kindness, and Fu Xuan groans, rolling her eyes. “Uh, yeah! Sure!” With your eyes glued to Jing Yuan’s pleased smile, you miss how Fu Xuan mocks you.

“Can we go now?!”

The three of you quickly commute back to your apartment. It's a nice fifteen-minute walk—even nicer when Jing Yuan let you talk his ear off the entire way. Fu Xuan was paces ahead of the two of you, grumbling under her breath about how she should've said no and cursing to Yukong for leaving her with you.

You've been studying together for a while, but you've never brought them over. Your sessions usually take place at the campus library or the local cafe, so to say you're a bit nervous is an understatement.

Not only have they never been over, but you have Kafka. She’s a wildcard and you can only pray that she's on her best behavior.

Your key spins in the hole and you push the door open. Over your shoulder, you mutter, “I think my…sister’s home so she might come and say hi.”

You hope that's the most that she’ll do.

Upon entry, there's a potent, herbal smell floating around the air. It's slightly smoky, and your throat tightens up. You turn around at your guests and cringe at their upturned noses and scrutinizing gazes. “Uhh…”

“Wait right here…um…” you murmur. You don't wait for their responses before speeding toward Kafka’s room.

The stench is stronger in the hallway and her music is even louder. The bass jumps through the floorboards and you doubt she’ll even hear your knocks — but you do it anyway. Knock knock knock.

No response.

You bounce on your heels nervously, peeking out and seeing Jing Yuan and Fu Xuan talking awkwardly by the door. Your nerves overcome you and you hurriedly knock again. “Kafka! I need to talk to you — Kafka!!”

You keep knocking on the door until the music stops and the door swings open. A cloud of smoke hits you immediately and you fall into a coughing fit, waving the smoke out of your face. “Good God…”

“Oh—my bad!” She laughs at you, turning over her shoulder to her friends and sharing the amusement. Her heavy-lidded eyes fall back onto you, and she leans on the door for support. “What do you need, little mouse?”

“Um…” you look over her shoulder and see her guests in her room. A silver-haired girl rests on her bed and types away on her phone, and a black-haired guy sits on the floor - his low eyes on you as he breathes out a cloud of smoke. You didn't know what to expect but you aren't surprised. You're more…uncomfortable. “Um, yeah — my study group is over and it smells like…yeah.”

Her eyes widen and she slaps a hand over her mouth. “That's right now?! Oh, I'm sorry—Silvie and Bladie came over early and I didn't know you’d be back so soon.”

Silvie and Bladie…interesting names.

You nod to her response. “…Yeah…I don't mind you…smoking or whatever but please open a window? It's very strong and it travels and I don't want the landlord to throw a fit.”

“Yeah, of course. Bladie!” She calls out over her shoulder. The guy—Bladie—doesn’t respond, but only perks up. “Crack open the window, yeah?”

And he just…complies. You're almost amazed at how he just listened and pushed the glass open, the cool evening breeze drafting into the bedroom instantly.

Kafka turns around as though it is normal. “There we go,” She giggles.

“Thanks.” You mutter, nodding your head. She winks at you as she shuts the door. You hear her shutting down a remark made by…Silvie and a barrage of laughter.

You make your way to the door where, thankfully, Jing Yuan and Fu Xuan still stand.

“Everything alright?” Jing Yuan asked. He immediately turns to face you, and suddenly your good mood sparks back up. You nod, “Mhm. She has a few friends over too but…I’m sure it won't be too bad.”

You welcome them in, all piling into your living room and crowding around the dining table.

Jing Yuan pulls his laptop out of his bag and sets it on the table. “I did awful on the last test…” he informs, presumably going back to the gradebook. “55%…”

Fu Xuan bursts into laughter. “No wonder you need both of us to help you study! Good lord!!”

You ignore her teasing and pull out your books. “What do you need help with?”

She's quick to cut him off, “Clearly everything if that grade is anything to go by…!”

“Xuan, stop!!”

Her laughter continues, and Jing Yuan waves her off. “The musings of a jealous nobody don't affect me,” and now it's your turn to laugh. “I'm here to get help so I don't mind going through everything. If you're okay with that, of course.”

“It’s fine, yeah—I’m fine with that! Um, let me just get my…” You trail off, sifting through your bundles of papers in your folders. You try to ignore the burn his gaze lays on your skin. He props his head on his fist as he leans on your table and God, does it make you feel special.

Fu Xuan bites back at his remark, “I'm not jealous and I'm definitely not a nobody! Watch your mouth, Jing Yuan!!”

And now it's your turn to internally curse Yukong.

“Here we go!” You pull out the review packets you made yourself — something you pride yourself on. You lay them on the table for him, eliciting a difference in reactions from your guests.

Fu Xuan sees the packets and rolls her eyes, “Only you would make your own review packets.”

And Jing Yuan instead muses at the sight, “No—it’s cool. Resourceful. I like that.”

And I like you, you want to say. You decide to keep that to yourself and only smile in response to play coy.

“This one is from the first couple of lessons, these two were for the quizzes, and the rest are for a few lessons in between.” You inform, pointing at each packet. “I also have some flashcards and some annotations; let me find them…”

“Look, all you need to do is read the textbooks. All the information is in there.” Fu Xuan argues, taking one of your packets for herself and flipping through it. “Do you read, Jing Yuan?”

“I read, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, so do I — but that doesn't help everyone, Xuan.” You snatch the packet out of her hand, laying it on the table. “But whatever. Do you think this will help you?”

Jing Yuan nods, gratefully. He takes a packet for himself, flipping through it. “You mind showing me how you use them?”

And with a flustered smile, you nod, immediately scooting closer to direct him.

You show Yuan your method: using his notebook to write down what he remembers, going back and adding things he didn't remember, and working out everything in between with what's in the packet. Your mother taught you the method during your eighth-grade year after your grades slipped and since then, you've sworn by it.

Fu Xuan uses this time to tease and ridicule him, occasionally aiding with her…aggressive technique whenever he stumbles over a particular concept.

You share some laughs and rambles along the way, and you’re given a side of Jing Yuan you never thought you’d get. He's surprisingly easy to talk to, and you don't know if he's actually that funny or if you're just that into him — but either way, you enjoy it. He makes your cheeks hot and your smile wider.

He’s always been your campus crush — but he’s everybody’s. You're not special but the way he's looking at you makes you feel as such. You hope that maybe he’ll ask you to tutor him again and maybe it’ll just be the two of you. Without Fu Xuan’s teasing and complaints.

After about an hour, he starts to get the hang of it. He’s focused and his attentiveness leaves you and Fu Xuan the time to talk.

You drown out her complaints about the sorority not allowing her in to focus on the presence of Kafka’s friend in your kitchen. She stands on her tippy-toes to rummage through your cabinets, groaning and slamming her palms on the countertop. “Uhh…do you need something?”

The girl turns around, “Food! Where the hell are all of your snacks?!”

“Um…” You don't get to respond. She stomps into your living room, shoving her hand into the bag of pretzels Fu Xuan brought. “Excuse me!!!”

She shoves the handful in her mouth, crunching obnoxiously. “Those are so fucking dry…” She complains, turning back into your kitchen and rummaging through your fridge.

Your last Kombucha is taken, popped open, and gulped down right before your eyes. You were going to drink that.

With an unabashed burp, the girl sets the bottle down and turns to you. “Hey, little mouse!”

“That's not my name—”

“Can you order some food, please? I feel like I'm being fucking punished.” And she continues to ramble, “Was I a bad girl? Do bad girls not get to eat?” And she falls into a fit of laughter.

You're uncomfortable. You know Fu Xuan and Jing Yuan must be too. This is just awkward, and embarrassing on your behalf.

“Can you get some pizza? Ooh, no, better yet, chili oil beef stew. Do they deliver that?” No. The answer is no. “Hold on, I’ll get the money.”

She scurries back into Kafka’s room with a heavy slam of the door. The three of you turn to each other, and you nervously laugh. How embarrassing.

“Is that your sister?” Jing Yuan asks. Oh God, he probably feels so uncomfortable.

“No! That's her friend…sorry about that.”

“She needs to pay me for a new bag of pretzels! I don't know where her hands have been and I'm definitely not eating that.” Fu Xuan huffs, crossing her arms and crumpling up the bag. You laugh at how she lightens the mood, but turn your gaze to Jing Yuan who's now focused back on his work. Great. You blew it.

Out comes Kafka’s friend, stomping toward you and shoving some bills into your chest. “Here you go! Keep the change,”

You don't want her change. But you don't protest — instead, you call up Delicacy Pavillion. “Hi, can I place an order?”

ೀ

The walk back to your apartment from Delicacy Pavillion feels like a walk of shame. You're even more ashamed because Jing Yuan decided to tag along and Fu Xuan decided to take her cue and leave. Now you're alone. With him. In the middle of the evening. Picking up delicious food for your ex-step-sister and her friends.

He offered to walk with you—“I don't mind. Besides, what kind of guy would I be if I let a pretty girl like you go out all by yourself?” You're not strong enough to deny his flattery, and so here you are.

Now that Xuan is gone, you don't know what to talk to him about. Or how to talk to him. You opt to keep your mum, humming a song you’d heard in passing lowly to yourself. Five minutes away and this day will finally be over.

“Are you and your sister close?” He breaks the silence.

You turn to him, “Ah, well — she’s not really my sister. Our parents were married for a while but they divorced now. A while ago, actually. We aren't close but…yeah.”

“Interesting…” He comments. “Yeah…”

“I don't mean interesting in a bad way—I’m interested…in you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“You're interested…in me?” Your heart is practically jumping out of your chest. You can't hide the flattered smile that curls your lips.

He chuckles, stuffing his hands in his pockets and throwing his head back. “Ha, yeah. Of course — how couldn't I be? You're sweet, very smart…” He turns to look at you. Your eyes lock, “…very cute, too.”

It's like he wants you dead.

You immediately avert your gaze, nudging him in the side. “You're just messing with me.”

“If that's what you believe.” He shrugs, a playful grin resting on his face.

Now you don't know what to believe. But you're going to choose to believe that he means it.

“I'm interested in you too.” You sweetly proclaim, unable to wipe the big grin off of your face. His cheeks flush a pretty rose color, and his smile turns coy. The quiet you two fall into is much more comfortable and much lighter, and now you wish that your time with him won't end.

The pair of you make it to your apartment building, and when you stand in the elevator, you avoid his gaze. He watches you through the reflection of the elevator doors, and his smirk grows as he watches you try not to look at him.

He takes a step closer to you and when his hand swings your fingers brush and you almost drop the bag full of food. He knows how to make you flustered and how to make you smiley.

“Cute,” He mutters. He's not the only one who thinks that.

Jing Yuan does the gentlemanly thing and walks you to your door. As soon as you fish your keys out of your pocket, he pulls you into a hug. His arms are big and muscular and so warm — you immediately hug him back and wrap your arms around his waist.

“See you,” He says, rubbing the small of your back. You timidly respond, “See you.”

The smile on your face is prominent even as he walks away. Even as you walk into your apartment, coming face to face with a ruckus you never thought you’d have the displeasure of walking into.

Kafka and her guy friend are planted on the couch, the strong smoke smell clearly following them into the living room. And the girl…she lay on the floor still swiping away — but as soon as you closed the door behind you, she hopped up. “Yes—fucking finally!”

She bolts over to you and steals the bag out of your hand, “Thank fuck!! I'm so damn hungry!!!”

Kafka gets up, her guy friend immediately following. She smiles at you, coming to wrap you in a hug. “Ohhh, thank you, babe.” And she plants a firm kiss on your cheek. You feel the stain of her lipgloss on your skin, and cringe at it, only nodding and smiling as if to say “You're welcome.”

“I’m going to shower and go to bed…so uh, can you keep it down some?” You say, walking in the direction of the bathroom.

They barely hear you and focus on digging into their food. With a defeated sigh, you stalk away.

And with your back turned, the strict gaze on your disappearing frame is missed.

He’ll see you again, though.

ೀ

“I want you to formally meet my friends,” Not even a greeting as you entered the door. A hi, hello, or how was your day? would have been nice.

“Hello to you too, Kafka.” You quip, taking off your shoes and stretching your aching toes.

“Hi, little mouse,” she sarcastically chirps. She places her drink on the coffee table and you try to ignore the lack of a coaster - instead bracing yourself for the embrace she pulls you in. “Mm, you seem tense; your day went okay?”

You nod. Not quite, is the answer you hold on your tongue, swallowing it down and hiding a grimace beneath your smile.

Jing Yuan hadn't spoken to you all day. He didn't even look at you — his attention was focused on Tingyun. Pretty, brown-haired Tingyun with the charming smile and warmest aura…she’s now your competition, and from what you saw today, she’s leagues ahead of you. Hanging off of his arm like it's her lifeline and encapsulating his gaze in the palm of her hand. You almost stormed out of the lecture when her hands brushed his cheeks, her thumb swiping over his beauty mark.

He's just trying to make you jealous. That thought was supposed to comfort you but it made you even more upset. As soon as your professor shut his mouth you were out of there, leaving dust in your wake as you sped toward the library.

You needed to decompress and distract yourself. You were buried in a book when a touch you remembered too well landed on your shoulder. “I was looking for you.” He says.

Looking for me my ass, you think. But the sentiment warms you, nonetheless, and a smile pulls across your lips. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” The tone of his voice makes you want to rip the hair off of your scalp. He's so sweetly condescending, so sultry and you can just get lost in his melody. He's like Kafka that way—wait. Nevermind…

“Can I take you out tomorrow night?” The suddenness of his question has you jostled, and the substance of the question has you flustered. Jing Yuan wants to take you out???

You're mad at him, though. He can just take Tingyun for all you ca—“Of course—er, I mean, sure. Why not?”

Fuck.

He chuckles at your stumbling, burying his hands in his pockets. His forearms scream at you as they clearly come into your line of sight — the image to be cherished and forever forefronted in your memory. Why is every part of him so attractive? “Great. I’ll text you later.”

And he squeezes your shoulder as he walks in the opposite direction. Fucking hell.

You're just pissed off. At yourself, at Tingyun, at Jing Yuan — you hate that he made you giddy and excited and you couldn't stop smiling to yourself even as you walked home alone.

He asked you, not Tingyun. Surely, if he wanted her, he’d be taking her out tomorrow, not you.

“So, tomorrow at…5? Is that cool?”

What? “Huh? Sorry,”

Kafka sighs, “I want you to meet my friends. It’ll be like…totally chill and just cool so don't freak out and think some type of formal meet-the-parents shit.”

“Is tomorrow at 5 good for you?” You’d be wrong if you said no. Kafka is trying. “Yeah, um, I guess,”

“Yay! This wasn't my idea, by the way — they want to meet you,” They do? “Really?”

She walks back over to the couch and plops down, downing a gulp of her pink Monster Energy. “Mhm. Silver wants to know how we could ever be sisters, and Bladie…” She takes a pause, having a short laugh to herself, “Let’s just say he’s taken a liking to you.”

You're confused by her statement but you don't press further. You're not sure you want to know.

“Um…I’m going out tomorrow, so,” “We won’t keep you long,” She shrugs.

Your subtly doesn’t work well—you mean to decline the offer. “Okay then,”

You begin to awkwardly walk to your bedroom, Kafka’s voice following you down the hall. “Hey, are you hungry?”

“I’m good.” You answer back. As good as you could be.

┄┄

With the nth layer of lip gloss slathered across your lips, you break into a smile at your reflection.

You’re pretty.

All dolled up: not a single fly-away or stray, cheek-housed eyelash, flawless base, and a perfectly ironed outfit describe your appearance. You spent the better half of your afternoon in the bathroom shaving, plucking, exfoliating, and giggling to yourself about your date with Jing Yuan.

You’ve never looked better. You don't think you’ve smiled this much in your life.

“You look so pretty, babe!” Yukong chimes. Her eyes gleam over the pixelated image on your phone. “So, what type of date is it? …It is a date, right?”

“Well, he didn't say it was a date—but he asked to take me out. What does that mean if not a date?” It's all semantics. Date schmate; at the end of the day it's you and him together. Alone. “He didn't…discuss the details. All I know is that he’s coming at 5:30 to get me.”

Interesting…

“It’s kinda…sexy. Like ooh, surprise me.” You add, giggling.

Right…

“If you say so…” Yukong sighs out. You laugh, missing the sarcasm thick in her tone.

“Well, anyway, I should get going.” You check the time: the digital numbers read 5:05. You're early, but, hey— better safe than sorry. “Call you later, love you!”

Yukong smiles and throws up a peace sign and ends the Facetime.

The hefty laughter from the other side of your door bulldozes through your silence, reminding you. Damn it.

Another small smile in the mirror and you get up from your vanity. You grab your clutch and walk out and into an atmosphere of laughter and…blueberries?

You wave the scent out of your face, and as if it were perfectly timed, the chatter died down and heads turned to you. Your hand fell to your side and you immediately made eye contact with her.

“Ohh, little mouse!!!” Kafka squeals, dragging out the nickname sing-songily. She skips to you, a hand nudging your shoulder. “Look at you!! Look at her guys!” She turns to her friends, grinning wide.

The pair raise their heads, faces morphing in opposite ways of one another in response. The silver-haired girl takes a brief puff from her seemingly blueberry-scented e-cigarette, “Woww, would you look at that?”

She turns to the guy beside her with an escaping smile, “You clean up nice, little mouse.” She compliments.

You cringe at the nickname leaving her lips, nodding. “Thanks…”

“What do you think, Bladie?” Kafka calls out, one arm pulling you close to her and the other swiping down in a showcasing movement. He perks up instantly and looks completely uncomfortable. He avoids looking into your eyes at all costs.

You feel bad. You tuck your clutch under your arm and raise your hands in defense, “No, no, it's okay. Kafka…you shouldn't…”

“Nope—it’s only right I tease you like this,” She rebuts. Her grin shortens to a smirk and her hand squeezes your arm, pulling you closer. “Mom’s not here; somebody’s gotta be the one to nag,”

It's a good thing your mother is not here. You moved out to get away from her. You only awkwardly laugh in response, shooting an awkwardly apologetic face toward Bladie.

“Uh…pretty,” He comments. “You look nice.”

It's only now that you realize you haven't heard his voice yet. And, woah. Wow.

“U-um, thank you. Ha…” You stumble out, growing flustered at your stuttering.

Kafka laughs, sending a look towards him that you miss. “Anyway,” she diverts, “these are my two companions: Silver and Blade.” She points at the pair respectively and they each emote.

“The two most important people in my life. After you, of course,” She informs, fingers nipping at the fat of your cheek teasingly. “What about Elio?”

She shrugs. “Oh, yeah. Him too,” and she and Silver burst into laughter.

Kafka introduces you to them after the laughter dies down, making sure to include “My little sister,”

“Ex-step-sister-now-roommate,” you correct. Silver chortles at your sass and Kafka sends you a narrowed stare. “You're right. My favorite ex-step-sister-now-roommate: my little mouse,”

“Wait, you mean to tell me you have other ex-step-sisters-now-roommates?” Silver jokes, laughing at her own joke. She slaps Blade on his arm to urge him to laugh along — to which he maintains his rigid posture and awkwardly avoids the scene.

Kafka walks the pair of you into the room, toward the couch opposite Silver and Blade. You sense an immediate switch; almost as if you’d changed realities. The air was suffocating in a way you couldn't understand. It was something deeper than awkwardness, something less juvenile than embarrassment. It was palpable: it hurt to swallow when you gulped nervously.

Silver blows another cloud of smoke toward your face, and when the fog dissipates you're met with the mischief on her face, “Sooo,” she drags, “what do you do for a living? This is a nice apartment you got,”

Small talk. You can do small talk. “Um, thanks! I mostly do tutoring and babysitting. But sometimes my mom helps out.”

Her face crinkles up in confusion. “Tutoring pays for all this???”

You laugh, “You’d be surprised at how much people are willing to pay for good grades. I mainly work with middle schoolers who aren't doing too well and their parents are so desperate. They’ll pay just about anything.” You slightly exaggerate the circumstances of your job. There's only one kid you tutor regularly and you've already begun discounting him because of his relation to Jing Yuan. It's a good thing Kafka moved in — the rent was beginning to look a bit dangerous.

“Ohh, interesting. What a hustler,” Silver jokes. Kafka laughs right alongside her, nudging your side with her elbow. “Fitting right in with us.”

The group bursts into a fit of laughter — even Blade spits out a few chuckles — and all you can do is awkwardly laugh along. You feel like a sore thumb: dolled up in your pretty blue outfit while your roommate and her friends are dressed in sweats and assortments of band tees. They laugh at a joke you don't quite understand and share glances that speak an entirely different language from you.

You want the time to speed up. You're waiting for Jing Yuan to save you from this awkward tension like the knight in shining armor he is and whisk you off to the date he planned.

Getting out of here would be so nice. You won't have to hear them poke and prod and tease and you wouldn't be scared to look left. Blade’s gaze is so intense. Goosebumps have risen on your skin from the sheer atmosphere it induces — is he doing this on purpose? He has to be. Kafka must have put him up to it.

It eases you to think that she’s just being herself: her playful, mischievous, dangerous self. In a week she’ll get bored, they’ll stop messing with you, and they’ll find something else to do. That's the way it's always been with Kafka and it helps you to relax.

But it's his stare. The way his eyes shyly rake you up and down again and again. He drinks in the sight of you and doesn't react — he’s committing you to memory and every time he takes a reprieve, his eyes thirst for more and wander right back to you. Kafka notices it. Silver notices it. You notice it. Everybody but Blade can see the way he looks at you: as though he could eat you whole.

He watches your face light up when your phone buzzes and you pull it out of your clutch. Thank the heavens; it’s Jing Yuan.

‘be there in 10. ;)’ He texts. ‘okayyyy <3 see you!’ You text back. Too flirty? Too excited? Oh, God. He hearts your message and your smile grows wider.

Blade wants to say how he wants to be the one to make you smile like that, but it's too early for that. He’ll opt for admiring you, instead, thinking to himself about how pretty you look grinning so wide and how pretty you probably look with his c—

Knock knock knock. That was fast.

You nearly jump off of the couch to answer the door, skirt flaring in the air as you skip to the door. Kafka watches with amusement thick on her face. You're so cute, a guy like Jing Yuan doesn't deserve you.

The door swings open and there he stands. His hair is pushed into a high ponytail and he’s clad in a simple outfit—but God, does he make it look good. “Hey there, pretty girl.”

His greeting awakens butterflies in your stomach. “Hi…” You reply shyly. He smiles at your nervousness and holds his hand out for you to grab, “You ready to go?” You nod almost immediately.

Before Kafka can open her mouth and trap the two of you there, you announce your departure and leave with a wave, slamming the door behind you. The group all share looks, and her smile can't help but get wider. “She’s so cute,”

“Wouldn't you agree, Blade?” Silver teases. Growing embarrassed, he lowers his head. “Oh my God!” She laughs, hitting the couch cushion. “You totally wanna fuck her!”

Blade doesn't respond. Silver turns to Kafka mouth wide, eyes blown, “He wants to fuck your sister, Kaf!” Don't we all?

Kafka sits in between her two friends, placing a warm hand on Blade’s shoulder. He immediately relaxes but keeps his gaze tied to the ground. “It’s okay, Bladie,”

“It happens to the best of us.”

┄┄

“I’m not going to lie,” Jing Yuan breaks the silence, “I didn't have a clue on what to plan. I just knew I wanted to see you again.”

His flattery is out of this world. He has you feeling so special, so wanted—you turn to look at him and just stare in disbelief. The Jing Yuan is driving you in his nice-ass BMW to a date that he asked you out on. Lucky girl syndrome is so real. “It’s okay, I’m not picky.”

“I like that.” He laughs out. “I like you.” His right hand abandons the steering wheel, traveling to your exposed thigh. His touch is light, tempting. He’s testing the waters, and only does he let his hand rest wholly on your thigh when your breath hitches but you don't stop him. He spares you a glance, a smirk drawn on his face when you briefly lock eyes.

“I think you said that before,” You lighten the mood. Your words sound breathless, clambering out of your throat nervously. “Oh, have I?” His hand creeps upward, now sheathing itself beneath your skirt. His fingers tap on your thighs — he’s teasing, waiting for a reaction.

You hum in response, now gluing your eyes to the dashboard because if you look down, you're going to explode.

“Guess I really have to let you know, then.”

“Guess so,” You respond. His hand only lies on your leg, not traveling any further. He pulls into the parking lot of the movie theater. Not your idea of the perfect first date, but maybe he has more planned.

You get out, immediately locking hands and walking side by side into the theater. He opens the door for you, leads you to the ticket stand, and the hold on your hand never falters. He uses it to pull you closer, letting his arm drape around your waist and his fingers tap along your skin. He’s setting you ablaze, burning you with every gesture he does.

You don't even care about the movie—Sky-Faring Commission 8, you think—you’re too focused on Jing Yuan. He drapes you in his jacket and wraps his arm around your shoulder when you get seated. He whispers a joke to you about the previews and laughs into your hair to not disturb others around you. And when the movie gets to a particularly boring part, he finds himself leaning on your shoulder.

His lips are featherlight as he ghosts over your skin. You act as though you don't feel it — gluing your eyes to the movie screen. You couldn't care less about the melodramatic climax on the screen. It didn't matter to you, it didn't register in your mind as important. He was so close, breathing in your sweet perfume and brushing his lips against your skin when he smiled. Oh God, you subconsciously lean towards him, letting out a sigh when puckered lips connect with your neck.

He places another kiss, and then another - readjusting his position to lead a trail upwards. The kisses grow larger distances as he eagerly travels to your lips. His hand reaches over and grabs the side of your face. You couldn't turn to look at him on your own: filled with too much anxiety and nerves to bear the connection.

Your eyes lock - a desire in his juxtaposing with the shyness in yours. He needed you, leaning in swiftly and collecting a kiss.

His tongue abrasively weaves its way into your mouth, sloppily licking around and tangling with yours. He was so powerful: overwhelming and all-consuming. You could only sit there weakly, trying your best to keep up with him.

Yuan is no dummy. He can tell you're not all into it. You sit rigidly and lack any eagerness to kiss him back.

“You nervous?” He whispers against your lips. His hand on your face slips down to your waist with a comforting squeeze in tow. You crack a smile nervously, “Never done this before. Well, like, in this way…”

He's quick to recover from the twinge of annoyance that surges within him. “‘Ts okay. I got you,”

He leans in, hand slipping to your thigh. It's almost cinematic — the movie flickers in deep reds and blacks as an action sequence plays and your silhouettes form on the wall behind you. He's so close, so tempting that you can't help but take in his words. “I’ll take care of you.” He says. And you fall for it.

And he kisses you even slower, more sultry. There's an enthusiastic flame in his kiss — he just wants you to give it up. Let him take you, let him have you. It's not like you don't want it.

As he kisses go deeper, hungrier with teeth sinking into your lip and lips sucking around your tongue, his hand slinks up your skirt. He plays with the band of your panties, feeling the soft material. His fingers roll and entangle in the fabric, feeling the slight jolt of your hips when his touch caresses your skin.

He shoves his tongue down your throat to keep you silent, pushing his hand further onward and cupping your cunt.

Your thighs immediately crush around his wrist. He’s trapped in your heat, feeling the throb of your clit against him. He bites your bottom lip with a smile as he presses his palm flat against you. The applied pressure to your clit has the bud stiffening.

God, you want him. You want him so bad.

You have to stop yourself from moaning and squirming. You’ll literally die if you get caught.

“I want you so bad, baby,” he whispers, pulling away. He kisses your jawline and rubs his hand against your pussy. The feeling is beyond mutual, you think. You can't do this, though. Not here.

You hum in response to him, fearing that any other response may be too loud. Feeling a premature knot gnarl in your stomach makes you panic and grab his arm. You can't cum yet—and definitely not here.

“Too much?” He laughs against your lips. He tries to sink his arm deeper between your thighs and your hips run away. “‘M sorry. How about we get outta here?

Locking eyes with him has you shyly saying yes. You don't have sex on the first date—Jing Yuan or not.

But your body seems to crave him. To want him and in this circumstance, you can be able to bend your rules. “Okay,”

You quickly exit the theater hand in hand with an unimportant amount of time left in the movie. There was a strange feeling swarming in your gut: akin to a thrill with a tickle of unsureness. You chalk it up to butterflies. It's just nervousness because the dream you've held onto ever since you first laid eyes on him is coming to fruition. You've always wanted Jing Yuan. You always wanted to be his.

He drives the car shortly to the parking lot of a shut-down arcade, parking his car and immediately clambering to the backseat with you. It was like he couldn't wait - like he was going to die without you. It's hot.

His hands immediately grab your hips and his lips overtake yours. He slowly lays you against the leather seats, wasting no time. He's making quick and agile movements: hands slipping under your shirt and cupping your breasts and lips wrapping around nips of skin.

You gasp, arching your back into him. “You're so sexy,” He moans, fondling you messily, needily.

“T-thank you…” You stutter out.

He kisses down to the neckline of your shirt, pushing the fabric up and going under to kiss around your chest. His lips replace his hands, the latter rehoming on your thighs and pushing your skirt up. His lips attach and suck around the top of your boob as his hands pry your legs apart, fingers dancing up toward your core.

You moan out softly. His tongue swipes across your flesh and his middle finger walks through your slit. “You’re so wet,” he comments, pressing your clit down with intense pressure.

A weak whimper dances from your lips and he laughs contently.

He continues to rub your clit while kissing your skin, turning your flames up so high that your body burns to the touch. A sticky sound resonates off of the interior of the car, sloshing grossly as your airy moans attempt to compete with it. Your pussy drips, your hole spasming as he teases you further and further.

You never thought you’d be in Jing Yuan’s backseat about to get finger fucked—and as much as you want to, you just - you can't.

His finger circles your entrance, ever so teasingly and you tense up. You pull away almost immediately, snapping your legs tightly shut and beginning to sit up. “Sorry, I’m sorry,”

Yuan takes a seat opposite from you, brushing his fallen hair out of his face with a huff. He gives you time to adjust your clothes, staring out of the front windshield. He looks…bummed, dissatisfied and you feel terrible. “Trust me, it's not a you thing. I just…I dunno. I'm not comfortable with what I don't know,”

“Nah, it's good. You're good.” He sends you a short smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

And you don't want to worry about it, but you can't not. There's an obvious tent in his pants and a frustration hidden beneath his appearance — you blue-balled him beyond measure and made it awkward. He’s probably never asking you out again.

In an attempt to ease the tension, you offer an alternative: “Wanna get something to eat? My treat.”

Taking a look at you breaks a smile on his face, and he nods. “Why not?”

┄┄

The date could have gone worse.

That's what you tell yourself as you ride the elevator up to your apartment, alone.

He had to go, he told you. “Text me before you go to bed, alright?” And that made you feel better, somewhat. He could have told you to delete his number and never go anywhere with him again, so you count this as a win.

You can't shake the tension, though. It's better than whatever the hell you, Kafka, and her friends had floating around, however, it's just as uncomfortable. The elephant in the room is humongous, but neither of you dare step on its toes. You don't blame him for feeling some type of way, but he shouldn't blame you either, right?

“Welcome back! How was your date?” Kafka questions as you walk in the door. Silver and Blade are still here, the latter on his phone and the former focusing on her strawberry crunch ice cream bar. You wave at Kafka, removing your shoes and remembering you still have Yuan’s jacket. You won't leave it out for it to get dirty with the Three Musketeers running around your apartment.

“It was good,” you reveal softly. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m really tired so I’m just gonna go shower and go to bed.”

Kafka nods, waving you off, “Alright; good night, little mouse!”

You get into your bedroom and don't even think twice. Your clothes are stripped off and strewn across your floor but you make sure to place Yuan’s jacket on your vanity. Your hair goes up and your body wraps in your towel, a quick commute to the bathroom across the hall to wash today off of your body.

Warm water splashes over your skin, soapy clouds run down your body as you scrub. You still feel embarrassed — the scene of you quitting on Yuan replays every time you close your eyes. You're mad at yourself because you know you want him, you always have, and you fumbled your opportunity badly. It's embarrassing for you and him. You fear it's an event you can never forget.

Twenty minutes of pouring the stress and dirt and Jing Yuan down the drain and you're finally ready to sleep. Body clean, pajamas on, makeup off, and skin care on, you climb into bed and immediately grab your phone.

‘just heading to bed c:’ You text. You twiddle your thumbs for half a second before you start typing again: ‘i did enjoy our date today btw…hope u don’t get the wrong impression cause i’d love to go out w u again <3’

That’s good. He knows how you feel, you've said your peace and lifted the weight off of your chest. You turn your phone off and rollover. Off to dreamland you go—

Ding!

Your eyes shoot open. Ding! And now you're rolling back over, grabbing your phone, and squinting at the initial brightness.

‘don’t worry abt it haha’ He texts back. ‘it’s my fault, I should’ve asked’

Your fingers press and heart his message, quick to move to the keyboard and begin typing. But before you finish, another text from him rolls in: ‘i’m glad you enjoyed it. it’d be my honor to take you out again’

You silently cheer, kicking your feet under your duvet. ‘i’ll be holding u to that’

no need already planning our next one

whatre u thinking?

that takes the fun out of it if i tell you dw i won’t make you wait long

He's flirting. You're flirting. Even through text, he has you running in circles looking for a response. What do you say? What do you say?!!

good c; don't wanna wait to see u again

‘me neither’ He starts typing, then stops. Is it over already?

The typing bubble pops up again, and in seconds, his blue message fills your eyes: ‘u mind sending a pic?’

Suspicion doesn't address you—instead a feeling of confusion. Where is this conversation going…?

im in my pajamas lol so not sexy

doesn't have to be, you make something sexy plus the kind of pjs a girl wears tells you all abt her

does it?

mhm

Damn it. You crawl out of bed, turn your lamp on, and step in front of your full-length mirror. A loose-fitting shirt and small house shorts. Nothing extravagant or appealing — just extremely comfortable.

Five attempts at a flattering mirror selfie later, you finally land a picture that satisfies you enough. Immediately to Jing Yuan, it goes, paired with the message ‘what do mine say about me?’

You sit back on your bed, criss–cross applesauce as you wait for his response. Three minutes later he likes your message, ‘says you're cute’

that’s it?

He responds quickly. ‘not sure if you wanna take it there haha’

You're not sure either. ‘try me’

It takes him a minute to start typing again — presumably needing to take the time to make a conscious decision before he embarrasses himself…again.

‘Attachment: 1 Image’ You immediately click on the image, zooming in only to be met with his bulge. Black boxers stretched around a fat tent in his pants with his big hand resting on top of his lap.

His next message comes in seconds later, ‘says you drive me crazy and need me there to make you feel good’

And the next one…‘it's hard for me to control myself lol’

i just get so turned on by you

Oh. He's taking it there.

‘me too’ You have to send the text with your head facing the other direction, nearly jumping out of your skin with the confirmation swoosh sound.

‘i don't usually get that wet btw…’ You inform. It's a bit of a half-truth; you haven't slept with that many people to gauge how wet you can truly get but you're almost positive you've never soiled your panties like you have today.

He hearts your message and immediately starts typing.

oh rly? what abt now? still wet?’

If the way your thighs are pressing together is anything to go by, the answer is a very enthusiastic yes.

yeah want u so bad

You don't sext — you've never done it before and you are awful with your words. You're nervous despite the wave of boldness that's overcoming you. This is escalating fast, bordering territory you've never crossed.

You should've just gone to bed and texted him the following morning. You should have kept it innocent and not pushed him further. You've opened a can of worms and now it's time to reap the consequences. Fuck.

let me see

Double fuck. Maybe triple. Possibly quadruple.

How the hell are you supposed to show him???

You immediately hop up and move your mirror, repositioning it to stand parallel to your bed. Should you turn the light off? Maybe you should.

You jump onto the bed in the darkness, slithering off your shorts slowly, giving yourself time to stop and preserve your dignity. God, you can't believe you're doing this, you think, setting yourself in the most awkward position to show the wet spot painted on your fresh pink panties.

Flash on and legs in the air, the camera shutters three times. If you weren't embarrassed before, you definitely are now.

You send two of the three photos, tossing your phone into your pillows.

The ding is still audible, followed by two more that make your heart jump.

shit you're so hot baby Attachment: 1 Video

A shaky thumb presses play on the video, immediately adjusting the volume when wispy curses spill from the device. The video shows his unclothed abdomen and his hand in his boxers, rubbing his dick slowly.

You watch with peeled eyes how his stomach rises and falls, abs gnarling as he bucks into his own hand. Twelve-second video. It's a twelve-second video and it seemed to last for an hour.

He sends more texts:

wish it was you are you touching yourself?

No.

yeah doesn't feel as good as when u did it, tho

You ignore the way your cunt clenches around the air and your panties grow increasingly uncomfortable with the slick pooling and seeping.

pretend it is me Attachment: 1 Voice Message

Oh fuck. You lay down, bringing the phone to your ear and dancing your fingers across your stomach in hopes of soothing your nerves. This is a lot. This is probably worse than letting him feel you up and almost finger you in his car.

“‘M gonna help you feel good, okay?” He starts the voice message. You nod as if he can see you, and close your eyes to take in the full experience.

“Start rubbing your clit—go slowly, tight circles, okay,” he pauses, presumably to let you complete the action. The quiet is filled with an airy gasp from you, sensitivity extremely prevalent between your legs. You part your folds and hear how sticky it is, and it's even worse when you let your finger slip in between your labia and press your clit. You moan so loudly you have to bite your lip.

With your thighs instinctively closing on your wrist you roll to your side, burying your face in the pillow as you start to do as he says: slow, tight circles around your sensitive bud. You can hear him spit—presumably in his hand—and faint slick sounds in the background. He starts speaking, overpowering the background noise, “Feels good, huh?”

“Keep doing that, okay? Keep going until you're about to cum—” He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath, “—fuuuck, baby. I want to fuck you so bad; bet you sound so pretty when you moan…”

He just turns you on more, leaving you to whimper and further push your face into your pillow, attempting to quiet yourself.

It's been a while since you've had any sexual time — oftentimes too tired or uninterested in tending to your needs even though your body screams at you for a release. You're overly sensitive, clit throbbing angrily and hole spasming thirstily. You need to feel good, to reach nirvana — you needed to let Yuan fuck you and satiate the thirst.

He sounds so good talking to you, moaning for you, working you up to your climax, “Put a finger in, baby. I wanna hear you, too,”

You're just horny at this point. You almost waste no time in recording a voice memo, pushing your middle finger into your cunt with a breathy whine, “Oh, God,”

You start at a slow rhythm, really edging yourself. You huff and whine and whimper all into the speaker, letting him hear every voice crack and deep breath. It feels so good, but it's not enough.

“I wanna be filled,” you manage to say. “‘S not enough…need you, Yuanie.”

Send.

You stop your ministrations as you wait for him to respond, letting yourself come down from the impending climax.

Ding!

fuck

Is all he sends, and then your phone starts ringing. Your reflection in the FaceTime camera has you adjusting your position and putting the phone in a flattering angle, answering the phone with knitted eyebrows and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. What a performer you are.

When the call connects you're met with his dick. His hand traverses the length eagerly, an angry tip leaking milky white down the shaft and glistening as he jerks himself off. You see him behind his big cock: hair disheveled and face red.

“Let me see your pussy,” his voice is gritty, deeper than usual. His tone is almost demanding—you clearly don't have the luxury of being shy at the moment.

You lower the camera slowly, pushing your panties to the side and letting the radiance of your phone screen show the glistening mess to him. “Oh fuck,” he comments, throwing his head back.

“So pretty, so perfect. I bet you're tight as fuck,” You decide to show him: slipping your index finger in first with a sweet moan, then following up with your middle finger after a few pumps.

You're definitely fuller, but it's not enough.

Your cunt squeezes around your fingers tightly, spilling out a waterfall of arousal. Your ministrations are easy with how wet you are: fingers slipping in and out with little to no resistance, just narrowly missing your sweet spot.

It gets harder to hold back your moans—sounds now coming out as broken cries as you bite intensely on your lip. “I wanna cum,” you sniffle.

“Yeah? Cum for me—show me how that pussy creams,” So obscene but so, so incredibly hot.

Your hips buck into your hands and your hold on your phone gets weak. You have to change position: set the device up between your pillows, and put yourself on display

Normally, you would never do something this risky. Maybe it's because of Jing Yuan—or a different potential point of interest just mere feet down the hall—but you feel inclined to jump out of your shell now.

So many years in Kafka’s shadow and even more in your mother's palm. You're grown up now, independent and you want to be taken seriously. It's the least you deserve and the most you want. He's going to take you seriously; he's going to see how badly you want him and the lengths you’ll go to to show up for him.

You've made a big leap in your behavior and you're prepared to deal with the consequences. No more little mouse, you're not a baby anymore.

It's time to take the world in your palm and bask in the mature gleam. You let the spotlight burn your skin as you work yourself to an orgasm, moaning so carelessly you're probably the center of conversation among Kafka and her friends. And you’d be right; partially, anyway.

Kafka having dozed off with Silver ages ago left Blade up alone, amusing himself with an average social media feed and remnants of a joint. He tried to ignore your soft moans coming from down the hall, but hey, he has keen ears.

He knows it's probably that douchebag you went out with making you sound like that and he can't even get mad about it. He's almost thankful — it's not every day you get to hear the melodies of an angel.

Neediness and curiosity reach all-time highs and urge him to do something he's 100 percent going to regret.

Blade takes light-footed steps toward your bedroom, the moans, and whimpers of you getting louder as he approaches the source. You sound so pretty; he can only imagine the way your face is knitted up and how wet you must be.

He hates himself for doing this, but he eavesdrops: letting an ear rest on the wood of your bedroom door and taking in the sounds you spew out.

He wishes he was on the other side of this door making you sound like that. He'd probably make you wake the entire apartment building up—

“I’m about to cum—! Ngh, oh my—” A sharp whine cuts you off. He wonders: do you squirt? Can you? Can he make you? There's no way possible that dickhead can do it.

“Me too—oh, shit, baby.” Comes out muffled to Blade, and his eyes roll immediately. Cornball shit, he thinks.

He hadn't pictured you as the phone-sex kind of girl, but with the way that jackass is egging you on, it's no wonder. You're so much better than this, than that guy and all he wants to do is let you know that. Blade is probably no better, but he can try. He can change for you and do right by you—in every aspect.

Your whimpers grow pitchier and you're puffing out deep breaths. You sound…overstimulated. He can imagine your toes curling and thighs trembling as you fuck yourself, squeezing your eyes shut with swollen lips. Your pussy is probably leaking a river, covering your ass, and staining your (probably) dainty white sheets. What he would give to make you feel good, let alone look at you.

“Yuan—!! I'mcummingImcummingImcumming!!!” You squeal, muffling yourself with a hard slap over your mouth.

Blade doesn't even realize he's begun to palm his cock and roll his hips into his hand. “Oh…” he quietly moans, letting his head fall onto your door.

Shit. He has to leave now, hearing you yelp at the sound and shuffle around. No use trying to hide, so he makes an escape: walking fast out of the front door without a second thought. Great—now he has to drive home with a rock-hard dick.

And you gather yourself. Hanging up the phone with Jing Yuan and walking to your door awkwardly due to the mess between your legs.

Cleaning yourself up in the bathroom and avoiding your reflection in the mirror, you think back to that sound. It was a knock, right?

Kafka and Silver lay on opposite ends of the same couch, curled under your throw blanket which is much too small for them. Blade is nowhere to be found…huh. Weird.

“Hey, Kaf,” you shake your roommate awake over the back of the couch. She moans and rolls over, slowly peeling her sleepy eyes open, “hmm?”

“Were you at my door just now?” The red-head shakes her head no, pulling the blanket over her shoulders and away from Silver.

If it wasn't her…“Where’s Bladie?” She questions, noticing his absence.

You shrug. “He probably left earlier.”

Even half-asleep, Kafka has double the brain you do. You can't see what's right in front of you.

She smiles, shuffling again and closing her eyes. “Alright, then. Good night.”

“Night,”

ೀ

With a week left until spring break, you cherish the time you've spent this last month or so living.

It feels like the first time, in all of your nineteen years of living, that you are living. Your smiles are brighter, your days are happier, and you're living every second to its fullest extent in absolute bliss.

Almost every week you're on a date with Jing Yuan. He's practically your boyfriend, but there's no official label so you keep that thought process to yourself.

Lowkey dates with him that slightly escalate have become your norm. You're still holding off on full-blown sex, and you wish you weren't. It causes some tension every time you restrict him from fucking you - but he tells you he's waiting, he's more than happy to wait. That's more than most men are willing to do and you're happy that you're fortunate to have landed yourself someone like you. Spending the tail end of your dates getting your neck marked up and fingered while you jerk him off is as much scandal as you can handle. Nerves are what's stopping you from going all the way. Definitely not Kafka’s hot friend who you can't stop thinking about.

There's synergy in your apartment now. You're not walking into a room with a tight chest and bated breath, just waiting to see what's waiting for you anymore. It's normal now—all of it. From Silver ransacking your kitchen to an obnoxiously loud-smelling blunt, you're used to it. It's not nearly as bad as you feared when Kafka initially moved in.

You sit in the dining hall with Fu Xuan, listening to her angry rambling about her statistics class. She never backs down, always eager to let a piece of her mind fly whether you like it or not.

“Stupidest fucking class ever. And, like, I shouldn't even be in there in the first place because I am wayyy too smart—”

“Hey guys,” thank God. Yukong shows up and sits next to Xuan, saving you from a monologue about how smart and wonderful she is. You love her, but man does she know how to talk.

“Nice of you to join us,” Xuan says snappily. Yukong pays her attitude no mind, sipping her coffee and turning to you with a knowing look.

She shifts the conversation, “Anyway…I came to let you guys know that there's going to be a party on Friday at the sorority. Tingyun said it’s to celebrate the beginning of spring break.”

You can't even remember the last time you went to a party. The smile growing on your face is too strong to fight. “What time?”

“Umm…I’ll have to check. Probably late though, so…”

This can be your first outing with Jing Yuan. Just the two of you with all eyes on you. Right before spring break as well…it could be your first time together—the thoughts alone make your head spin and a flurry of images swarm.

“Hm. Well, I won't be there.” Xuan states, crossing her arms and looking off elsewhere.

Amused, Yukong questions her why. “‘Cause. I'm gonna be busy with burning this stupid campus down!”

┄┄

hii <3 didn’t see u today so i hope ur feeling alright! also did u hear about the party this friday? r u thinking about going? miss u

You send your trilogy of texts to Jing Yuan, drowning out the conversation Kafka and Silver are having in your living room. “Can you back me up here?!”

Silver looks at you for backup, to which you're dumbfounded. What were they talking about again? “Sorry, what were you saying?” You ask, setting down your phone.

“Ugh!” The gamer groans, falling back onto the couch. “Please tell your sister that a Nintendo DS and a Nintendo Switch are not the same thing!”

“They do the same thing, though!” Kafka defends. “Barely! Kaf, I’m on that thing like, twenty-four-seven and you mean to tell me you think I’m playing Cooking Mama?”

“I don't know what you play. You never let anyone try and join you.”

“Because you all suck! Every single last one of you is dead weight and it makes me look bad.” Kafka scoffs, turning around and looking at you with an exasperated look. You lock eyes and share a similar smile — as much as you claim you and Kafka are total opposites, you get each other in ways not understood.

She turns back around and shuts Silver’s yapping down and at the same time, Blade emerges from the hallway. He looks good. Really good.

His long, dark hair is disheveled and tossed into a low bun, making you gain a newfound appreciation for man buns. His black “wife-beater” tank snugs onto his frame tightly—every ridge and curve of his solid abdomen pressing through the fabric and leaving little to the imagination. Staple gray sweats make you immediately avert your gaze, awkwardly making eye contact with you.

He caught you staring, and you caught him.

As if it were divine intervention, your phone buzzed on the counter behind you and you went straight for it, hiding the flustered look on your face behind your phone. You don't do a good job, though. Kafka notices.

hey baby accidentally slept in this morning but I’m alright heard abt the party but idk if I’m gonna go. not rly feeling it

A frown stretches across your lips as you disappointedly text back.

ohh okay feel better <3

Read.

It's fine—you're fine! You’ll just go with your friends and have a great time and you can see him after break.

You want that to be comforting but your gut tastes the bitter truth. It's not time to have that conversation with yourself so you table it, leaving your phone on the table and joining Blade on the second couch. Kafka and Silver monopolized the other one and you had to fight the urge to wiggle your way between them.

“So, what are we watching?” You make conversation, hiding the shake in your voice by focusing on the TV. Some random show plays, something so stupid you’d never waste your time on this.

“Dunno. Blade picked it.” Silver shrugs, slamming buttons on her Switch.

He turns to you. “Uh, it's the adaptation of the book ‘Verdict’. About Imbibitor Lunae.” He informs shyly. His voice is so gritty and deep—every time you hear it you swear you feel the depth reverberating in your bones.

Blade makes you so nervous. With his intense stare and even more intense aura, he's overwhelming and nerve-wracking. While you've grown to be comfortable with Silver and Kafka, Blade is the only one you walk on eggshells around.

And he feels the same way. He wants to breach the wall and get to know you. He wants to sit on this couch with you with his arms wrapped around your frame and you in his lap and relax. He's so tense around you, so stiff out of pure fear that if he makes the wrong move or says the wrong thing, he’ll scare you off. Blade likes you. And when it comes to girls like you and guys like him, it doesn't take much for things to go wrong.

You like that he reads though. “Ooh, interesting. I’ve never read that book,”

“It's pretty old and short. Most people of our generation haven't heard of it, I bet.”

“Yeah, 'cause you act fifty years old!” Silver sneers, earning a slap on the leg from Kafka. He pays her no mind, instead watching how you laugh at her teasing.

Your eyes get so bright when you smile: full of joy, full of light. It's so cute.

“What episode is this?” You ask him. Clearing his throat, he checks with the remote, “Episode four.”

“Mind catching me up?” Are you doing this on purpose? You’ve got to know what you're doing to him.

Heat drives up his neck and he has to create distance, sitting all the way back on the couch and replying to you with a nod.

You gulp, watching the way his legs naturally spread and how his arms flex. Insanely attractive, almost criminally so.

“So, it’s basically about that guy,” he points at the screen, a graceful-looking man with horns displayed, “called the Sinner—”

“That guy’s a sinner? He looks like an angel,” You comment. You take another look at the screen and Blade fights a smile.

If only you knew.

He continues to break down the lore of Verdict to you, going very in-depth and getting seemingly passionate as he goes on. Kafka scrolls on her phone and takes it in with pride—Blade should thank her. Never in all of her years of friendship with him does she think she's ever heard him talk this much, let alone to someone he’s interested in. It's pure proof of what you do: the best sides of people come out because of you.

You listen to him intently, chiming in with reactions and questions every now and then and completely abandoning the show you're supposed to be learning about. You just like to hear him talk. His rough voice softens up as he continues explaining the story to you and in turn, your body language softens. You can relax and lie on the couch, keeping your eyes on his face as you lean your head down on your wrists.

Details you hadn't noticed before on his face stand out to you — like how clear and supple his milky skin is and how his chapped lips are tinted ever-so-slightly red. You notice how his thick eyebrows wiggle and knit together when he’s thinking, and his awkward, canine-heavy smile when you make a comment. Blade is dorky and surprisingly, a history enthusiast.

He goes from detailing the fabled betrayal of Imbibitor Lunae to the Ambrosial Arbor to everything before, after, and during. From the unusual silence exuding from Kafka and Silver, he realizes just how much he's been talking. Even you have started to drift off, your eyes are heavy as you listen to old Xianzhou tales.

Upon realizing that he’s effectively talked everybody to sleep, he takes the blanket draped on the armchair and covers you, making sure to be as cautious as possible. He doesn't know what he’d do if you woke up and caught him.

As weird as it sounds, he likes seeing you sleep. You look so peaceful like your dreams are full of cotton candy and rainbows. Knowing you, they probably are.

“You’re staring, Bladie.” He turns around to see Kafka, her smirk overtaking her groggy expression. He doesn't even try to refute the claim or defend himself. If there's anyone other than himself that knows him well, it's Kafka. She probably knows him more than he does himself at this point.

“You’re cute, making moves on her and stuff,” He naturally follows her as she makes her way to the kitchen. The blush on his cheeks dusts lightly, and his eyes find comfort in staring at the floor. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” She reaches into the fridge, pulling out the last can of Mung Bean Soda.

She pops the can open and takes a short swig, “so what's your plan?”

Blade shrugs. Kafka sighs, placing the can on the counter. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

ೀ

If Jing Yuan wasn’t going to come to the party tonight, you were going to make him regret it.

You dressed in the shortest, tightest dress you owned: an off-the-shoulder white mini-dress with the prettiest shine to it. You bought it impulsively after your mid-term breakdown freshman year, thinking retail therapy would make you feel better. (It didn't–another breakdown ensued when you realized you just wasted money on shit you didn't need.)

You did your makeup the best you ever have. Perfect highlight, sharp and even eyeliner wings, balanced lip combo—cosmetology school should have been your first choice with this type of beat.

Yukong told you to come at 9; the time on your phone reads 8:58. A little late, but fashionably so.

The jacket Yuan had given you still resides in your room due to your forgetfulness. If you're going to this party, why not make a statement?

You slip on the bomber jacket, the bulkiness of the fit aiding the aesthetics of your outfit. It gave off comfy but cute—“in my boyfriend’s closet” vibes. Surely, Tingyun or whoever the hell else competing with you will take the hint with this. Nobody will have to guess whose jacket it is when there's a white lion embroidered on the right arm. If this isn't a soft launch, you don't know what is.

Grabbing your essentials you walk out to the usual scene in your living room: Kafka, Blade, and Silver seated on different couches engaged in a conversation. Their heads turn to you, and you immediately let your gaze fall to Blade. He almost looks away instantly — too much. You're too much and he knows that it's for that guy. The one who doesn't deserve you but gets to see you cum and receive your attention…unfair.

“Wowww look at you! Little mouse is stealing someone’s man tonight!” Silver whoops, snapping her fingers. You roll your eyes at her, brushing stray strands of hair back.

You walk to the door, “Don’t wait up!!!”

Oh, but they will. Some more than others.

┄┄

Yukong’s sorority house is huge but it feels so small with this many people present. The invitation was extended to the entire campus, presumably, and sure enough, they showed up and showed out.

Pulling up was a nightmare — cars and people backed up for what seemed like miles. Your Uber driver huffed and puffed the entire time trying to find somewhere to let you out, and you could only extend apologetic woes and smiles. Walking up to the house was better, but you suddenly woke up from your dream world and realized that people could see you. They could perceive you and form preconceived notions about you just from how you carried yourself. You became conscious of what the hell you had on—immediately regretting the short dress when you had to squeeze between some randoms smoking on the stairs, your bare thighs rubbing against their bodies. Ugh.

The music was loud, seemingly traveling through the floorboards and it felt incredibly unstable to walk in your heels. You searched for Yukong, spotting your best friend off to the side with Hanya.

“Woaahh, look at you!” She exclaims. You give her a spin and laugh. Through your joy, you miss the way her face crinkles up when she eyes the jacket you sport. “Do you want a drink?”

You nod, “Only like, one or two. I'm trying to stay sober; I want to remember tonight.” You send her a look that means only one thing: you have something planned for tonight. What that thing is…well, Yukong isn't sure she wants to know.

She asks Hanya to fetch you a drink, taking up a conversation with you in her place. “How’s the sister situation?”

You hadn't updated Yukong on the status of things in a while. Should you tell her about Blade?

Wait. Tell her what?

As if there's anything to tell…

“It’s actually good. Surprisingly. I thought I’d be begging my mom to take her by now,” you joke. Hanya returns with a red solo cup, handing it to you. “It’s something tame.”

You're not a fan of the taste of alcohol. You can't understand how people willingly get shitfaced—this shit is nasty. You cringe and shudder at the taste. Whatever juice base is added does not aid the taste one bit.

“Her friends are around often. Like…every day. I wonder if they have jobs but I haven't asked,” Yukong takes a sip of her drink as well.

“Did they help this transformation occur?”

And suddenly, the reality of how you look hits you again. “Ha ha, very funny. I wanted to try something new, something sexy.”

“It worked!!” A random girl replies as she and her friends walk toward the kitchen. The face you give Yukong says I told you so, and she rolls her eyes.

“Let’s dance!” You exclaim, grabbing onto your friend with the sudden shift in the music.

Reluctantly, she follows you to the sea of gyrating bodies. Everybody dancing and talking forms a cocoon of heat—you’re encapsulated the moment you breach the area.

Sip, dance, laugh. Sip, dance, laugh. Sip, dance, laugh. You keep this up for a good twenty minutes, breaking on the couch every now and then. It may be only you and Yukong — and the occasional appearance of Hanya — but you're having fun. Fun like you said you would with or without Yuan—

He’s here???

You spot Jing Yuan out of the corner of your eye. He daps partygoers up at the door, making his way through the jumbles of people clearly in search. Of you?

You almost call his name and wave but he walks straight toward Tingyun. His hands slide around her waist instinctively and her arms wrap around his neck tightly. She giggles as he lifts her up, and she gives him her cup when she's put back down. They don't break eye contact the entire time he downs the remainder of her cup, and as soon as he's finished, the cup is replaced with her hand and she's guiding him up the stairs.

Did he think you wouldn't be here? Or did he not give enough of a fuck regardless?

Whatever the case—it hurts. You take the jacket off and toss it to the ground, not realizing the stray tear that streaks down your face.

Tingyun is going to give him something that you couldn't. He’s going to give her something you can't have. You feel slighted like the rug has been torn from beneath your feet and you’re doomed to a fate forever on your ass. You look stupid. So so so stupid, but you have enough dignity to wait until you leave to bawl your eyes out.

Ignoring Yukong calling your name, you walk outside and begin calling yourself an Uber. The early spring chills make you even madder. Fuck this stupid dress, this stupid party, that stupid Jing Yuan—“Hey!!! You didn't hear me calling you?”

Yukong comes following after you, her face concerned as she comes into view. Seeing your tears, her eyebrows furrow, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

A sad laugh escapes your throat and you look up at the sky, attempting to hold back the sudden rush of tears. “Yuan is sleeping with Tingyun,”

Her face is full of indescribable expressions. She has many things she wants to say, but she chooses the safe option. “Huh?! How do you know?”

“His lying ass just showed up and threw himself all over her. Then they went upstairs and you and I both know they aren't up there talking.”

You poor, poor girl. “I shouldn't be sad…what was I thinking? I should've known that he was an asshole.” You should have, but Yukong won't blame you.

The last romantic attention you had was from Dan Heng: your kinda-sorta-ex-boyfriend who took your virginity senior year and broke up with you a month later because you were going to different schools. You crave a change in the way people perceive you. Jing Yuan was the closest thing to a fever dream you had in university, and he turned it into a nightmare. What was supposed to be your rebranding - an age of confidence and maturity was overtaken by his pushiness and exclusivity.

“It doesn't matter, I don't care. I just wanna go home,” You hope Kafka and her friends are on their best behavior tonight. You're not in the mood for any shit.

“Are you sure?” Yukong doesn't know how to comfort you. Anything she has to say will make it worse, she's sure of it.

You nod, wiping the string of tears off of your cheeks. The buzzing of your phone lets you know that your Uber is approaching shortly, so you give Yukong a smile that’s meant to comfort her - but it only worries her. She won't push you because the only way this’ll end is messy if so.

She offers you a comforting smile of her own, pulling you into a soft hug. “Call me later, okay?”

She reluctantly pulls away and heads back into the party, head swiveling over her shoulder to make sure you don't jump in front of a car. You're not going to — if anyone needs to, it's that asshole, Jing Yuan.

Your Uber pulls up and saves the day, the warmth in the car settling goosebumps on your skin from the juxtaposition. “Long night?” The driver asks, peering at you through the mirror.

Is it that obvious?

With a sad smile, you nod, “It's only gonna get longer.” You laugh. Imagining the annoying amount of questions and pep talks Kafka is going to give you when you step through the door irritates you. You lay your head against your seat, and then your phone buzzes.

Flipping the device over, you see three notifications from ‘Yuan <3’. Ugh.

Looking at it is going to make you do or say something you’ll completely regret. You regain composure through a deep breath; placing your phone face down on your lap and watching the world blur through the window.

You're trying not to feel humiliated. There's a burn in your chest because every time you close your eyes, there's a scene of you and him together. You're stupid to think he actually liked you. His longing gazes and lingering touches and sweet words were tactics to get into your pants — and it almost worked. There's a reason your mother treats you like a baby: you are one and can't handle the real world. You hate that you had to come to this conclusion like this, but you're not ready.

Thanking the driver, you pull yourself out of the car, trudging begrudgingly into the building and in the elevator. And you can't stop fucking crying.

Stray tears keep escaping and no matter how many times you wipe them away or vigorously blink, it doesn't stop the flow. Why are your feelings hurt this badly? Why did you like him so much?

These same questions cycle as you open your front door, being hit with the same atmosphere you just escaped.

You’ve got to be kidding me, you think. Of all nights, tonight Kafka decides to throw a damn party???

Not wanting to spend another second in this atmosphere, you weave your way through the partygoers — an exceptional amount of people, given the space of your apartment, if you may add.

Trying to escape to your room gets you caught by your roommate, and your name gets called across the party as a result. She maneuvers her way to you, “What’re you doing back here so early, little mouse? I thought we shouldn't wait up?”

The sadness you wear is so prominent. Your face is dropped and your lips quiver when she asks her questions. You stare at the floor to not let the tears fall. “Hey…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just gonna go to sleep, so can you keep the noise down?” You try to brush her off. Kafka doesn't let you slip away, grabbing your arm and keeping you in place.

The rim of her cup nudges at your chin in place of her hand, forcing you to look up at her. A black headband pushes her plum-colored locks out of her face, straight strands flowing down her back. When she tilts her head pitifully at you, her hair swings to the side, falling over her shoulder and at this moment she looks so approachable. “What’s wrong?” She poses the question again, her tone softer than before.

You almost break down in front of her and she immediately extends her arm around your shoulders, pulling the side of you into her chest. She hands you her cup and you immediately down the liquid with no second thought. Her hand rubs your arm comfortingly and she guides you toward the kitchen, “C’mon, let's talk in here.”

The kitchen is surprisingly unoccupied save for a few hungry stragglers, leaving the two of you to sit on the stools. She refreshes your cup, getting a new one of her own and finishing off another bottle of tequila.

Kafka can tell by looking at you that this upset is caused by heartbreak. No words have to be spoken for her to understand, and now it's her job to take care of you. The way you deserve.

“What’d he do?”

The look on her face is all-knowing. You can't help but break a small smile at her intuitiveness. “I’m sure you can imagine…”

Of course she can. It was clear as day that he wanted only one thing. Everybody but you could see that a mile away.

“How’d you find out?”

“The asshole definitely wasn't trying to hide it.” You state, taking a big sip of your drink and cringing at the bitterness. Yuck. “He told me he wasn't going to come to the party, but I'm there, dancing, and here he comes. With a big wide-ass smile he walks straight to Tingyun and they waste no time in going upstairs.”

You don't normally swear, but you're so irritated that the words just soar from your lips. It’s almost amusing to watch your angry rambling. “Not even accounting for the fact that I was there and somebody could have told me. It was right in my face—right there and it was like I was invisible!!!”

Her eyes travel up and down your body. You're definitely not invisible. Jing Yuan just doesn't know what to do with you.

“He didn't deserve you; I hope you know that.” She comments, sipping her drink slowly. You finish off yours with bigger gulps, immediately hopping off of the stool and searching for a new bottle. Pouring another full cup, you nod, “I do now.”

“And then—he had the audacity to text me!” You sit down, taking off your heels. You're ready to get comfortable and let everything rip. Kafka’s eyes widen, “Oh, really?”

You hum to confirm, picking up your phone and checking the notifications. A few texts from Yukong and Xuan join his messages, but those don't matter. You hand the phone to Kafka, “I didn't even read them. I should block him, right?”

hey baby, i’m at the party wya

just talked to Yukong…can we talk? I wanna explain don’t be like this. at least let me explain?

Double yuck. You absolutely should block him…after this, though.

“He wants to explain himself to you. Classic,” She sneers. You laugh through your sipping, sitting the cup down. “He must take me for an idiot.”

There's a short silence that breaks with you changing the subject. “What’s the occasion?” You question.

She shrugs, placing her cup down. “Just felt like partying.”

Kafka tells a bit of a half-truth. While she did feel like having fun — her idea extends beyond getting sloppy drunk and into territory thus far unexplored. There's one objective she has tonight and it can't be completed unless her two moving pieces are pliable and cooperative. In terms of a checklist, she's halfway there.

Low-lidded eyes narrow at you, as if to tell you her intent wordlessly. You don't pick up what she's putting down, instead feeling heavily nervous under her gaze. “Anyway. Why don't we…”

She trails off, her finger tapping her chin exaggeratedly. “Wanna dance?”

You suck in a breath, holding up your hands. “I think I'm gonna call it a night, actually. It’s kind of late and all that crying made my head hurt…” You laugh. That’s partly true—you just want to escape whatever trap she’s set, if you're being honest. And frankly, after tonight, you have slight trauma from dancing.

“It’ll make you feel better.” She sings, wiggling a finger at you. “Come on; just one dance!”

Your face crinkles. You're not convinced. “Silver’s on the aux, we can ask her to play whatever you want.” She tries to bribe. “No sad-girl depressed shit, though.”

She keeps asking, offering deals and propositions that sound all the more appetizing as she continues. After a series of unabashed begging, you finally agree. “One song,” you sternly declare, hopping off the stool and grabbing ahold of your cup.

Her hands are in the air defensively, a cheshire smile stretching across her lips. “You lead the way,”

You've never partied with Kafka before. Your time spent as step-sisters consisted of you mostly lurking and watching, earning your nickname ‘little mouse��� because you were quiet, swift, and moved at night. You saw her sneak people into the house while your parents slept, throw parties while they were out, smoke in your backyard, and do other wild activities — but she never let you join. Your age was your main roadblock, being deemed too young and too cute to join her and her friends. Dancing with her now, smelling the strong mix of scents in the air and the bass of the music jumping in your bones, you understand why now.

Maybe it's the alcohol or the fact that your heart is broken, but the atmosphere is heavy. There's a lingering feeling that seeps through your pores. It has you dancing with her, letting her hands lie on your waist and your hips sway together.

Your bodies generate a fountain of heat that consumes you. You can't help but just dance: feeling the beat in your very core. Mixed with your surplus of liquid courage, your body sways and gyrates, lighting a flame you won't be able to put out in Kafka. Her smile is wide and her eyes flicker toward the couch, meeting an intense amber gaze.

Blade is entertained…more so intrigued with how you can live freely even after your heart weighs you down. The smile on your face doesn't falter — it only grows and gleams and he can't stop watching you dance.

Should he take Kafka’s place? He wants to take Kafka’s place.

It should be his hands on your waist, his lips on your ears, his words making you laugh—“Ah, I’m exhausted,”

You plop down beside him with an exasperated groan. He almost jumps out of his skin when you appear, and looking up at Kafka who towers over the pair of you, he can tell this is only the beginning. Her smile is warm but all-telling: whatever idea she has brewing in her head is coming to fruition tonight.

“I’ll be back. Take care of her for me, Bladie,” she shoots him a wink. He almost doesn't know what to do. Should he talk to you? Take you to bed?

“Blade?” Your voice is so small, so cute. You're quiet beneath the jumble of sounds crammed in your apartment but he can pick you out amongst the masses. He's never heard you address him before and the way his name leaves your mouth…he’s always going to replay it in his head forever. “…Y-yeah?”

He doesn't stutter but fuck, you make him nervous.

Breathing out airily, you turn your head to him. “…Do you and Kafka date?”

“No.” His answer is straight and immediate. Must be a sore subject…

“Oh…” “Why do you ask?” He knows why you ask. The same reason everybody else does. “Dunno. You guys just seem…close.”

“She’s not my type of girl.”

“Oh?” You perk up, now intrigued. “Then, what is your type of girl?”

You. He picks at his nails and almost avoids your eyes. How does he answer this question without freaking you out? Ah…fuck it.

“…You.” He’s dying on the inside but at least you're drunk—you’re not going to remember this so it won't be that bad. “Really?”

Your tone pitches up as you adjust your position. You lean your head against your hand now, opting to look him in his eyes. His attention feels nice and hearing that somebody insanely attractive wants you. You make him nervous, making him twiddle his fingers, and his cheeks dust rosy. That's a type of flattery that you can't make up.

“Yeah,” he says matter-of-factly. As if it's so obvious that he likes girls like you.

“What about me do you like?”

“Oh, uh, I don't know…” he trails off. He suddenly remembers the solo cup he abandoned earlier in the night and picks it up off the floor. He’s going to need a serious buzz to bear his dirty laundry to the wind. “…everything?” He poses it like a question — as though your reaction would gauge the validity.

Your face was brighter and painted in a flustered manner. “Thank you,” is all you can say without word-vomiting.

“What are you two talking about?” Kafka breaks up your tension, handing you another full cup and weaving her way onto the couch. She takes a seat right behind you, effectively spooning you. She takes a look at Blade over your shoulder, noticing the blush that paints his cheeks and the refusal to look in your direction.

Downing big swigs of your mystery drink, you shake your head. “Oh, nothing…” You sing, giving Blade an obvious reassuring wink that Kafka laughs at. “Guess I should leave you two to it, huh?”

“To what?” You ask coyly. You giggle bubbly, hiding your grin behind your cup. Kafka gives you a look, “I’m interrupting, aren't I? It’s okay to push me away.”

“We didn't do anything yet!!”

“Yet?” Kafka and Blade exchange glances - a series of looks that only mean one thing.

You slap a hand over your mouth, laughing into your palm drunkenly. Your mind is hazy and covered in static. That's not what you meant to say— “Well, I mean…”

She quirks an eyebrow at you, cocking her head to the side. “What do you mean? You playing to run off with Bladie later?”

While that would be great and you aren't completely unopposed…“We were just talking.”

Kafka shrugs, dropping the topic. You’re determined to preserve the privacy of your conversation until the very end. Well, anyway, there are other methods of getting the show on the road.

Her brief time away from the pair of you was spent curating a queue of songs on Silver’s phone — songs she knows you like, songs she knows Blade likes, and songs she knows your inebriated bodies will like. Full of bass, full of sensuality, full of dirty innuendos that get your core filled with butterflies and your head filled with fantasies. She took it upon herself to mix up a concoction strong enough to wipe out a village of Pilgrims and your inhibitions.

From the moment your mother mentioned staying with you, Kafka thought of you. You’re a staple goody-two-shoes, held down to Earth with a strict upbringing and a perfectionist mindset. You were always eager for more, wide eyes watching as she and her friends explored all types of realms unbeknownst to you.

It’s her way of setting you free and paying you back. All those times you covered for her, all those times you took care of her after a long night out, and even now, taking her in when you have no reason to — it’s her way of saying thank you. Giving you the release you’ve been clawing for since she met you; giving you the release you deserve.

Blade is perfect for you. He's the type of guy to send your mother into cardiac arrest but the type of guy to love you right. He's not a man of many words but of many actions — a crafter, a creator, a provider, a carer. What you need is stability, something in scarce supply ever since your parents split up; but you also need someone to fix. That can't be Kafka, it won't be her.

She's going to hand you the tools to set you free, but it's up to you to forge your way out.

This box of safety you guard yourself in is coming down tonight. The burden of finding the perfect, golden guy, being the perfect, golden girl, and living a perfect, golden life is shriveling by the minute, each alcoholic sip you take singeing its weight.

The sultry beat of the next song punches through the atmosphere. The vibe of the party seems to slow down: the chatter lowers itself to background noise, bodies move longingly and languidly, and the lights seem dimmer. Your body feels heavier too, slumping forward on the couch to where your forehead collides with Blade’s knee.

His hands are quick to slip under your arms, helping you sit up straight. Kafka rubs a supportive hand in circles on your back, “You alright, little mouse?”

You look at the man in front of you, his silhouette slowly coming into focus. With his hair freed down his back and toned body dressed in his usual comfortable loungewear, he looks good. So fucking good with the worried look on his face.

“Hey, I got you,” he states.

In a second your strength is replenished and you muster the courage to lean in, stealing a kiss from him. It’s unexpected, sloppy, and tastes a whole hell of a lot like liquor…but, fuck, does it feel good.

He doesn't know what to do with his hands, choosing to remove them from beneath your arms and rehome them on your waist. The initial shock dissipates and his body naturally leads into your kiss, his eyes closing after taking in the image of an amused Kafka.

You whimper into his mouth, eager to climb onto his lap. Your hands roughly tangle in his hair, pulling his face unimaginably closer as if you were trying to consume him whole. The feeling of his slightly chapped lips against your glossed ones is like heaven - even better as he gets to re-slick them with his tongue.

It’s like the world around you doesn't exist anymore. Time could cease to exist and it wouldn't faze you because you have everything you need beneath you. The warmth of another person, the kisses of pure desire, the hands of desperation…it all rests in Blade and he delivers it unto you. It's all that matters right now, all you could ever wish for — forget Jing Yuan, your mother, whatever stressors have been weighing you down. It's insignificant, it doesn't matter, not when Blade sucks your tongue and his hands grab the fat of your ass.

It doesn't take much to escalate the situation with the amount of alcohol and stress in your body. It needs to all come out.

“Alright, lovebirds.” Kafka practically pulls you two apart, holding your hand and hoisting you to your feet. “Let’s get you to bed,”

You grumble like a petulant child, holding your other hand out for Blade to grab. He’s quick to slip your hand into his. “I don't wanna go to bed…”

Leading you through the myriad of people, Kafka laughs, “Don’t worry. We’re not going to sleep.”

You giggle at her words, the meaning not fully processing in your hazy head. You miss her innuendos the way you always have, focusing on Blade. His arm wraps around your waist to stabilize you with Kafka’s hand locked in yours. It’s intimate, it’s nice, and though you can't see the heat burn in his skin in this darkness, you can feel it with how close he is to you.

Kafka leads the three of you into your room, flickering your light on and closing the door behind you all. She locks it while you basically drag Blade to your bed.

You're more abrasive when you're drunk: grabbing Blade by the fabric of his shirt into another sloppy kiss. It’s amusing to watch, Kafka’ll give you that. But that's not the image she had in mind.

“Easy tiger,” she purrs, sitting behind you on the bed. You both catch your breaths, looking at each other with small smiles. There's a spark of desire in the room, latching onto any and everything and setting it ablaze. It’s hot and palpable and you need to set it out. “Let’s take our time, yeah?”

It doesn't register what she meant by that until her hands are fondling your chest and her chin rests on your shoulder. “Mmh…” she moans, feeling your nipples harden through your dress, “We’ve been waiting a real long time for this, haven't we, Bladie?”

He finds himself at a loss for words, swallowing thickly and keeping his eyes trained to you. “Yeah…”

“Why don't you come show her, then?” Kafka instructs, fluttering her eyes up to him. He doesn't need much encouragement to catch your bobbing head with his palm, leaning in and taking the lead in your kiss.

Under his behest, the kisses are softer, tamer, but filled with just as much—if not more—fire as before. He takes his time in carefully traversing your mouth with his tongue — completely contrasting from the kisses you gave him previously. You were taking a page from the book of Jing Yuan, using how he kissed you as a guideline for the basis. But that's not what you wanted. What you wanted from the very beginning was for him to take his time: to savor you down to every detail until your lips bruised and swelled, then move on to the rest of your body with passion.

Blade’s kisses were heavy with passion and need - as if he, too, was holding onto a package full of burdens.

As he moves down your jaw and neck, Kafka’s hands travel down to the hem of your dress, slipping under and gripping your bare sides. Her hands are cold and you flinch at the feeling, but it soon feels nice as her hands slide to cup your boobs under your bra. Your head falls back on her shoulder, allowing Blade more access to the expanse of your neck.

Your hips pathetically gyrate against the bed, receiving minimal friction that aids you in no way. It only makes you needier.

Blade pulls away to let Kafka pull your dress over your head, revealing the pretty, matching white set you have on underneath. You so obviously wore this with Jing Yuan in mind, and it irritates Blade that he was ever worthy enough to you to warrant such an ensemble. It was never right, never fair — but he has you now, and he doesn't plan on letting you go.

Kafka takes the initiative and unclips your bra, tossing the undergarment to the floor alongside your dress. You're pushed flat onto the mattress where she takes a moment to remove her crop top, leaning over you in her black lace bra.

She places a chaste kiss on your lips leaving your eyes to widen — watching with blown pupils as she lowers herself to your chest and darts her tongue toward your pebbled nipple. You drawl out a whine, your body curling up in response. She swirls the nub, dragging her teeth lightly on it and leaving you hissing and whimpering. All the while, Blade strips down to his underwear, tossing his long hair to the back and palming the tent in his pants.

You turn your head to your left and spot him, your face cringing in pleasure. You stretch your arms toward him and he complies, letting your hands find the sides of his head and pull him in for another kiss.

An agile hand slithers beneath the thin band of your panties, a slender finger slipping between your labia and running through your folds. You moan out into Blade’s mouth, hips jerking away and legs kicking into the air. “Your sensitive pussy’s all wet…” Kafka observes. She lays her head right below your boob, focusing her attention between your legs.

“‘S making a mess through your panties.” She laughs when you moan out again, her finger traveling down to your entrance and prodding.

“Kafka…” you moan, pulling away from Blade.

“Let’s see how long it takes to make you cum,” it’s so obvious that you're not going to last. Your cunt is soaked and only gets wetter by the minute, and her teasing ministrations have you moaning like a bitch in heat.

She adjusts her position, peeling down your panties and leaving them around your ankles lazily. The draft in your room whistles against your soaked folds - a chill runs up your spine as a result. She spits onto her hand as if it's needed, diving straight toward your clit. The sensitive bud is attacked mercilessly: heavy pressure weighing on it as Kafka draws figure-eights. There's a sticky clicking sound that arises and it makes her smile, taking a look at you and Blade over her shoulder.

You suck on his thumb, his left hand rubbing from your neck to your chest. Your whimpers are contained behind his digit, but your watery eyes say all. “You hear that?” She suddenly speeds up her actions, making your back arch and voice sing out around Blade’s finger.

And like a professional, she slows down, inching her finger back down to your hole. It slips in with ease and she sighs. “Dunno if she’s gonna be able to take you, Bladie,”

She pushes her middle finger in knuckle-deep, twisting her finger as she slithers her ring finger in beside it. Blade’s finger in your mouth does nothing to pacify you any longer - her fingers in your cunt bringing out the sweetest moans they’ve collectively ever heard. “She’s so tight…squeezing around my fingers.”

You writhe around in Blade’s hold and your arms brush over his hard-on every now and then. He winces and hisses, bucking into your touch. He needs to preoccupy himself before he cums in his pants—deciding to aid Kafka. His hand tentatively crawls toward your clit, rougher, thicker fingers pinching your bud. It has you huffing out a wail, balling your fist weakly on his thigh.

They keep up a steady pace in tandem, building up your orgasm with ease. Your body is reactive and receptive to their touch: falling apart when your core gets tight and even hotter.

“C’mon, little mouse…let it out for me,” Kafka encourages. She places sparse kisses against your thighs, the print of her lips faintly left in the color of her lipstick. “I can feel it. You wanna cum so bad,”

“Do it,” she murmurs between kisses, “let it out.”

It’s like your body is under her control. Your orgasm builds and crashes in a matter of seconds. Your hole spasms around her fingers but she never stops scissoring them inside of you, rubbing against your sweet spot and effectively overstimming you. You wail heartily, wrapping your arms around Blade’s arm and stopping him from continuing.

Kafka doesn't stop finger-fucking you until you come down from your high and endlessly whimper. She smears your release all over your pussy, bringing her coated fingers to her mouth.

Exaggeratedly, she sucks your juices off of her fingers, making sure to rock her hips against nothing and moan at the taste. “Mmfh,” and with a pop, she removes her digits from her mouth.

She hovers over you trying to catch your breath, capturing your face in her hand and squeezing your cheeks, forcing your lips to part. She lets her saliva drop from her mouth to yours, backing up with a smile. She stops you from swallowing: “Share,” she says.

You and Blade’s lips meet, smushing and mixing yours and Kafka’s spit. It gets messier, sloppier, and it's completely inefficient due to your awkward position but you comply nonetheless.

When you part, Kafka is making quick work of you and flips you over to your stomach. You yelp and giggle, looking over your shoulder and meeting her wide smile. Her index finger boops your nose and she turns to Blade, presumably signaling for him to get up. He stands up, hands grabbing your ankles and adjusting you perfectly.

Kafka slaps your tailbone softly, using her other hand to brush your hair out of your face. “Ass up,” she instructs, and you listen.

You wiggle your butt in the air with a laugh, laying your head on Kafka’s lap. Her pants are pretty comfortable and you find yourself becoming relaxed — while behind you Blade is pulling his boxers down and freeing his dick.

The last time you had actual sex was months ago…as in the middle to end of your freshman year. It was a forgotten one-night stand you met through a dating app - but he’s no match for Blade.

He presses the tip to your entrance, just teasing. Your heavy eyelids fly up, and you immediately brace yourself. You barely felt him, but he's big. You know it.

“Fuck…” he hisses. He wedges his cock between your folds, feeling your wetness smear against him. You feel his width, his length, his weight—he’s a lot less girthy than what you felt with your hands with Yuan, but he makes up for it in length.

If he keeps dragging his dick between your folds he’s going to cum. He has to physically stop himself, sucking in a deep breath because it's now or nothing.

Pressing the tip in you both gasp — and your sounds only drawl out until he completely bottoms out. He's so deep, and you're so wet. He's so big, and you're so tight. Dribbles of your previous orgasm and endless arousal seep out around him, and he nearly moans at the sight.

Getting a good grip on your ass, he spreads your cheeks, pushing you forward while pulling out. It’s a languid motion, edging you for the heart-stopping drop he imposes when you're filled fully again. Your moans come out with every collision and they're full of air. Your chest is tight and all of your air is flying out of your mouth. He's rendering you breathless, but it's nothing compared to how you're making him feel.

Blade begins to gradually increase his pace to satiate this intense hunger. He fucking needs you.

Now that he has a taste of you, his head is clear and his body is in nirvana. His strokes are precise and sharp. He pistons out of you with control, deep grunts skipping out of his mouth. It’s like your pussy is made for him: squeezing him just right in a tight hug and drooling endlessly.

Splat splat splat! The wet sound echoes from your collisions, battling against the barrage of moans that escape your mouth. “Oh, f-f—” you stutter over the curse, clawing at Kafka’s legs. She coos at you, rubbing your face. “You can take it, you got it. Good girl,”

“C-can’t! ‘M gonna cum!” You sob, burying your face into her leg.

Your body hasn't recovered from your previous orgasm, still reeling and the added pleasure Blade stacks on doesn't help. You feel like you're going to explode, wailing and drooling all over the place as your hips gain a mind of their own, fucking back against Blade and chasing your release.

“Think you can squirt for us?”

Oh, hell yeah. If there's one thing Blade wants to do for you, it's to ruin anybody else for you. He wants a monopoly over your body — he wants you to know him as your main source of Heaven on Earth and if there’s one way to do that…

In three swift movements, you're flipped back onto your back, legs on his shoulders. He slips back in with ease, wasting no time in pounding your cunt. He’s fiercer, more determined: drawn up with furrowed brows and his bottom lip snatched between his teeth, Blade becomes a different person.

There's more need, more fervor, an insatiable feeling that’s driven by your warm pussy around him and the idea of being the first person to make you squirt—the only person to make you squirt.

Kafka wraps her hand around your throat, squeezing the sides, and watches with pure amusement as your eyes grow foggier and your sounds grow choppier. They're just using your body, pushing you to the very limit and it's working so well.

A new fire has been lit under your ass and you feel alive — you're on top of the world and nothing but a grand finale can bring you down.

“G-got tighter…” Blade grunts out. Kafka turns to you, seeing how even though your eyes and mouth spill over, you still manage to curl your lips into a toothy grin. “Think she likes it,”

“You like this, huh? Being choked out while getting fucked silly?” God, yes. You love it—you’re on cloud nine.

In this position, Blade can fuck you deeper. He’s effectively digging you out, the slight left-leaning curve of his cock hitting your g-spot again and again. Quakes rack through your body again; it’s coming.

They both can tell and it's getting sloppy. Blade is holding back from blowing his load deep in you, and Kafka? Well, Kafka’s happy to play the supporting role - now letting go of your neck and wedging her head between you and Blade.

With her ass in the air, Kafka dives into the perfect arch to let her lips wrap around your clit, taking the neglected bud into her warm mouth with a long moan. The vibrations jolt through your body and you nearly scream out, thrashing above them.

It's too much, your body can't handle it. You start to crumble: your stomach gnarling and tears streaming down your face. “IcantIcantIcant—” Your hands frantically try to push Blade away but to no avail.

His grunts grow more animalistic as he puts all of his body weight into his thrusts, slowing down. He goes harder, making your body jostle with each grind of his hips. His face is knitted in pleasure, his porcelain skin damp with sweat and blemished in a crimson brushing. Kafka abusing your puffy clit with her tongue has you and Blade losing your minds, collectively falling apart.

This is it. This is pure, unadulterated bliss.

White hot heat surges through your body as you shake. Your thighs quiver on Blade’s shoulders, and Kafka can feel the stiffness of your clit. She slithers back to her seated position, her eyes never leaving the passion-filled affair occur.

Words you try to form only come out as broken squeaks and even Blade can't hold back any longer, letting out a string of blissed-out curse words as you clamp around him. The orgasm that begins to pour out of you is paired with a force that’s all but pushing him out.

You sob and he moans out — one last thrust breaking the floodgates. A clear stream shoots from between your legs, spurting at his abs. All the while, his orgasm comes over him, filling you with all his heavy balls had been storing.

You can't even move. Your chests heave for big breaths, unable to catch them.

It’s a high you can't come down from — filled with a surplus of electricity, liquor, and desire. You needed that more than anything, you needed him more than anything.

┄┄

A small yawn leaps from your mouth when your eyes begrudgingly open. What time even is it…?

You swing your arm over behind you in search of the device — but you're instead met with flesh. You're suddenly wide awake, sitting straight up only to realize you're completely naked. You turn to your side and there lays Blade, snoring softly into your pillow.

What the hell happened last night…

You jump out of bed, find something stray to throw on and feel an incredible ache between your legs. Clearly, you had quite the night. You can't concisely remember what happened last night and right now is definitely not the time to rehash your decisions.

You're not completely opposed to doing whatever you did with Blade because…well, he's Blade. He's always been attractive to you, and at least he’s willing to treat you like a person.

You're not going to wake him up so you leave him a note: scribbling your number on a random piece of paper and scurrying out of the room.

You need to find your phone and get some air—“Good morning. Took you a while to get up, huh.”

Kafka sits at the bar, stuffing her mouth with a spoonful of cereal. Does she know that you and Blade…

“Oh, yeah. Hey. Good morning…” you awkwardly puff out. Your voice is hoarse and you cringe at the sound, placing your hands on your chest with concern. “I’m gonna go um…get some food,”

“I made some eggs earlier if you want some—” “—I’m good. I could use the air, anyway.”

Kafka shrugs, turning back to her cereal. You rush out of your apartment in a blur, slamming the door and leaving Kafka in a brief silence.

Moments after you left, Blade emerges from the hallway. “Morning sleepy head. How’d you sleep?” She teases.

He nods, rubbing his eye. He takes a seat next to Kafka, holding up a piece of paper between two fingers. “Woke up to this,”

“The hell is that?” Kafka questions, spinning her spoon around in her bowl.

He flips the paper over, “Her number.”

A smile breaks across her face and she slaps his arm playfully. “Look at you!”

Blade fights off a coy smile, twirling the paper between his fingers. He waited so long, so patiently—and it was all worth it. He would do it again and again. All just to make you his.

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[mxiaogod]

— 15. [FANTOMĂ] GHOST / SIMON RILEY  X FEM! AFAB READER

WARNING : MANHANDLING, DEGRADATION, PRAISE, FEAR PLAY, DOUBLE PENETRATION, KNIFE PLAY, BONDAGE, SPIT PLAY, MASK KINK, IMPACT PLAY, OVERSTIMULATION, BLOOD, PRIMAL PLAY, SIZE KINK, DARK CONTENT! NSFW, (DNI IF YOU AREN’T 18+)

A/N : The story will be substantially altered, and certain portions may not be linked to the original lore of COD. I do not play the game, nor am I educated in the military field; this is simply self indulgent. ALL OF THIS ARE A WORK OF FICTION AND IS LABELED AS DARK CONTENT, PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

And a big thank you for 342 followers.💐

— Ghosts are a tale, a haunting narrative; some may find them symbolic, but they are essentially a mental construct; some may believe in them, while others do not. They are terrifying, instilling fear in the hearts of those who cross them.

Your trembling fingers grasp the firm soil beneath you, gripping it with might. The thumping of your heart synchronizes with the heaves of your chest, under your nails are caked with dirt, twigs and dead leaves entangling with your hair. You’ve been running for what felt like hours now, you’ve fallen and got back on the soles of your bare feet more times than you can count, your frail fingers grazing the tender bruises trailing down your thighs as you  try to ignore the constant throbbing in your skull.

A twig snapping causes your head to snap up, wintry wands, waved by nature's hand, take on a bold black silhouette in silvery air; a sob caught in your throat. You get up by the palms of your hands, sliding your back up against the tree as you run, tears blurring your vision by the sheer fear that has its grip in your heart. Multiple debris has dug into your foot but you paid no attention. Through the dance of fog, the  twirl of mist, a small, cozy cabin sits atop of firm land, big enough to play cat and mouse with whoever is running after you. You immediately seek shelter, your frail body slamming the aging, oak door. You slam it shut, pushing an old book case to block the door with whatever strength you had left.

You grab ahold of the ends of your dress, wet from the rain and caked with mud, wringing it with your hands. You start to look around, a measly wooden chair and table sits on the corner, spotlighted by the moonlight, book shelves after book shelves that are littered with rubbish. Your feet thud against the wooden floor as you near the lone desk. A wall of newspapers, pages torn from magazines and books are slacked onto the peeling walls. You grab one that piqued your interest, ripping it off the wall and reading it with trembling fingers.

As you take in the information, a prickling sensation by your nape alerts your senses, tears brimming your eyes as your gut drops. The paper crinkled in your hand as you fell to your knees. “No, no, no!” 

“Found you.” Strong arms held you by your armpits, lifting you into the air. A scream tore from your throat, pain spiraling up to your spine by being slammed onto a shelf. “Fuck! What do you want from me, please let me go!-” You were interrupted by a pointer finger touching your cold lips, “Shh” he said. You finally had the courage to open your eyes, widening as you were faced with a man bigger than you, his face concealed in a skull mask, eyes blown with primality. Your mind, hazed from previous events, is confused by the calmness emanating from him, but the danger was overpowering.

Your whimpers subside as tears lick the flesh of your cheeks. He brings you into the bathroom, tying your arms to the shower head with a crimson rope he picked up on the way.

He steps back and admires his work as your chest heaves from the intakes of air, nervousness and fear wrapping it hands and gripping your throat, along with your heart.

"What did I say, hm?" He inquires gently, his deep voice rumbling deep within his chest. He's so large that you had to bend your head back to face him. As a display of defiance, you shake your head and purse your lips.

“I asked you a question, love.” He repeats, “To- To stop roaming these forests.” you respond, voice steadying. “Right, and you didn’t listen.” you can’t help but feel ashamed for defying him at his disappointed tone. “You said I can’t be here because there are dangerous people around, but you’re lying, I haven’t seen anyone around, except you.” 

“Exactly.” His tone is gruff as he tears your dress off down the middle, ridding you of clothes except your underwear. You gasp and cross your leg, tugging your arms down in an attempt to cover yourself.

“You look so beautiful like this, all filthy and afraid.” As his fingers caress the apple of your cheeks. You flinch from his touch, turning your face to the side. “You scared of me love?” he says, almost humorously. “Isn’t that the reason you come here, everynight? To come see me? Because you know you’ll only get that fear you crave from me.” 

“Does it make you wet, knowing that people fear me? Knowing that you’re the only one who has gotten close enough?” He chastises, “Your curiosity will get you in danger, my love.” Your stomach caves, thighs pressing together as you try to resist the nature of your very being. You tried, tried to resist the chase, the thrill, the fear that this man has brought to you, but it had gotten so addicting, so inhabitable to the point you live and breath for it.

You tell yourself that it’s wrong, so wrong to be living like this, living with threats behind, chasing after you but you couldn’t resist the temptation, couldn’t stay away from him, so raw and untouched. 

His face had gotten closer, you could feel his hot breath on your cheek through his balaclava, your lips part open as you welcome all the ugly parts of him, all the sick and twisted elements that you’re willing to take from him, and he knows that with how you bare yourself to him, like an offering to a god. “Please.” One word was enough for him to kiss your lips through his mask, your hips immediately rutting against his thigh. “I’m going to fuck you til’ sunrise.”

His big hands grip the plush of your hips, helping you to tilt your hips back and forth in his thick thighs until he sees you forming a wet spot on his combat pants. “Look at that, grinding on my thigh like a little slut. My little slut.” He moves high thigh away, and you give him a desperate whine in return. 

A sharp, glinting metal trails from your sternum, to your hips, a sharp cry escaping from your lips as it digs through skin, just light enough to leave a scar. The knife moves to the side of your hips, tearing through the thin fabric of your underwear, baring your swollen cunt to him. 

He circles your clit with the rubber handle of his knife, spelling his name, you couldn't decipher it with your hazy mind, pleasure rolling off in waves. He trails it back up your torso, your slick sticking to your skin. “Spit on it.” He instructs and you do, sticking out your tongue and letting your saliva drip into the handle while maintaining eye contact. Your arousal and your saliva mix together as he inserts the handle into your cunt, your legs automatically widening to welcome his assault. “Feel so good” you moan through heaving breaths, he smiles under his skull mask, kneeling down on his knees as he lifts half of his mask, exposing his red lips, parted open and wet with his saliva as he sucks your clit into his hot mouth. You throw your head back, hips gyrating on his face as the knife pumps in and out of you, his hands that grips the sharp end of the knife, digging into it, his crimson blood trailing down his forearm dripping down his elbow onto the bathroom floor. Your eyebrows knit and your eyes close in pleasure, your hips shaking from the stimulation. He spits into your clit as he rubs it with his other hand, his eye trained on your face, there’s nothing he loves more than seeing your face contort with pleasure.

“Look down so you can see how I’m on my knees for you, bleeding and desperate to taste you, look and cum for me.” He stated firmly, you trail your eyes down and meet him and it was a sight you’ll never forget, pleasure climbs up your spine, coursing through your veins, consuming you whole.

“That’s it, scream for me, sounds so beautiful.” You come down from your high, head lolling to the side. He nips and sucks you clean until he’s satisfied, “That’s my good pussy, yes it is.” He coos. . 

He stands back up, throwing his knife to the side as he turns you around, the rope twisting harder into your wrist as you wail in pain. His combat boots kick your left feet to the side, widening your legs for him. He grabs ahold of your waist, his other hand pressing down your lower back, arching you beautifully.

He presses his hips into your bare ass, humping and thrusting as he releases groans beside your ear, you bite your lips as you thrust back, his movements getting harsher and harsher until you hear him zip his pants down, hurriedly taking his cock out.

You look back at him, stroking his cock, standing tall with his tip swollen and dripping with pre cum, veins bulging as he grabs himself at the base, his hips rutting into his palm. “Please- want it so bad.” You plead, throwing your ass back onto his hips as he catches it with his palm, steadying you as he guides the head in. “Fuck-”

“Does that feel good?” He asks as he pulls out, and thrust back in. “Oh I bet it does.” He pants as he thrusts his hips, making you take the entirety of his length. A beaded chain, wraps around your thighs, his hand curling against it as you feel it embed into your skin, the chain dangles as he fucks into you, his dog tag.

“Fuck, it’s too much, can’t anymore-” as your hands push his pelvic back.  

Smack!

“You’ll take it because I said so.” He said, thrusting harder, tilting his hips as he repeatedly hits your g-spot. “This is for doing a good job.” He whispers, wet lips ghosting the shell of your ear. You feel him spit into his hands, his thumb circling your puckered hole as he inserts it inch by inch, “And this is for being a good girl.”

“Gonna cum, gonna cum-” You warn as your head falls back onto his shoulder, he lifts both your legs up, lifting you as he continues to chase his high, his cock bulging out your stomach.

“So good love, so good, fuck, cum with me- now.” His ragged moan beside your ear pushed you to the edge, pussy clenching on his girthy length. His hot cum fills your pussy, your eyes rolling back, saliva dripping into the side of your mouth from the immense pleasure.

You feel your arms loosen, as he unties the rope that binds your hand. 

“Care for a bath?” He whispers, rubbing his warm hands on your lower back as he carries you bridal style.

“What’s your name, Ghost? Will you tell me?” You ask, doe eyes pleading.

Your eyes snaps open, jaw trembling from the cry forming inside your throat. You feel your hips itch as you scratch, your scar making an appearance.

S.R

Etched into the skin of your hips, your hair sticking to your neck from the sweat. You dreamt of him again.

But that’s all he ever was, a figment of your imagination, haunting your dreams, instilling fear into your heart.

A ghost, Fantomă.

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost smut #ghost call of duty #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod smut #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #header by @/661ave #is he real or is y/n just delusional😧 we may never know😁

[inmyloveworld]

as usual (bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader)

word count: ~3.7k

synposis: the time for you to meet the Hard Deck, and the Daggers frequenting it, has finally come. but some digs on the oldest aviator of the bunch in front of his younger partner leave a tension between you that begs to be broken.

warnings: age gap (unspecified but in my mind was about 10 years), assumed alcohol consumption, allusions to anxiety, use of the pet name "bunny", jake is an instigator

a/n: this was NOT going to be this long in my head but once i got writing i could not stop.. enjoy some more self-indulgent comfort angst from me!

As usual, Bradley pulled up to your apartment complex right after a long day on base. And as usual, you were standing in the window like a pup waiting for its owner to come home. He made the comparison in earnest. It melted him to know someone was that excited to have him near, that you were that excited to have him near.

He could barely make it out of the Bronco before you were bounding out your door and down the stairs. Bradley had just rounded the passenger side when you reached him. The sinking sun somehow made your eyes sparkle brighter. Butterflies flew in his stomach, and a lovestruck grin spread across his face. Gentle hands caressed your hips as his caramel gaze took you in closely.

"Did you manage to lock the door?" Bradley teased. You softly grunted at the dig, feigning annoyance in a half frown. The front door and you were nothing if not eternal foes, and Bradley knew of this conflict too well.

"I resent that, I really do." His responding laugh was all it took to break your weak facade. A smile overtook you as you lit up once again to be in his presence. Your hands found home at the base of his neck as your lips greeted each other. Seconds moved in hours whenever you kissed Bradley Bradshaw. He made the noise of the world lift into a soft hum with every touch.

It was understandable that you whined whenever he pulled away. "We're gonna be late," Bradley bargained. Your mouth fell into a soft pout that he was happy to peck away into a smile, and into giggles once his lips found your cheeks, and nose, and temples.

"I thought you said we'd be late!" you laughed as you batted him away to slip into the passenger side. He held the door open for you, like the gentleman Carole had raised him to be. Then he bent to kiss you more softly, like the gentleman his father was.

"You are always worth it." You couldn't fight the flush that broke onto your cheeks to crowd the makeup already present. Blush served little purpose with Bradley lighting your cheeks aflame every chance he got. Nor highlighter, with the glow you seemed to emanate since the day he walked into your life.

His hand found home on your thigh, yours placed atop it to toy with his calloused fingers. The Bronco drove off to the famed bar where he and his naval companions flocked. Such companions were eager to meet the girl who settled their "Rooster" into domestic life.

"Cupid's sure been hard at work," Phoenix remarked upon catching her best friend cheesing at the texts you sent him. Whatever force in the world brought you to him, be it Cupid or God or Nick and Carole themselves, he was grateful. Never had he felt so complete.

"How was work today, bunny?" Bradley asked. A simple question most would roll their eyes at, you jumped to answer. You were eager to tell him of every detail: the pesky clientele, the interdepartmental dramas, even how poorly the coffee was brewed. Excitement ran through you and, by proxy, to Bradley. "Bunny" was a nod to the energy that filled you and energized others, much like the battery mascot.

Your anecdotes filled the minutes driving through the bustle of San Diego rush hour. Bradley glanced over at you every chance he got, adding in commentary where he saw fit but mostly admiring the expressions taking over your face.

He could listen to you ramble for hours, he was certain, as you did for him in his own moments of boundless vigor. An equal partnership seemed unattainable with the women he'd met through the years yet came easily with you.

What place did age have to stall a feeling like that?

-

Some last-minute Bronco kisses had you and Bradley walking into the Hard Deck five minutes behind schedule. His arm was wrapped around your waist, his hand tucked into the front pocket of your jeans to keep you snug against his side. Still, he let you lead the way, content to follow you wherever you found your feet.

You gawked at the space already half packed with people in uniform, a few civilians bridging the gaps. Various signs and regalia littered the space between windows. The perfect sunset view of the beach was on every wall. Miniature aircraft figures crowded the ceiling in permanent flight.

"Is this place for real?" you remarked, earning a kiss on your cheek from Bradley.

"That it is, bunny. As far back as my pops and Maverick," he answered, stopping as he caught his first familiar face. Bradley took the moment to lead you, bringing you to an open space at the bar. "And now in the hands of this lovely lady here. You remember-"

"Penny!" The excitement in your voice brightened the owner right up. Bradley's heart performed somersaults at your cheer. "This place is incredible!"

Penny tried to humble herself under your praise. "Hey, it's the nicest Navy daycare I could imagine." You giggled at the quip, making her break a smile. You quizzed her on her run of the bar as she pulled a draft for Bradley and mixed a margarita for you. The two of you initially met when Bradley brought you to Maverick's hangar. She was just as endeared then as she was now by your bright spirit and compassion for others.

Once you were settled with your drinks, you attempted to tip her out. Penny was quick to push the cash back at you with a wink. "On the house for you tonight. Call it my welcome gift." You must have thanked her half a dozen times as you moved across the bar. A small table against the wall was your target; somewhere to ground your drinks for when you inevitably got spotted-

"Bradshaw!" The time came sooner than you predicted. A brunette tagged with a name you'd heard too many times to count found her way to you. A man in true aviator glasses followed closely behind. Part of you tensed in anticipation. Still, your outgoing nature won over any resistance.

"Phoenix? Bradley has told me so much about you!" You reached out a hand to her. Her eyes slowly followed the gesture as if examining it.

Phoenix took her time to speak up. "So you're the one who's got Bradshaw off in la-la land?"

You blinked, trying to read into her tone. "I-I think so?"

"Phoenix, play nice," Bradley warned. She scoffed at him, finally grabbing your hand to shake.

"I haven't seen the old bird this happy in ages," Phoenix said as she met your eyes. A real smile tugged at her mouth. You were quick to mirror it as you relaxed. "Keep him that way; he flies better."

Bob followed up with his own introduction. It was hard for Bradley to contain his joy at the moment, even with the slight brows Phoenix threw his way. He hadn't told her the details of the age difference in passing; he hadn't thought it important. Bob was none the wiser, simply offering a game of darts to share amongst the four of them.

"Oh, I LOVE darts!" you exclaimed. "But be warned, it's rare that I actually hit the board."

Phoenix chuckled. "Your boy's not too good himself. We ought to split you apart so Bob and I are more evenly matched." Bradley rolled his eyes, though the interaction had his heart soaring. You were happy as can be getting to know his closest friends. They seemed happy as can be getting to know you.

Questions were passed between throws, Bob asking about your work and Phoenix asking about your relationship. It was the kindest form of interrogation you could've envisioned. Meanwhile, the empty pool table behind you was beckoning another group of aviators in your direction.

The tallest of the trio, a man with a square jaw and dark eyes, was quick to single you out. "Now, who's this pretty young thing you guys rounded up to play?"

You turned to make his acquaintance briefly, your usual cheery demeanor receding some. No person with words like that would get the better of you. Instead, you drew in a breath as you threw the last dart of your turn, hitting a triple ring in the process.

"Bradley!" you squealed. He drew you in happily as you jumped into his embrace. "Did you see?! Did you see?!"

An answer was pressed to your lips, leaving you breathless in the aftermath. Bradley hummed at your slightly dazed expression. "That's my girl."

He felt the stares of Harvard, Fanboy, and Coyote burning holes into the floral print shirt he adorned. No mind was paid to any of them, though; not until you solicited it yourself. "You must be more of Bradley's.. coworkers?"

The man of middle height held his hand out for you with a charming grin. "Lieutenant Javy Machado, or 'Coyote' if you'd rather." You were introduced to the other two, with Harvard taking some quizzical glances your way.

"I can't help but wonder, how'd you get shacked up with this fossil?" The audience around you laughed, Bradley included. He had mentioned he was a bit older than his team, giving rationale to the jest and the 'old bird' comment Phoenix made earlier. Still, something in these remarks began to itch you. You were quick to table the feeling, certain it was only your misunderstanding among old friends.

You went on to indulge them in the story of your mildly embarrassing meet-cute. A few other aviators popped in to make their introductions, Payback and Omaha namedly. It seemed that each of them, in due time, had to take their shot at ragging on Bradley's age. He brushed each one-liner off in spades, settling any greater debate with an amused chuckle rather than a defense.

The itch in you was replaced by a gnawing in your gut. You worked to suppress it as best as you could, wanting to make a perfect evening for your partner: the one who kissed you when you shot well in darts and pulled you to the piano to serenade you front and center.

But the words echoing in your ears began to shrink you in your bearings. Suddenly, you had little to say in response to any harmless question. You certainly had less to say as Harvard and Hangman were questioning why you were with Bradley "of all people". Bradley himself had gone to the bathroom, trusting you would be safe and at ease in the company of his friends. It was only upon his return that he was made to see how wrong he'd been.

Bob, the perfect wallflower, had noted the shift in your behavior. He stood by and watched as the dazzling person he was first introduced to started to lose their spark. The WSO watched as you tried to fake smiles and laugh along to the jokes cracked. None of it reached your gaze that began to dart around, as if looking for refuge. Bradley was clueless, too caught up in the moment of his worlds merging to notice one was falling back.

He returned from the bathroom and attempted to dart to your side, stopped only by Bob's light grip on his arm. "Rooster, something's up with your girl." Bradley froze. He scanned the bar, locking onto where you sat with a pair of his friends. Confusion filled him. The night had gone so well. You were getting along with everyone, even Hangman. What could possibly be wrong?

"Just trust me," Bob pleaded, practically seeing the calculations Bradley was attempting in his head. It was seeing your hands nervously fiddling together that confirmed to him Bob was right. He clapped his friend's shoulder, uttering a gracious thanks before making his way over to you.

"Mind if I cut in?" It was nothing more than a courtesy. Bradley would not let you stew in your own head a second longer. "I think we ought to be heading out soon, bunny."

Bradley outstretched his hand to you, which you gladly placed yours into. He pulled you up from the booth with ease and waved his goodbyes to the pair left at the table.

Hangman would not settle for courtesies. "Aww, come on, old man; can't you let her stay out past curfew?"

You barely had a breath to react before Bradley did with yet another chuckle. If nothing churned your stomach that night, the sound of his amusement at this running gag did. You managed your goodbyes to everyone in passing well enough as you exited the bar. The Bronco was a relieving and suffocating sight at the same time.

Silence: that was all Bradley had been given as he led you to his car. A frown fixed on his face. You were keeping a firm distance between the two of you where normally there would be none. Your fingers danced with each other in a nervous rhythm where normally they were laced with his own. Something was seriously wrong, but he hadn't the faintest idea as to what.

Bradley held the passenger door open for you, as usual, and had to hold back a gracious sigh as you let him. You would not so much as look at him since leaving his friends, but he held onto the simple gesture as a sign of hope.

He dared to lean in to catch your lips against his, only to be met by the soft skin of your cheek. Bradley stuttered backward. You had turned away from his kiss.

"Take me home, Rooster." An icy cold poured through him. You had met him in uniform, full with his "Rooster" embellishment, but had never once used the name. And he was starting to wish you never had, for the distant feeling it brought chilled him to the bone.

Bradley hopped into his seat and got the Bronco in motion toward your apartment. Maybe you needed the fresh air and the sights of the city to cool off, he thought. However, with each mile, the tension was growing thicker. He felt it in the silence walling you from him. He felt it as your quad contracted under his subconscious grip, so much that he was growing nauseous himself.

Bradley was a worrywort by default. It's why he hesitated in the air. It's why he hesitated with almost everything in his life. You had been the one piece of his existence that brought him such thoughtless bliss. Had he been too thoughtless to not notice where things were souring?

As quickly as you had raced down, you were flying up the stairs to your apartment. The thud of the passenger door slamming startled him. Bradley barely parked by the time you were halfway up the flight. He locked the doors and jogged up in the path you'd made.

His stature made it fairly easy to catch up to you. That, and the fumbling of your fingers with your key in the villainized deadbolt. You were cursing silently to yourself as you tried and failed to get the lock to turn just right. Tears began to blur your vision, making the simple task even more frustrating.

Bradley's voice was gentle, apologetic already. "Here, let me-"

"Just go home, Rooster; I don't need a fucking babysitter!"

Your response comes out sharp and cold. Your use of his callsign half an hour ago might have chilled him, but this sudden outburst froze him from the inside out. It wasn't long until you froze up yourself and realized the words you let fly.

"Whoa.. where did that come from?"

Bradley didn't receive an answer; not verbally, at least. The only response he received from you was the clutter of your keys against the ground as you tucked your chin into your chest. Soft whimpers began to shake your frame. Within seconds, your resolve gave way to desperate cries pouring from your throat. Bradley's heart cracked.

He moved into action, tucking you into his broad chest and letting you lean your weight into him. Light shushes and repetitions of "It's alright" rushed to console you. Bradley held you upright with one arm as he bent over to swipe your keys into his grasp.

"Come on; let's get inside, yeah?" he cooed as he stood back up. You said nothing and continued to cry into his white tank. Mascara stains were sure to form, but he couldn't care less.

Bradley got your door unlocked in a single try. He propped you safely against the wall as he locked the entry behind himself. You felt like you were floating with his help to get to the couch. There was no resistance or fight in you; only fear.

His hands were on your knees, rubbing soothing circles against the bare skin your jeans exposed. Bradley knelt down in front of you. He waited for you, any tell that you were ready to talk, as long as you needed.

You gathered a hiccuped breath as your sobs faded to sniffles. Your trembling hands reached for him, feeling the warmth of his grasp almost instantly. Bradley gingerly kissed your knuckles on each hand. "Talk to me, bunny." Head lifting, you finally met his worried stare. "What's going on?"

It was a simple question that had a simple answer. Yet, as you tried to form the words, you felt a rush of embarrassment. How ridiculous was it to get so worked up over some lighthearted fun? There was no reason for you to have this sick feeling in your stomach over it.

"Hey," Bradley called, moving a hand up to hold your cheek. His thumb swept at the tears still pouring from your lash line. You hadn't noticed your line of sight drifting away from him with your train of thought. As you found his face again, you saw greater desperation. He ached to know, to help. "Talk to me. Please."

And you did. Grabbing onto his hand with both of yours, you released a heavy sigh. "Tonight was great. Everyone was so nice and welcoming. They all seem like really good people, a-and I'm glad you have them in your life to support you."

Bradley managed a sad smile. Even through your own pains, you were searching for the best to make of the situation for him. He squeezed your hands holding his to comfort you in letting the other shoe drop.

"But.. I-I know you're older than them. I'm sure that, that they make those jokes around you a lot, and did way before you met me. It just.." You stopped yourself, shaking your head as if to shake the thought away. "It's probably so stupid-"

"It's not stupid if it's got you this upset."

Oh, Bradley. The only man you'd ever encountered who genuinely yearned to empathize with you at every struggle or hardship. The person who encouraged you to feel things through in a healthy manner instead of immediately pointing blame at yourself for feeling it at all. No person at any age topped the level of emotional care and safety he provided you.

Your words started to flood out, mixing together in disarray. Yet, Bradley listened intently to every fragmented sentence you gave. "I care about you. So much, B; so much it's scary sometimes. And I don't ever think of the years between us because it's all meaningless, you know? The way I feel for you, and how I think you feel for me. We each have our shit sorted, there's no weird power dynamic bullshit going on."

He restrained a laugh at your frank vocabulary. It was one of the things he admired most about you. When your feelings spilled out, there was never a filter. You expressed yourself entirely authentically. That's why your earlier silence frightened him into his own.

That was not to say your troubles were easy for him to hear, because they weren't. Who wanted to hear that the person they loved ever doubted as such?

"All those jokes… I don't want your friends to not take me seriously. That I'm with you for any reason other than you make my life so much better just by being in it, and I hope to god I can do the same for you. I don't need you to take care of me, be my 'sugar daddy' or anything like that. And-" You pursed your lips as another sob caught in your throat.

Bradley leaned in to kiss your forehead, so tenderly it sent chills down your spine. Your lips parted to release that choked cry. "I-I was scared when you just.. just laughed with them, that, that you didn't take me seriously e-either."

The words were a knife in his chest. "Oh, baby, no," he nearly gasped. "No, no; I never have thought like that, bunny."

You began to cry once more; out of the feelings you'd held that evening, out of the faint insecurity you'd held the months you'd spent together, and out of relief to hear him reassure you. The mix of emotions was blowing you over.

"Can I come up there, baby? Can I hold you?" Your answer was in the frantic way you pulled at his hands. Bradley fell into your ragged loveseat in an instant, tugging you into his lap as you wept. He rubbed up and down your back and pressed kisses into your hair to soothe you.

His voice was warped with his own emotion when he spoke next. "I'm so sorry I ever made you doubt how I feel about you. You are worth so much more than your age." He cupped your cheek again to meet your watery gaze with his own.

"You're incredible. The way you navigate life so carefree and full of light, and how you pass that feeling onto everyone you meet. How you care about everyone you meet and effortlessly brighten their day. How you care about me so much that you're this worried that I don't know it."

Your tears rolled freely onto the skin of his fingers, your body jolting with hiccups. And Bradley thought you were every bit as beautiful as you'd ever been.

"But I do. And I will treasure that, I will treasure you, every day of my life." Your responding smile was the most welcome sight. It cleared up the dark clouds that were looming overhead to shine brightly on whatever was to come. As usual.

-

a/n: this was very VERY loosely proofread but i am open to feedback and suggestions! thank you all for reading <3

tags: @roosterforme, @avengersfan25

#bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #rooster imagine #rooster x reader #rooster fanfic #rooster top gun #bradley bradshaw fic #top gun fanfiction #top gun x reader #top gun rooster

[rqnvindr]

fountain of tears

pairing: neuvilette x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff/comfort

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: neuvilette finds you standing by the fountain, alone the rain after an argument. his hidden turmoil can only be solved by hearing your voice again, tender, and unfiltered.

warnings: archon quest spoilers, arguments

a/n: I HAVEN'T POSTED ANY WRITING IN AGES BUT I HAD TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR MY OTTER HUBBY! enjoy!!

--

"this is pointless. i'm out."

your words wound neuvilette, the pain shooting deep into his bones. they ring over and over again in his conscious, louder than any vibration that had ever emanated from his cane to resume order during a trial. he sits in his office trying to work, but his thoughts don't subside, not one bit.

he ponders, staring at the stacks of papers in front of him, documents regarding cases that needed to be reviewed in due time. but not today. the amount of time he had in between today's working hours and the next trial reassured him that he could hyper-fixate on the last thing you said to him before storming out the door.

it's strange that he isn't worried for your safety as much as he is over the feelings rooted in your actions. the chief justice knows that humans are more fragile than those who have lived for eons. those who have experienced centuries of change were capable of adapting to different and unexpected circumstances through changing forms, and bestowing ancient powers of the past that contained the wisdoms and strength needed to guide them. he should be more concerned for where you could've possibly have gone within the last day. but he knows that you are also acquainted with a certain traveler that had recently arrived in fontaine and caused an uproar with the hydro archon in court already, everyone was. there's no way they could've left now, taking you with them on their travels. they still had unanswered questions left for lady furina. it is still a possibility though that you're at least staying with them, since you two were in good graces.

you weren't from fontaine though, and the image of you packing your bags and going home by yourself made him shiver. you did say you were heading "out" after all. he had to consider all of the possibilities.

neuvilette was new to human relationships. how long did it take for humans to draw the line? it varies for everyone, since they are given the freedom to dictate their personal connections to others to a certain degree. but how much was too much for you? when it came to you, he not only wanted to understand humans more, but also just you. he wanted to delve into all of your laughter, all of your worries, all of the sighs that escaped your pretty lips. to grasp it and memorize it all, was his greatest desire.

without you, he would basically lose his purpose for inserting himself into the realm of mortality. you already got him this far, and on top of that, he concluded that you were causing him to feel foreign emotions from removing yourself from his sight. even if it hurt, this was a test included in his journey that he had to endure.

but neuvilette does not want to face the predicament without a resolution. instead of wallowing, he decides to leave his office. he was already working overtime anyway, hoping to just drown in reading the same pages over and over again to keep himself grounded. was he always this sensitive? in his mind, he imagined the beings of the past looking down on him.

it's pouring rain when neuvilette steps outside. ah right. he doesn't need another reminder that his sorrows inconvenience the ordinary citizens of fontaine, who are just trying to make it to work on time, rush their loved ones to the doctor, and just go about their lives without the weather impeding on them. people barely carry umbrellas though, they're all accustomed to this and it's too unpredictable (at least for them it is).

he decides to start backwards, far away from the court of fontaine. he heads to the opera house first, and he finds you on the first try. how could he ever mistake you for someone else? you're the only person he has eyes for. especially when you're standing by the fountain of lucine, and carrying a distinct umbrella in a small crowd of people, most of whom appear to be flocked around the opera house's entrance, probably catching magic shows and other performances.

neuvilette is uneasy when he notices how close you're standing to the fountain. you're inevitably drawn to the grand structure that welcomes audiences from within the borders of the land and beyond to the renowned location. the spectacle that delivers the arts and the law all the same. but beneath its beauty lies danger that erases those who get too close. many fontainians had lost their lives from seeking the wonders of what lay beneath the waters that decorate and surround the hydro region itself. by wanting to delve deeper into it, they subsequently drowned, their lifeforce dissipating into the shackles of the streams. both the knowns and the unknowns of the primordial sea were sufficient reasons to express caution towards the lands waters, even if one was not a native who was subject to becoming one with their origins.

if you were to become the next victim, the rain would proceed to crash down and become one with the fountain in a continuous flow of precipitation. and then fontaine would be known as "the land of storms" rather than "the land of justice".

as he approaches the fountain, neuvilette's desire to pull you away and drag you back to him with no hesitation stirs. yet, it immediately dissipates when you turn your head, and give him what he guesses is a contemplative look. the white-haired man chooses his words carefully. giving you a lecture about the rumored dangers of the fountain's ability to dissolve human beings would only alarm you. he should use the rain as an excuse to find somewhere safer, if you still weren't ready to return to your shared residence.

"it-"

"i know. you're going to ask why i'm standing out here as if it isn't pouring rain." neuvilette barely gets a syllable out before you take the words right out of his mouth. you guys always had a habit of finishing each other's sentences, and even in a moment as anxiety-inducing as trying to make amends when you were mad at him, his heart melts. goodness, why did you have to be so lovely?

"if i were to let the rain impede everything, i guess i'd be a shut-in." you shrug. "it's been raining non-stop for the past couple of days. and no one seems to question it, so i just go along with it as if it's completely normal for it to be bright and sunny one day, and then cloudy and rainy the next day."

when you finish your thoughts, neuvilette still waits for you to continue. he was somewhat relieved that you were able to talk to him normally, but knew that there had to be more you had to say. were you going to officially end things between you two? say that you needed more time to think about the state of your relationship? he wasn't going to talk you out of anything, or start a debate. he respected your decision no matter what, even if it were to sting, he had to hear it. and the conversation had to go somewhere if he also wanted to deliver his side as well.

"i have heard some of the locals say though, that whenever it rains in fontaine, it is because the hydro dragon is crying." you say, as you gaze up at the sky. "i don't know if you have ever heard of it, but if such a tale were to be true, then i wonder what he could be going through for it to be pouring rain every other day."

neuvilette hopes he hid how quickly he blinked. normally he was good at hiding his reactions to hearing this "legend". although he never wanted to hide anything from you, the truth behind the mysterious precipitation was something he hadn't had the best opportunity to tell you about.

"yes, this is an old legend indeed. i often hear parents and caretakers telling this to children, whenever it's too wet to play outside." this was as much as the chief justice could water it down. he really did not want to lie before approaching a sensitive topic.

"as much as i would love to continue hearing the knowledge you have extracted from your time here, i have come here with another objective." neuvilette says. "i wanted to apologize for upsetting you. i have also been worried about you for the past few days. you do not have to disclose your whereabouts from the period in which we were apart, but i am happy that you're safe."

"it's alright, really." you reply calmly. "i was also in the wrong for storming out like that and not communicating with you. i was pretty upset, yeah, but i should've just told you that. i'm sorry for being immature and leaving you in the dark."

neuvilette notices tears streaming down your eyes. as your head tilts downward, they drop to the ground and blend in with the rain droplets. instead of offering you his handkerchief, he gently caresses both sides of your face with his gloved hands. you lean into his touch more, until you're wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace, letting your umbrella drop to the ground. he reciprocates, stiffly at first, but then holds you with no intentions of letting you go.

you're no longer choking back sobs, and then the sky clears up as the rain comes to a stop. you pull away from the hug to observe the sky, staying connected with your hands intertwined this time.

"wow...the hydro dragon must have been distraught watching us as if we were his new favorite play or something." you laugh.

neuvilette chuckles, knowing that you would of course find the occurrence to be a mere coincidence. "it seems that he must be quite fond of you, my dear."

"well, i'm already taken so i guess he will have to stick to me being his favorite character." you shrug obliviously with a smile.

as your lover, neuvilette has adjusted to being more vulnerable with you. you had seen the good and the bad sides of him, the latter especially during the latest argument that the two of you had now cleared up. and even then, you still let him back in. he doesn't have to worry about baring his entire soul to you now, and will slowly navigate you through his past and identity as the hydro dragon, who entered human society as the iudex. the vulnerable figure whose emotions affect the weather, and struggles to connect with others. you're the one worthy of knowing the truth though, and he makes a promise to himself to never hide anything from you from here on out.

#genshin impact #genshin spoilers #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact angst #genshin impact fluff #neuvilette #neuvilette x reader #neuvilette fluff #neuvilette imagines #neuvilette genshin #neuvilette fics #neuvilette angst

[fanfreakinfiction]

My Gods Are Not Kind to Lonely Mothers

Chapter 1: Don’t Cry

Ch. 2 | Masterlist 🖤

14K words // Din Djarin x Pregnantf!reader

Pairing: Din Djarin x pregnantf!reader (Reader is younger but not weirdly young) Reader was a sex worker. Reader’s first language is one I made up she speaks pretty good basic but struggles to find certain words. The reader is pregnant!

Tags: SMUT virginity loss, con-non-con, made-up Star Wars culture & religion, split POV, slight language barrier, mention of death, mention of child death, dark!, 18+ DNI.

Warnings: Child loss, Pregnancy, Birthing, Blood, Death?, explicit mention of child loss and grief, guys this is dark.

A/N: I got this idea as I was dying in the shower from period cramps & also from a bot I used to use on Janitor AI before it was privated (RIP Din Bot). For logistics, we will just pretend that the Razor Crest didn’t get absolutely obliterated. For timeline reference, this takes place after season 3. Im convinced Din & Grogu are gonna have fun son/dad bounty-hunting adventures as Din teaches Grogu how to be a Mandalorian. Slight flashback in the middle of how reader and Mando met. Grogu has been working on his force flips lmao. I imagine the reader having an accent kind of like Gal Gadot, idk just roll with it. Also, I am so sorry if you cry reading this, I know I did writing it.

His hands ghosted over the silky skin of her back as he watched himself disappear and reappear from her stretched cunt. Slick mixed with blood pooled at the base of his cock in a ring, and the sound of her whimpers reached his ears through the thick metal of his helmet. The feeling of her tightness was so inviting, so hypnotizing, he felt possessed. He didn’t even mean to finish inside of her, he’d have to pay extra for that. 

From the incense heavy room he found himself standing at the edge of an enigmatic forest, encircled by black rock. An ethereal silence enveloped the scene, leaving him with an eerie sense of detachment.

His eyes shifted as he looked up on a pool of steaming water, obscured by the thick veil of steam, he saw her. The woman he’d been with on Tattooine so long ago. She struggled, her words lost in the hissing steam as her trembling hand gently grazed her belly. And there, in the midst of the dream's uncertainty, he witnessed the miracle of life itself—a whisper of cells coalescing into a fragile existence, pulsating with an otherworldly vitality.

Yet, the serenity was short-lived. The gentle whisper transformed into a nightmarish wail—a blood-curdling scream that tore through the tranquility of the woods. It was a scream of agony, of despair, and it emanated from her trembling lips. Her lips, soft and inviting, the same ones he'd yearned to kiss that night when he had ventured into the pleasure house.

The piercing screams grew louder, echoing through the dream, a symphony of suffering that filled the air with torment. As he watched her agony unfold, he was jolted awake, his head colliding with the unforgiving overhead storage. The sudden transition from the surreal to reality left him momentarily disoriented.

In the dimly lit living quarters of the Crest, Grogu, the young green child who had become an unexpected but cherished presence in his life, cried out from his sling, hanging above Din's bunk.

With a heavy sigh, the sound reverberating through the vocoder in his helmet, Din rose to his feet. The aging joints in his knees protested as he reached out to comfort the child, his gloved hands gently lifting Grogu from the nest of makeshift fabric.

"I know," Din murmured softly, his voice a quiet rumble as he cradled the child in his arms. "You saw it too, didn't you, kid?" Grogu, with his large, expressive eyes, gazed up at Din with a mournful look and reached out, tiny green fingers brushing against the Mandalorian's helmet. 

After the tumultuous events that had reshaped his life, Din Djarin had never allowed your memory to occupy his thoughts. Amidst the whirlwind of reuniting with Grogu, aiding Boba Fett, and playing a pivotal role in the reclamation of Mandalore, you had become little more than a faint blip on his radar—a passing connection that had provided a brief interlude of solace in the midst of his relentless journey.

But now, as he cradled Grogu in his arms, looking into the innocent, sorrowful eyes of the young child, he couldn't deny the awakening of something deeper within him. It was a sensation that transcended the confines of his dreams, a connection he felt as profoundly as the vivid dreamscape that had woven itself into his consciousness.

The realization slowly dawned upon him: you were more than just a fleeting memory. You were an integral part of the enigmatic tapestry of his life, and the threads of fate had woven your presence into his destiny in a way he had never expected.

Breaking free from his reverie, Grogu's tiny green form squirmed wildly in Din's arms, his latent Force abilities propelling him away from the Mandalorian's grasp. With agile grace, he leaped and bounced his way through the ship's cramped quarters, a small but energetic whirlwind of curiosity. Din could barely react before Grogu vaulted into the cockpit. 

Din's boots thudded on the ladder's metal rungs as he followed the young one up into the cockpit. A chorus of wild babbling reached his ears, punctuated by the frenzied pressing of buttons on the navicomputer.

"Don't touch that!" Din exclaimed, a hint of exasperation in his voice, his heart racing as Grogu's tiny hand hovered perilously close to the power reset button. He couldn't help but be wary of the mischief the child could unleash.

The young one looked up at Din with eager eyes, babbled something incomprehensible, and tentatively touched the screen. Din cocked his head, his tinted visor reflecting his curiosity. With a resigned sigh, he walked over to the console and entered a code to initialize the navigation system. "Is this what you want?" Din asked, studying Grogu.

In response, Grogu emitted a single, distinct "Patu" sound, his tiny fingers now reaching for the code panel. Hesitating only momentarily, Din bent down, lifting the child to eye level with the buttons. Grogu began to press a sequence of buttons, his small, green hands navigating the controls with surprising precision. Din's eyes widened slightly, his thoughts racing.

"You know where she is?" his voice came out raspy. Grogu completed the sequence, and his innocent gaze met Din's as the navicomputer diligently calculated the numerical sequence. After a few moments, a series of beeps indicated the successful completion of the calculations. Din turned to read the result, the Aurebesh characters on the screen spelling out "Kith."

"It's in the Baxel Sector of the Outer Rim," Din murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of anticipation and uncertainty, as he looked down at the child now resting contentedly in his lap. Grogu gazed up at him, then shifted his gaze to the navicomputer.

With a reluctant sigh, Din pressed a sequence of buttons to engage the hyperdrive. Whether he liked it or not, the path ahead was clear. He had to check on you. As the ship surged into hyperspace, a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that this journey was far from ordinary.

—

The path up to the Mountain of Mothers was a grueling journey, especially with your feet swollen and aching. It wasn't just a hike; it was a trial, a test of endurance to prove the worthiness of those seeking parenthood. The heavy pack you carried pressed on your lower back, making each step a test of your will. Normally, the pack was shared by the "Irrit" or father, but "Illa-ishi" or lonely mothers like you were compelled to carry it alone. The remnants of those who hadn't made it to the Mountain of Mothers were marked by the skeletons you passed on the way up.

The lower pool of the mountain lay two days away, and the upper pool required an additional five days of journey. Yet, something in your heart told you that this child would be with you in two days. As you followed the ascending trail, you crossed paths with an "Illa" or mother, accompanied by her Irrit. He bore their pack with pride, walking just behind her. It was a sight that warmed your heart, a testament to the culture you held dear.

"Noona" or baby was the foundation of your beliefs, the embodiment of the life you and your "Manna" or partner created together. Reaching the Mountain of Mothers and returning with a child was the highest honor, a symbol of worthiness.

The Illa halted on her descent and, with an air of pride, revealed her noona, wrapped in the family cloth. "Noona asa illa-ini!" (it’s a girl) she declared with joy, unveiling a beautiful baby girl. You couldn't help but smile down at the tiny noona and the Illa who showed her off with such pride.

“Noona asa mala ta Illa a Irrit,” (baby is worthy of her mother and father) you responded with the customary blessing, bowing your head in reverence. The mother and father returned the bow, acknowledging the blessing. However, the mother's eyes soon drifted to your belly and the heavy pack that weighed you down.

“Asa Illa-ishi?” she asked softly, her face clouding with sadness. (Are you a lonely mother?)

Summoning all your strength, you fought back the tears that threatened to well up. With your head held high and a tender hand resting on your belly, you spoke resolutely, "A illa-ishi."

I am a lonely mother.

—

The journey through hyperspace had indeed stretched far longer than Din had anticipated. A full day had elapsed since that haunting dream, leaving him with the unsettling sensation of being trapped in some unseen, cosmic rotation of time. However, that ceaseless ticking eventually brought them to the end of their journey as the ship dropped out of hyperspace in front of a smaller, mysterious planet, its surface adorned with sprawling waters and lush forests. As he guided the ship into the planet's atmosphere, the Mandalorian noticed a stark absence of the usual signs of civilization—no traffic control, no spaceports, not even a refueling station. The setting felt eerily reminiscent of the world of Sorgan.

Din hovered uncertainly in the atmosphere, his mind racing. Grogu, seated in the co-pilot's chair, played with the mythasaur skull around his neck, seemingly unfazed by the situation. As Din stared at the green child, he let out a sigh and rested his head against the back of his chair.

"Now what…?" Din muttered to himself, his voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall the details of the dream, seeking any hint or clue that could guide their search.

In his mind's eye, he saw you, your form shrouded in mist and glistening with sweat. The dress you wore clung to your figure, the fabric a soft white-grey that accentuated your curves as you breathed heavily. His brow furrowed in concentration. There was water, almost like a waterfall, surrounding you, with black jagged rocks supporting your form. Your feet were immersed in milky water, reminiscent of a hot spring.

Din's eyes snapped open. A hot spring. It wasn't much to go on, especially for a planet that could potentially be dotted with such natural wonders, but it was a lead worth pursuing. His hands sprung into action, deftly pressing a sequence of buttons that initiated a signal, a ping to any electronic communication device on the planet's surface.

Grogu's focus shifted from the mythasaur skull to the Mandalorian, the child's curious gaze following Din's swift movements. Din soon located the nearest signal on the planet's surface, and as he brought the Razor Crest lower, he was struck by the intensity of the landscape. Towering thick trees covered nearly every inch of land, a vast, unspoiled wilderness that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The planet's terrain was marked by colossal mountains that sliced through the canopy of green like serpents in water, their peaks jutting out in sporadic bursts.

It was a breathtaking and untamed landscape, like nothing Din had ever witnessed. His gaze scanned the vast expanse below, tracking the signal as he searched for a suitable place to land the Crest. Finally, he spotted it—an elevated landing pad erected above the treetops. It seemed to be a small station, but it was a potential refuge for refueling and gathering information, a step closer to finding you

"K1 to RC 4577, you are clear to land at dock 7," a thickly accented voice echoed through the Razor Crest's comms system, providing the coordinates for their landing.

"RC 4577 to K1, recieved," Din responded, his gaze shifting to meet Grogu's eyes. The Mandalorian leaned over to offer a piece of advice to the child, "Always be kind when you land; most landing bay employees often know the most information." Grogu looked at Din, his large eyes brimming with understanding, and he babbled something that Din accepted as an acknowledgment.

With precision, Din guided the Razor Crest toward its designated dock and gently brought the ship to the surface. As he withdrew his hand from the control lever, he noticed a subtle tremor in his own fingers. It had been a long time since he had felt such a physical manifestation of emotion, not since he had lost Grogu to Moff Gideon.

In response to the tremor, Grogu cooed softly and reached out for his protector. Din's gaze locked onto the child, his trembling hands cautiously reaching out to embrace him. Grogu instinctively placed his tiny hands on either side of Din's helmet, offering comfort and connection. A sense of relief washed over the Mandalorian, and he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The small hands on his helmet made a soft "plink" sound that resonated through his interior comms.

"Thanks, kid," Din murmured, his voice laden with gratitude, but his words unable to fully convey the depth of his feelings.

Exiting the ship, Din carried Grogu in his sling, the child's presence providing a grounding force amidst the uncertainty that lay ahead. A young mechanic in worn-overalls approached, his basic broken but comprehensible. "Need refuel?" he asked, to which Din nodded in acknowledgment. The mechanic, unfazed by the Mandalorian's helmet, started toward the fuel hose.

"Hot springs?" Din inquired, his voice barely audible above the wind that whipped violently across the landing pad. The mechanic turned, his eyes reflecting confusion, but Din simply nodded and reached for his credits, preparing to tip the young man for his services. Glancing around the landing pad, he spotted a few other ships—a transport vessel and two cargo ships.

The pad itself had clearly seen better days, and the gusts of wind whipped violently across its aged metal surface, causing a tumultuous symphony of sound. At the front of the landing pad stood a small rectangular building, featuring one set of large bay doors. It seemed to be the station's main structure. Adjusting Grogu in his sling, Din began to make his way toward it, his steps determined.

The small building served as a cover for various ships, a mix of those dusted and covered with the weight of time, and others gleaming with newness. Inside, a modest diner and café shop hummed with activity, a few patrons engaged in quiet conversations. At the front, an older man sat at a makeshift desk, engrossed in the workings of a peculiar-looking computer. As Din approached, the man stood abruptly, his enthusiasm palpable.

"Hello, traveler! Welcome to Kith!" he greeted with a giant smile. "I am Don Mai, the residing Mayor. We are humbled by the presence of a great warrior such as yourself!" With a reverence that bordered on adoration, the old man bowed deeply.

Din suppressed the urge to laugh, already forming an opinion of the enthusiastic mayor that he made a mental note to tell Bo Katan about later. Before Din could utter a word, Don Mai thrust a paper pamphlet into his hands, his speech transitioning into a rehearsed spiel about Kith's culture and history. 

"Kith has a rich culture and even more intense history! Women from all over the galaxy come to experience the Mountain of Mothers and—"

“The Mountain of Mothers?" Din interjected, his tone cutting through the mayor's ramblings.

Don Mai's eyes widened slightly, and he cleared his throat. "Well, the Mountain of Mothers has been around since the dawn of life on our humble planet, and its springs offer—"

"Hot springs?" Din interrupted again, his focus unwavering.

"Uh, well, yes, you see, the springs offer—" Don Mai began once more, but Din's impatience grew apparent.

"Where?" Din's voice was firm, demanding answers without the unnecessary embellishments.

Don Mai huffed, "The Mountain of Mothers is the largest mountain range on Kith. You should've seen it from your ship. If you take the elevator down to the planet’s surface, there is a speeder rental that can take you to the base of the range," the old man explained, his tone slightly deflated by Din's lack of interest in his detailed lecture.

Din places the paper pamphlet in a storage pocket on his bandolier as Grogu watches closely. 

“And the elevator?” Din asks not looking away from the old man. 

"To the left of the fuel pump on the landing pad. Just remember to pay your respects to the Gods as you visit the—"

The old man's voice dwindled into the background as Din walked away from the building and back onto the landing pad. He made his way to the fuel pump and, as instructed, looked to the left to find a rickety-looking elevator, seemingly manually operated. The metal showed signs of rust in various spots, and the wire pulley appeared to be in need of greasing. The flooring of the elevator was a grate that revealed the ground thousands of feet below. Grogu emitted a series of frightened squeaks and coos as Din hesitantly stepped onto the grating.

"I know, kid… let's just... get down there," Din muttered through gritted teeth, steeling himself for the precarious descent.

Din's hand gripped the elevator crank tightly, his patience stretched thin as he began the painstakingly slow descent. Halfway through, he had to switch arms, the anger at the archaic contraption bubbling beneath his calm exterior. It was unusual for him to get frustrated with inanimate objects, but this elevator was testing his resolve. After what felt like an eternity, the elevator reached the bottom of the landing pad. With a forceful yank, Din opened the rusted gate, stepping onto soil that felt surprisingly soft underfoot, reminiscent of the sands on Tatooine, albeit less yielding.

The area below was like a forgotten tourist hub, the shops standing silent and forlorn, each manned by a lone shopkeeper who stared into the emptiness, boredom etched across their faces. It was a desolate sight, a place trying to be lively without the visitors to make it so.

Walking further, Din noticed a row of rusted speeder bikes, the rentals. His heavy boots left imprints on the sponge-like earth as he approached. A few of the shopkeepers stirred from their boredom at the sight of the silver-clad Mandalorian passing by.

Reaching the speeder rental, Din was met by an old Aqualish man, the grey of the hair surrounding his face telling tales of years of service.

"How much?" Din asked, his voice reflecting his growing impatience.

"Fifty credits," the Aqualish garbled back.

"Thirty-five," Din countered, his tone firm as he shifted his weight to one side. Grogu cooed softly from his sling, his wide eyes observing the bartering process.

The Aqualish nodded in agreement and walked away to retrieve the speeder keys. 

As Din adjusted Grogu in the sling to access his credits, he caught sight of a couple approaching from the earthen road. The man carried a hefty pack on his back, and the woman cradled a baby in her arms. The pride in the man's eyes was evident as he helped his wife walk toward the shops.

"Noona asa mala ta Illa a Irrit!" the shopkeeper, an elderly woman across the street, shouted at them. The couple bowed softly in acknowledgment as they continued walking. Every shop they passed echoed the same foreign phrase, and Din watched with curiosity. Upon reaching the elevator, the man removed his pack, fashioning a makeshift seat for his wife as he started cranking the elevator back up to the top of the landing pad.

The sound of a throat clearing broke Din's concentration. The Aqualish man stood, hand outstretched, waiting expectantly for the payment. Din sighed inwardly, realizing he had been lost in his thoughts. He paid the credits and received the keys to the rusted speeder. Adjusting Grogu in the sling, ensuring the child was safely nestled in his lap, Din ignited the speeder and set off down the only trail leading out of the market.

The only path to the Mountain of Mothers.

— 

The pain in your swollen belly intensified as you stood at the base of the last incline leading to the lower pool. The journey had taken a heavy toll on your body, leaving you exhausted and in constant discomfort. Your feet were swollen, your hips ached, and everything hurt, but the cramping in your abdomen was what worried you most. The night before, you had barely managed to rest, opting to lie on the soft ground without bothering with your bedroll. Restlessness had plagued you throughout the night, and now the cramping made it clear that your time was approaching.

Today would be your last day on this arduous journey. The lower pool was just above you, but the pain in your body seemed unbearable. You knew it was all part of the gods' plan for you, but you never expected the pain to be this intense.

As you struggled up the final incline, a sharp pain ripped through you, and you stumbled. Your pack felt impossibly heavy, and your breaths came short. Beads of sweat formed on your brow as a wall of rock loomed ahead of you. 

"Itta non a dashi," (I will not die here) you whispered defiantly, mustering the strength from the deepest part of your being. As your emotions surged, you felt the baby shift within you. With renewed determination, you regained your balance, placing a loving hand on your swollen belly. 

The next incline lay ahead, one of the most challenging parts of the journey. You could see evidence of past mothers who had slipped or stopped, their bones scattered in the crevices of the rock. For Illa-ishi, like yourself, the task was solitary, without the help of an Irrit to assist with the ascent.

You stood at the base of the rocky cliff, gazing up at the tantalizing promise of the lower pool. The rhythmic thunder of the waterfall beyond the peak urged you forward, swirls of steam rose into the air, a tantalizing promise of the lower pool just a short climb away.

Thankfully, the rugged rock face bore shelves that made the treacherous climb more bearable. Growing up you heard tales of a time a century past when an Irrit, a kind-hearted soul whose manna, a young woman, could not walk. In a display of unwavering determination and love, he took chisel and hammer in hand, carving these sturdy, stone steps into existence. With these ledges, he could secure her safely to his back and ascend the daunting precipice so she could birth their child.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you surveyed the ascent before you. The harsh sun beat down, casting long shadows across the rocky surface. Determination burned in your eyes as you figured out the best plan of action. With a surge of resolve, you slipped the heavy pack from your sweat-covered body, feeling an immediate relief as the oppressive weight fell off you and onto the gritty dirt below.

With your pack discarded, you dragged it to the base of the wall where the first of the man-made shelves jutted out, a mere foot of space cut into the unforgiving rock face. Despite the fatigue gnawing at your muscles, you carefully planted your foot on the ledge, finding just enough space to stand. Bending down carefully you pulled the pack onto the ledge beside your feet. Your birthing gown, gauzy and light, provided a surprising ease of movement. Once you’d made sure the pack was secure you looked up and examined the next shelf. It was a little high of a stretch but you gripped the wall above to steady yourself, your gown billowing slightly with the effort.

Your hips protested with each movement, but the primal instinct to survive drowned out the pain. With staggering determination, you raised your leg, using the hold of the wall to leverage yourself onto the rock shelf to the left. Your arms, weary but unyielding, lifted your body until you were safely on the shelf.

Taking a moment to collect yourself, you glanced back down at the last shelf, now below you. Gathering remnants of your strength, you reached down, hands trembling slightly, and lifted your pack with both arms onto the shelf beside you. Only one more shelf remained, higher up and to your right, a final obstacle before hauling yourself onto the top of the cliff. 

After a short rest, you locked eyes with the next shelf, determination burning in your gaze. With a swift motion, you reached up for a gap in the wall to get a grip. Sliding your right hand into the sharp crevice, you pulled with all your might, grunting with effort as you lifted your right leg onto the shelf, which was higher than the last. But in that moment of triumph, a sudden jolt of pain radiated from your lower back all the way to your fingertips, and you lost your hold, a gasp ripping through you.

Stumbling backward, you were saved only by your pack, which you used for leverage to steady yourself. The contraction was fierce, so intense that it was only when you absentmindedly touched the dress covering your belly that you realized you'd sliced your palm on the unforgiving rock. Scarlet red stained your gown, creating an almost perfect handprint. Oddly, you felt no pain in your hand, your senses consumed by the tightening in your abdomen, which worsened with every passing moment.

“Issa non a tishi noona..” (its not time yet baby) you groaned out in pain, your voice strained and breathless. Your eyes clenched shut as you tried to endure the relentless waves of agony.

You stood trembling on the shelf of the wall for a good minute or two before the contraction finally subsided, leaving you panting and exhausted. It was then that the sharp sting in your hand dominated your senses. You examined your hand, the crevice in the wall had sliced deep, and you could see the gash, making your stomach turn uneasily.

Reaching into your pack, you found the medipack, fingers trembling as you carefully opened it to retrieve the gauze and a bacta spray. With great care, you held your injured hand out in front of you and applied the bacta spray to the gash, wincing at the initial sting. Then, you gently wrapped the gauze around the wound, ensuring it was secure. The sharp pain began to dull as your trembling hand capped the spray, carefully returning it to the medipack. 

With a sigh, you straightened up, taking a moment to regain your composure. The pain in your hand was no longer the foremost concern, and you couldn't let it distract you from the task at hand. You knew that each moment counted in this climb, and you needed to find the safest route to reach the next shelf.

Reassessing the situation, you examined the uneven rock wall before you, trying to identify the most secure handholds and footholds.

An idea crossed your mind and it could be great, or the worst idea ever and you could fall to your death but you were determined. You carefully maneuver around your pack and push it closer to the end of the shelf. You carefully placed a leg on the pack and then another, standing precariously on your pack which provided you almost a foot of extra height, you used the wall to steady yourself. You prayed to the Gods and reached with your right hand for the crevice that had so rudely marred your hand. Finding more traction with the gauze you confidently pulled yourself extending your right leg so your foot found purchase on the shelf. A victorious smile crossed your face as you then pushed off your pack with your left leg and hoisted yourself onto the shelf. A quiet laugh left your lips as you clung to the wall you were now facing. 

Looking to your left, you bent down carefully to grab your pack. This shelf was a lot shorter, jutting from the wall maybe only eight inches. You had to precariously grab your heavy pack with one hand and quickly cram it under your left leg to prevent it from plummeting to the ground below.

You were so close now that you could feel the cool mist from the water above, and the deafening roar of the falls filled your ears. Perched roughly 15 feet above the ground, you took a moment to catch your breath. You dared not look down, fearing that it would disrupt your balance. Instead, you pressed your belly tightly against the rock wall in front of you, your heart pounding with both exertion and anticipation.

After a brief moment of rest, a surge of adrenaline coursed through you. This was it, the final leg of your treacherous journey. You had one more pull, one last push, and you would reach the lower pool, your goal within your grasp. But you also knew that a single mistake could lead to a disastrous fall, a fate you couldn't afford.

Taking a deep breath, you raised your arms above your head, your palms resting on the ridge above. With utmost care and precision, you hoisted yourself up, quickly placing both feet on your pack. The pack provided just enough height to get your elbows onto the smooth rock above. You pulled with every ounce of strength you had, feeling your belly scrape against the unyielding stone as you lifted.

Luck was on your side, as your feet managed to find a foothold through the worn leather of your boot. This newfound leverage allowed you to push yourself up, resembling a sea lion clambering onto a rocky outcrop. With sheer determination and the last vestiges of your strength, you quickly pulled your right leg under you and pushed yourself onto all fours on the smooth rock face. Your heart raced, your hands and knees trembling from the exertion, but you had made it. You had reached the final stretch of your perilous ascent, and the pool ahead awaited, a shimmering reward for your indomitable spirit.

A sob escaped your lips, a surge of emotion you hadn't anticipated as the reality of your accomplishment finally caught up with you. You had done it. You had managed to make it to the lower pool, and the inviting, milky-warm waters beckoned to soothe your weary body. Steam swirled around you, creating an ethereal atmosphere as you lay there, taking in the moment.

Rolling onto your back to face the sky, you watched as a giant silver ship soared high above the mountain. Your eyes followed it for a brief moment before it disappeared into the vast expanse of the blue sky. Tears welled up and trickled down your cheeks, their salty warmth mixing with the refreshing mist from the pool. You felt the gentle movements of the babe inside you and couldn't help but smile through your tears.

"Noona...we made it," you whispered in basic, your hand tenderly caressing your belly. The connection between you and the life within you was stronger than ever, a bond forged through this incredible journey.

After some time, you stirred, realizing that you needed to retrieve your pack. With some effort, the pack proved easier to handle than your own weight combined with the growing life inside you. You unzipped the pack and reached for your bedroll when another sensation, different from the earlier contractions, radiated through your core. This time, it felt like pressure, a clear sign that the moment you had been anticipating was drawing near.

After finding the bedroll, you took a moment to survey the area for a suitable spot to lay it down. The relatively flat rock surface encircling the spring was a dark black, a stark contrast to the frothy blue of the hot spring's waters. The ancient, tranquil pool was surrounded by old, tattered bedrolls, some empty, while others still held the silent remains of Illa-ishi who hadn't been as fortunate as you.

You sighed softly, the weight of the past and the solemnity of the place pressing down on you. You knew what lay beneath the surface of this hot spring – the resting places of those who had undertaken the same treacherous journey but hadn't emerged victorious. Out of respect for their memory, the people of Kith never dared to touch the remains. Instead, they left the bones where they lay, allowing them to become one with the planet's core, a final return to the world from which they had come.

Gently, you found a clear space amidst the bedrolls and laid down your own bedroll. It felt strange to rest among the remnants of those who had gone before you, but you also understood the significance of this place.

It was believed among your people that the Mountain of Mothers was the handiwork of the divine God of Kith, a deity whose love for his wife, Illa-ishi, was as vast as the universe itself.

Illa-ishi’s womb had cradled life for what seemed like an eternity and her body bore the weight of years, while her heart bore the burden of unbearable pain. Witnessing his beloved wife suffer, Kith, with his divine hands, crafted a pool at the mountain's base. Its waters held the promise of relief, a balm for Illa-ishi's agony.

While Kith labored tirelessly to raise the Mountain of Mothers, Illa-ishi, driven by a desperation born of unending torment, embarked on a solitary climb up its slopes. With each step, she ascended toward the heavens, seeking solace that seemed perpetually out of reach.

At the pinnacle of her journey, amidst the tranquil waters of the divine pool, Illa-ishi's child was born. Yet, there was no cry of life, no breath to fill the air. In a heart-wrenching moment, the lonely mother, overcome by despair, embraced the waters that had promised relief. She allowed herself to be consumed, seeking peace in the depths of the pool.

Kith, returning to find his wife and child lost to the pool’s embrace, was consumed by an anguish that eclipsed the stars. In his sorrow, he performed a deed both divine and sacrificial. In a resolute act, he harnessed the remnants of their life force, infusing it with the very essence of his divine being, and breathed life into the creation of the upper pool atop the Mountain of Mothers. 

This upper pool, borne from his profound sacrifice, was destined to be a reward for those who completed the arduous journey together. It was a testament to the strength of unity, the enduring love that bound families and lovers, and the rewards that awaited those who surmounted the trials of life.

Yet, even in the splendor of his divine creation, Kith's sadness consumed him. He recognized the fundamental truth that Illa could not always survive, and that Noona may not always breathe. And so, the first pool, at the mountain's base, remained untouched, preserved as a sanctuary of rest and respect. A place where Illa-ishi, and Illa could find solace amidst the beauty of the Mountain of Mothers, where the waters whispered stories of love and sacrifice, and where their weary spirits could find respite beneath the endless expanse of the starlit sky.

In history there was only one illa-ishi who succeeded in birthing a breathing babe at the first pool, and she had birthed an evil so strong it was said to last generations. 

You knew your heart, and you knew your babe. You had come here to rest.

—

The hike was hard. Din was breathing heavily under the weight of his armor and the burden of Grogu, who looked around the desolate landscape with a sad curiosity. How many skeletons had they passed? What kind of place was this? Why were you here? The guilt gnawed at him with each step he took. Why had he even gone to seek out pleasure from solitude in the first place? He thought back to that night… 

The night was dark and heavy as Din sat alone in the dimly lit corner of the cantina in Mos Eisley, his thoughts consumed by a yearning for Grogu. The scorching sands of Tatooine outside were a harsh reminder of the precious time he had spent here with the child and Peli Motto. They had been moments of sanctuary, where the galaxy's chaos seemed miles away.

Nearly a year had passed since he'd entrusted Grogu to Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker, a decision made with the best intentions. But that choice had left a void within him that he could hardly bear. Sleepless nights had become his constant companion, and the craving for both rest and peace had grown unbearable. And yet, he found himself agreeing to help Boba Fett in the midst of a brutal war, a commitment that seemed at odds with his desire for tranquility.

But in that cantina, he made a solemn decision. He had to seek out Grogu one last time, he had to give Grogu the chain mail that he had made for him. Just, as a way to protect him nothing more… He ran his fingers over its cool surface, a gesture that silently conveyed his unbreakable resolve before he pocketed the beskar. 

As the night deepened and the alcohol flowed, he realized he had indulged in more Corellian Whiskey than he should have, knowing he needed a clear head for the journey that awaited him. But the whiskey's burn was a welcomed distraction, a temporary escape from the overwhelming pain of missing Grogu.

In the midst of his solitude, the cantina's atmosphere began to change. A group of scantily dressed women, draped in silks and adorned with gold, entered the establishment. They moved with grace and charisma, engaging patrons in conversation, flirting, and distributing holochips for a nearby pleasure house. Din snorted at the thought. When was the last time he even had time to fuck anything but his palm? 

When was the last? He wondered trying to think back over the years since he’d acquired the responsibility of caring for Grogu. 

Years. Actual, years.

In his inebriated state, Din found himself clutching the holochip, his steps unsteady as he navigated the narrow streets of Mos Eisley towards the establishment advertised on the chip. He had given in to a reckless impulse, fueled by a desire to escape the pain of missing Grogu, and a fleeting sense of excitement at the prospect of companionship, even if it was just for one night. The weight of the impending war, as Boba Fett had described it, loomed in his thoughts, and he couldn't help but wonder if this might be his last moment of solace.

Entering the dimly lit and shady establishment, he was met by a greasy, overweight man berating a young child. The sight of the child sent a wave of unease through him, casting a shadow over his already troubled conscience. What kind of place was this, where children were exposed to such depravity?

"Not for sale!" the greasy man barked at Din, as if reading some unsavory intent in the Mandalorian's eyes, he shielded the child, pushing her back behind a tattered curtain.

“I wasn’t…” Din’s words faltered, the very thought of such exploitation sickening him to his core.

But the foreman, undeterred, eyed Din up and down, his gaze lingering on the gleaming beskar armor. “You’ve got money, I’ve got girls,” the man said, his voice oozing with a repugnant confidence.

Din struggled to find the words, his thoughts a jumbled mess, still reeling from the shock of seeing a child in such a place. He stumbled, his voice faltering.

The foreman, undeterred, went on, "I have a girl who just became available. She's not been with anyone, you'd be lucky to find a deal like her on this side of Tatooine." He reached into a box of hologram pucks, selected one, and placed it on the desk. Activating the hologram, he presented it to Din.

Din's gaze fixated on the static image, his eyes locked on the visage.. Strangely, he felt a deep pull within him, as if your image was both familiar and enigmatic, stirring emotions he couldn't quite place.

"How much?" Din's voice, though filtered through his modulator, held a heaviness, a mix of curiosity and longing.

"Four thousand credits," the foreman stated, avarice evident in his words.

“Four?” Din repeated, incredulous, his disbelief met with a dismissive glance from the foreman. “How much does she get?” he demanded, his tone sharp and unwavering.

The foreman's look turned defensive, his response sharp, "Two thousand. My girls are lucky to get any at all."

Din's resolve hardened, and he leaned in, his voice taking on a threatening edge that he usually reserved for bounties. "I'll pay six thousand, and she gets four thousand."

The foreman's eyes widened, momentarily caught off guard, but a vile smirk soon crept across his face. "Deal. Right this way, sir," he beamed, all too eager to make the transaction.

The foreman led him through a maze of dimly lit hallways filled with disturbing moans and an overpowering, artificial perfume that hung heavily in the air. The cacophony of voices from behind the closed doors was a haunting reminder of the grim reality of this place, and the perfumed scent was a failed attempt at masking the despair that lurked within.

At the end of the corridor, the foreman unlocked a door and gestured for Din to enter. "I'll send her in," he grunted, closing the door behind Din.

Din stumbled into the room, the alcohol coursing through his veins, muddling his thoughts. He took in his surroundings, finding himself in a chamber that seemed a stark contrast to the rest of the establishment. A makeshift bed of luxurious pillows lay on the floor, richly woven tapestries hung from the ceiling, creating a semblance of privacy. Incense burned intensely, casting a hazy atmosphere, a chair rested by the door infront of a towering golden-framed mirror that rest to the right. 

This must be a more expensive room, he thought, his mind reeling with the absurdity of it all. He couldn't help but question himself, wondering what he was truly doing here, and if this was the way he wanted to fill the void left by Grogu.

As the room's fakely lavish atmosphere weighed upon him, the door behind him swung open gently. He turned, his movements slow and heavy from his armor, to see you enter. Your form was meek, draped in a light blue silk garment that covered more of your body than the women he had seen in the cantina. Gold metal accents adorned your wrists, ankles, and neck, casting a subtle glow in the dim room.

Din's breath hitched as he observed you, his gaze tracing your figure from your feet to your face. Your flushed face and the nervous way you looked down at the floor beside him made it clear that you were unfamiliar with this line of work. He saw you absentmindedly running your index and middle finger along the material of your flowing skirt.

He couldn't explain it, but something about your vulnerability, the innocence you still carried despite the circumstances, touched him. For a moment, he entertained the thought that the foreman had lied about your experience, but as he watched you in silence, he knew that the greasy man's words were painfully accurate.

Din shifted slightly, causing your gaze to snap to him quickly. His visor concealed his expression, but his body language spoke volumes. He observed for another moment, considering his next move. Slowly, he began to remove his gloves. The process was deliberate, one finger at a time on the right hand of his glove, until he was able to pull it off, revealing his bare hand. His eyes never left yours as he started to work the other glove off, the tension in the room growing palpable.

Your gaze drifted from his visor to his hands, watching intently as the gloves came off. As soon as he removed the gloves, he walked to the chair by the door and set them down gently. Your gaze followed him as he approached, your hand never leaving the doorknob the entire time. It was as if you were waiting for him to make a move, to confirm the fear that had taken root in your heart.

Din stopped a few feet away from you, his gauntleted hand hanging by his side. There was something in his stance, a subtle softening in his normally rigid posture that made you feel he might not be the threat you initially perceived.

He straightened as he turned to face you, extending his tanned and calloused right hand as a peace offering. It hung there in the space between you, a bridge across the vast divide that had separated your worlds. The look you gave him that night pierced through his then-buzzed haze, and as your gaze moved from his visor to the palm of his outstretched hand, you ever so softly smiled.

Your hand moved slowly, with a slight tremble, as you placed it in his. Maker, it was so soft, so... loving. In a way, it reminded Din of his mother's hands. He remembered the feeling of her hands on his face when she would kiss him on the top of his head or brush his hair back. It was a memory buried deep, one he rarely let resurface in the harsh reality of his life. 

He watched you, unknowingly holding his breath, as your eyes flitted from his hands back up to his visor.

That night was almost eight months ago, and in the span of those months, the galaxy had shifted beneath Din Djarin's feet. He had fought with Boba Fett, gotten Grogu back, found his covert and embarked on the perilous journey to reclaim Mandalore and his Mandalorian status. The weight of leadership, the responsibilities, and the relentless pursuit of his beliefs had clouded his thoughts, leaving little room for anything else.

As he walked through the dense forest, the guilt that had been gnawing at him grew ever more oppressive. He'd been so preoccupied with his own mission, his people's future, and the legacy of Mandalore that he hadn't even spared a thought in your direction. He had foolishly assumed that the foreman would handle any potential consequences of their night together, perhaps naively believing that you would choose to remain silent. However, what if you hadn't told the foreman? What if you carried something precious from that night, a part of him he was yet to know about? He had neither your name nor any means of contact, and that realization weighed him down like a camtono of beskar. 

With every step, the burden of his guilt pressed down upon him, and he mentally berated himself for not knowing your name or sharing his. He deserved this guilt, for in his quest to rebuild his world, he had unintentionally left a piece of himself behind. If you were pregnant, how were you supposed to find him in the vastness of the galaxy? He couldn't shake the thought that he might be a father, and yet he had no way to reach out to you.

Lost in thought and oblivious to his surroundings, Din hadn't even realized that he'd strayed from the trail until a blood-curdling scream pierced through the forest's silence, shattering the walls of his introspection. His eyes darted ahead, and the only thing he saw beyond the thick undergrowth was a rocky precipice. Steam rose from somewhere below, and the scream, unmistakably human, sent a chill down his spine.

— 

After doing your best to set up a makeshift camp amidst the unforgiving terrain, the contractions began to increase in intensity and frequency. Drenched in sweat, your body ached with fatigue, and desperation for the comfort of the hot spring surged within you. In your birthing gown, you summoned every ounce of strength to embark on the journey toward the soothing waters.

With slow, measured steps, you made your way to the spring, determined to find solace amidst the throes of labor. The contractions continued to grip you, and you fought to maintain your composure, focusing on deep breaths as you moved closer to the source of relief.

As you neared the milky waters, the soothing sound of the waterfall dumping cool water into the far end of the pool filled your ears. The natural geothermal heat emanated from the earth beneath the water, warming the fresh, chilly stream. You gingerly lowered yourself to the spring's edge, wincing through the persistent contraction that clawed at your strength.

With immense effort, you managed to sit on the edge of the pool, your feet dipping into the perfectly warm water. A sigh of relief escaped your lips as the soothing waters enveloped your aching limbs. Slowly, you eased yourself into the warm embrace of the spring, its shallowness just deep enough for you to sit comfortably, your head above the waterline.

The warmth cocooned you, providing the much-needed respite your weary body craved. In the midst of your struggle, the hot spring became a sanctuary, a place where the pain of labor met the healing balm of nature, and for a fleeting moment, you found solace amidst the turmoil, embracing the precious gift of warmth and comfort in the midst of the wilderness.

You had lost track of how long you sat in the soothing water, your fingers pruning as the serene ambiance of the hot spring washed over you. Contented sighs intermittently left your lips as you found a momentary respite from the relentless contractions. The world around you seemed to blur as the hot spring cradled you in its gentle embrace.

But all too soon, your tranquility shattered like fragile glass. A pained cry tore through the rocky landscape. Your eyes shot open, searching for the source of the distress.

Your gaze darted towards the rugged ridge you had labored to climb mere hours earlier. Two voices reached your ears, one male and one female, carrying on the wind. Panic surged through you as you observed a hand ascending the top of the ridge. Your heart quickened, and you realized there were people approaching, their presence entirely unexpected.

With haste, you sprung up from your spot in the spring, water cascading off your birthing gown as you clambered to the edge of the pool. 

A man, seemingly oblivious to your presence, ascended the ridge, a pack strapped to his back. He reached the flat rock and extended his hand below him. Your bare feet met the cold, rough surface of the gravely rock as you hurried over to the edge, your heart heavy with empathy for the woman in dire need. Down below, on the third rock shelf, you saw a woman, her face contorted in pain, tears streaming down her cheeks, and her birthing gown stained with the evidence of her struggles.

“Isa a happis” (I will help!) you called out, your voice resolute, your determination evident. You easily crouched down next to the man, extending your hand to the one who was suffering. She gazed up at you, gratitude filling her eyes as she grasped your outstretched hand.

“Ona tice!” (On Three!) The man standing beside you declared, his voice strong and determined. You locked eyes with him, sharing the gravity of the situation, and both of you prepared to pull the distressed woman to safety. With a shared resolve, he began to count down, and on three, you pulled the woman up with surprising ease, your muscles working in harmony to lift her to safety. 

Wide-eyed, she arrived at the top of the landing, blood staining her birthing gown, a visceral testament to the life that sought to enter the world. She cried out in agony, her body in the throes of birthing pains. Your attention shifted to the Illit, his face etched with desperation as he removed his pack, his hands trembling as he tried to assist his manna.

He grabbed her, his touch gentle yet urgent, realizing that there was no time to lose. Even as you watched, you could tell the baby was coming, the process inevitable now. The woman screamed, the sound echoing off the rocky walls, a symphony of pain and life in the midst of nature's raw beauty.

“Noona essa comesei ittina!” (the babe is coming now!) you urgently announce, your voice steady and commanding, as you motion for the father to cease his movements. He gazes at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, gratitude, and sadness, the emotions palpable in the misty air.

Your own contractions, once so overwhelming, are now distant memories as you shift your focus entirely to the woman and her impending delivery. You position yourself between the woman's legs, and she leans back on her husband for support, the bond of love and trust between them evident in the way they clung to each other during this moment. 

With gentle but purposeful hands, you begin to move the gauze of her birthing dress out of the way, revealing the sacred space where the new life is making its entrance into the world. The sight fills you with a profound sense of awe and wonder, the beauty of life in its most raw and unadulterated form.

As you catch the first glimpse of the emerging baby, a smile naturally graces your lips, a radiant reflection of the profound beauty you are about to witness. You look up at the father, sharing a moment of unspoken understanding and connection as you prepare to assist in guiding their child into the world, an act of grace in the heart of nature's splendor.

“Noona essa comesei! Attari noona bassi?” (The baby is coming, the baby cloth?) you urgently conveyed to the father, the intensity of the moment hanging heavy in the air. He blinked, momentarily caught in the whirlwind of emotions before comprehending your words. With careful haste, he gently leaned his wife back, supporting her amidst the agonizing pains as he reached for his pack against the wall.

Desperation etched on his face, he hurriedly threw various items from the bag, scattering them around in his search for the baby cloth. Every passing second felt like an eternity as the mother cried out in pain, her body instinctively bringing forth the baby as your hand supported its head. 

Finally, after emptying the entire bag, the Illit father's shoulders slumped in defeat. His frustration boiled over, and he struck the rock wall with his fist, a primal cry of helplessness escaping his lips.

In the midst of this despair, you remained calm, your instincts taking over.

“Asa Passi! Attara noona bassi!” (In my pack! I have the baby cloth!) you shouted at the father, your voice carrying the urgency of the moment. With a quick motion, you pointed to your own pack, signaling where the much-needed baby cloth could be found. Your other hand remained cradling the head of the newborn, offering support and comfort to the laboring mother.

You ran a soothing hand over her leg as she summoned her last ounce of strength, pushing with all her might, and then, in a powerful moment, the babe broke free into the world. The father, having located the cloth meant for your own child in your pack, rushed over, his eyes wide with anxiety. You accepted the plain cloth from him, wasting no time in wrapping the baby in it.

The newborn lay still and silent, not letting out the expected cries that heralded a new life. A sense of despair washed over you, and you shared a helpless glance with the father, both of you fearing the worst.

The mother's wails of agony resonated in the rugged landscape, echoing the heartbreak of a life not granted breath. The anguish in the air was suffocating as she reached for her still baby, her hands trembling. With a heavy heart, you gently transferred the infant to the mother's waiting arms. 

She cradled her lifeless child, tears streaming down her face as she caressed the baby, whispering soft words of love and heartbreak. Her cries mingled with those of her husband as they shared the unbearable moment of loss.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you tore yourself away from the heart-wrenching scene of the manna. You felt a surge of emotions, a profound sense of hopelessness, reminiscent of the day you had received the news of your own pregnancy. 

— 

The anguished screams pierced the rugged terrain, reverberating through the rocky expanse, and Din felt his heart plummet through the soles of his boots. Grogu, sensing the turmoil in the air, cooed softly from the safety of his sling, nestled beneath Din's protective hand.

Carefully and quietly, Din approached the edge of the rocky ridge, his heart pounding with trepidation. As he looked down into the precipitous drop-off, his eyes fell upon a scene that nearly froze his heart in his chest.

Down below, amidst the harsh and unforgiving black surface of the rocky cavern, he saw you kneeling, a stoic presence, between the legs of a pregnant woman who was hemorrhaging profusely. The woman's anguished cries filled the cavern, echoing against the unforgiving walls.

Din's eyes then shifted to a man, who appeared to be the woman's partner, desperately rummaging through a pack, panic etched across his face. You spoke urgently in a language Din didn't understand, the words punctuated by fear and sorrow. The man seemed to heed your words and swiftly abandoned his fruitless search, rushing over to another pack that lay nearby. The man retrieved a gray cloth from the second pack and hurriedly approached where you were crouched.

Din observed, his eyes transfixed, as you, kneeling on the rocky cavern floor, expertly assisted the pregnant woman. With a mix of awe and sadness, he saw you pull a beautiful, newborn baby from the crying mother, delicate and fragile in your hands.

His gaze lingered as you carefully, almost mournfully, opened the grey cloth. To his dismay, he recognized the symbol displayed on it – a mudhorn. It was the very same symbol etched onto his own pauldron, the only identifier that you could tie to him. He watched as you used the cloth meant for your child, his child, to wrap the now purple baby in the blanket with meticulous care.

Cries and sobs filled the air as he watched from his hidden spot on the high cliff above. His sounds were likely muffled by the nearby waterfall, but he felt Grogu pulling at him, desperate for attention. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to look away. He continued to watch, hidden in the shadows.

He observed as you struggled to stand, your belly full with his child, and as you respectfully walked away to what he could now confirm as your pack. He could see the pain etched on your face, the tears in your eyes, and he felt a pang of guilt deep within him. The weight of his past actions pressed heavily on his shoulders.

Din had done a lot of things he wasn't proud of; he'd walked a dark and treacherous path. He had hated himself when he handed Grogu over to the client for a camtono of beskar, but now, seeing you here, in this vulnerable moment, he hated himself more than he had ever thought possible. 

The symbol on that blanket, the mudhorn, was a reminder of the choices he had made and the lives he had affected. As he watched you cry softly, he knew he couldn't change the past, but he could choose a different path now, one that might bring redemption and peace.

— 

Hours passed by as the mother and her lifeless baby lay on the rocky outcrop. The father, now solemn and determined, prepared the pack for their descent. He spared you a thankful glance as he gently helped the mother stand, their shared grief connecting them. With cautious and uneasy steps, they began their descent down the cliffside.

The mother cradled her unbreathing babe, her heart heavy with loss, as she slowly made her way towards you. With some effort, you rose to your feet and met her halfway. Tears welled up in your eyes as she kissed your cheeks in gratitude.

“Illa-ishi, missa.” (Lonely mothers, sisters.) she said mournfully, her words heavy with the weight of shared sorrow. She placed a gentle hand on your belly, a silent acknowledgment of your pain. Overwhelmed by the emotions of the moment, you couldn't hold back a sob, and the two of you embraced tightly. In that moment, she became your sister in grief, and your shared loss bound you together in a way that words couldn't express.

As she and her husband began their descent, you watched them with a heavy heart. The blanket you had intended for your own child now wrapped around her lifeless baby, providing some small comfort in their time of mourning. 

Left alone once more, you couldn't hold back your tears as you watched the husband carefully guide his grieving wife down the steep cliff and out of sight. As they disappeared from your view, a profound sense of isolation settled over you, and you wept softly, your heart heavy with sorrow.

Returning to the healing waters, you couldn't help but notice that your contractions had inexplicably ceased. Confused but hopeful, you gently felt around your belly and were met with a delicate, reassuring movement from within. A smile, albeit a tearful one, graced your face as you carefully lowered yourself back into the pool, ready to embrace whatever destiny the Gods had in store for you.

The sun began its descent, casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape. From your elevated position, you had a perfect view of the sky as it transformed into a breathtaking canvas of purple, pink, and orange ribbons. As you smiled to yourself, entranced by the beauty of nature, an unusual sound suddenly pierced the tranquility of the moment, snapping your attention to the cliff edge. Your heart raced as you strained to identify the source of this unexpected disturbance, a sense of both trepidation and curiosity gripping you.

As if by magic, a form suddenly flipped up onto the solid ground level with the pool. A small, green being emerged, making noises that were nearly drowned out by the roar of the waterfall. Yet, an overwhelming feeling of joy washed over you as you beheld the sight of this tiny creature toddling towards you.

Driven by curiosity and amazement, you pushed yourself up and out of the water. Your birthing gown clung to your body as you moved, but you paid it no mind. Stepping onto the rock, you slowly rounded the corner of the pool to greet the small being.

To your astonishment, you realized it was a baby, with wide, innocent eyes and a furious babble. The baby lifted its tiny hands towards you, and you couldn't help but crouch down as best you could, your heart filled with warmth. "Noona?" you asked the little creature with a soft, amused laugh. In response, the tiny being gave you a toothy grin, and it made you laugh even more.

Your attention, however, shifted from the small being to a pair of gloved hands gripping the side of the rocky cliff. Your breath caught in your throat as you recognized those gloves, and heat rushed into your face. With wide eyes, you watched as a figure clad in silver beskar, a Mandalorian, lifted themselves effortlessly over the cliff face and stood there with an almost regal grace.

From your crouched position, you observed as the green baby waddled over to the Mandalorian and tugged on his shin armor. The Mandalorian, with his helmeted face turned towards the child, bent down to pick up the little one, and you couldn't hide the confusion that replaced your initial joy.

—

Din's eyes remained locked on your form as he swiftly pulled himself up onto the flat surface of the cliff. He saw you kneeling down, fingers outstretched towards Grogu, the shock etched across your face. But his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the wet dress that clung to your swollen belly, a stark reminder of your impending motherhood.

As he felt Grogu tugging at his shin armor, he silently bent down to pick up the child. Still, his eyes remained fixed on you, and he struggled to find the right words to explain this unexpected reunion.

“I... I had a dream,” he finally managed to say, his voice choked with emotion.

Your eyes softened, and he witnessed your composure crumbling before him. Your confused and shocked expression melted into a soft frown as tears welled up in your eyes. Before he fully registered it, his feet carried him closer, and he knelt down in front of you with Grogu still cradled in his arms. He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, hoping to offer some form of reassurance.

"Please... don't cry," he implored softly, the tenderness in his voice evident. However, he watched as you recoiled from his touch, your reaction sharp and violent, like a wounded animal cornered in fear.

— 

"Don't cry," his voice was a gentle whisper from behind as he reached out to sweep your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear with his left hand. His thumb, soft and reassuring, brushed away a solitary tear that had collected in the corner of your eye, preventing it from descending down your cheek.

The cold, unyielding embrace of his armor pressed against your back, a constant reminder of his presence, as if he permeated every inch of the room. You lay face down on the makeshift bed within the opulent suite, placed there by him in silence. His helmet tucked against the back of your head as his right hand reached around the front of your body to work open your tight entrance. He smelled like musk, metal, and something floral.

You didn't know his name, and in truth, you knew very little about him. All you knew was that he had paid a considerable sum for your services and bore a mudhorn symbol on his pauldron. The hushed whispers from the other women in the establishment painted a picture of a bounty hunter, a formidable figure who held the favor of the new Daimyo. He was a source of fear and fascination, and the idea of him both terrified and intrigued you. But, above all, you craved freedom more than anything else, and this was a means to an end.

As the moments unfolded, you couldn't hold back the tears that escaped, mingling with a confusing mix of emotions. It wasn't bad; he wasn't unkind. In fact, you found him surprisingly polite. He had said nothing, just removed his gloves and led you to the makeshift bed, where he now pressed into your body from behind.

It felt fine, maybe even surprisingly good, but your stubbornness held strong. You were determined not to give the foreman the satisfaction of knowing you enjoyed the path you had chosen to earn your freedom. The thought of succumbing to pleasure and surrendering to the moment felt like weakness, and you clung to your resolve with unwavering determination.

However, as his fingers moved softly, so softly, you couldn't help but feel your resistance slowly crumbling. Each touch was skillful, and the sensations they evoked were impossible to ignore.

You could feel a pleasure building within you as he continued his careful thrusting into your tightness. His thick fingers curled slightly as his thumb worked your clit. His left hand rests by your head as he made sure to move any hair out of your face. You had no idea if he was watching you through his visor, but you had assumed so because he wiped your tears and told you not to cry. The build up turned into a tightness that needed to be released, he could tell by how hot you’d gotten under him and how your walls fluttered on his fingers. 

He felt a pride well up in him at the knowledge that he still had the ability to bring a woman pleasure but also that you’d finally relaxed enough to allow yourself to feel this. He closed his eyes for a moment just to focus on how your walls felt around his fingers, he willed himself to listen to your body. Upon each drawback of his fingers he worked to spread your tight cunt just slightly- three, four, five more thrusts of his fingers and he felt you tremble under him. 

His eyes snapped open, and he observed you biting your hand to stifle any sounds. He felt the flutter of your walls on his fingers as he stilled in order to relish in the feel your softness. He watched you come back from wherever you had gone in your high, his hand moving gently to caress the hand you had bitten, the teeth marks already leaving a faint purplish hue. As his thumb brushed over the marked area, he felt the slight tremor in your body, your vulnerability laid bare, and saw the glistening tears welling up in your eyes once more. 

“Don’t cry.” he said again before moving to sit back on his heels. He admired your form, the way the flame lit room made your skin look like silk. You were totally bare to him, he’d undressed you slowly and carefully placed your clothing next his gloves on the chair. He was still fully clothed save for the gloves he’d removed. He watched as your form began to stir, and he carefully placed a hand on your lower back to keep you down. You immediately complied. With a sigh he slowly ran his hand down your back to the curve of your ass and to the back of your thigh. He could see the slick from your arousal glimmering in the soft light. 

He could see everything, every intimate part of you, and yet he didn’t allow you the joy of seeing him. He couldn’t. 

You sat, staring at the wall ahead of you, the seconds feeling like hours, with him seated behind you. The situation was embarrassing, and you could only hope he wasn't disgusted. You had assumed he was finished with you after whatever had just happened, only to be gently pushed back onto the bed, not harshly but rather in a silent, pleading manner. After a moment, you heard him stir behind you, and you froze, your ears attuned to his every movement.

You heard a soft rustling of fabrics and buckles. He came to rest on you again, with his left hand resting by your left hand. His right hand gripped your waist as he shifted you back towards him. This position shifted you more so your backside was resting against his thighs while your chest was flush with the pillows beneath you. He was able to bend over you more like this so he comfortably rested on his left arm above you. 

His right hand left your waist and you felt the warmth of his hand in between your legs. You could feel the soft head of his hard cock turn to velvet as he ran it through your slick folds. You clenched the pillow underneath you as you braced yourself for the pain the other women had told you about. You felt pressure against your entrance and instinctively you tried to move away only to feel his hand move like lightning from between your thighs to your waist as he anchored you in place. 

He didn’t say anything just held you there as he slowly pushed the head of his cock deeper into your entrance. His grip once iron on your waist turned soft as his thumb brushed circles into the skin there. Slowly he sank deeper and that’s when you felt it, the sharp uncomfortable sting. You tensed under him at the pain and you felt him freeze above you. His left hand moved to grab your face beneath him, turning your cheek so he could see you. You looked over your left shoulder to peer up at him, his cold visor returning your gaze. You couldn't help the tear that fell as you clutched the pillows.

"Don't..." his voice was strained through the vocoder, and you knew he was holding back, for you.

—

"Do not say that to me!" Your pained and thickly accented voice ripped through the air as you swatted his arm away. The green child yelped softly at your sudden movement.

Din's eyes widened. It was the first thing you had said to him. You hadn't spoken a word that night. He recoiled from you in shame.

He watched as you cried, emotions swirling within him like a chaotic storm. 

"You shouldn't be out here," he managed to say as he stood abruptly, his words tinged with a mixture of concern and frustration. He glanced around, finally taking in the grim surroundings. Blood still pooled on the rocky ground where the woman had given birth earlier. Even worse, the remains of skeletons lay strewn about, their shattered bones mixed with the gravel under his boots.

"This is a graveyard, not a place for a woman in your condition to give birth," he grumbled, regretting the harshness of his words. The eerie desolation of this place was overwhelming, and he couldn't make sense of anything. The grim reality of death and birth intertwined in this forsaken corner of the galaxy was too much for him to bear.

Your face, your soft, beautiful, and glowing face looked up at him then. 

"This is where I am meant to be," your broken voice hit him right in the chest.

For a moment, Din just stood there, his helmeted gaze locked on you. Grogu stirred in his arms and he set the child down. His gaze shifted from Grogu to the pack leaning against the rocky wall, the very same pack he had seen a man carrying at the market, with his wife in tow. It was the same pack he had witnessed being carried by the man who was desperate, carrying his bleeding wife. The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place in Din's mind.

"Did you... carry that alone?" he asked, his curiosity piqued as he looked from you to the pack and back.

You huffed, annoyance coloring your features, and moved to stand. Din instinctively reached out to help you, but you swatted his hand away. You stood, resolute, and locked eyes with him through his visor.

"Yes. I am illa-ishi," you declared firmly, your words laden with meaning.

Din furrowed his brow, confused by the unfamiliar term. "Illa-ishi?" he repeated, the word alien to him.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realized he didn't understand. "I am a lonely mother," you tried to find the right words that could translate to Basic.

He continued to stare, his helmet giving away nothing. You huffed in frustration and attempted again, simplifying your words. "I am alone." you finally settled on, hoping he would grasp the essence of your situation.

Din just stared at you, seemingly uncomprehending. You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and the green child peered up at you, as if offering a sympathetic glance. Frustrated with the language barrier, you turned to walk towards your pack and bedroll.

As you began to walk away, Din's gloved hand gently gripped your upper arm, stopping you in your tracks. You shot an annoyed look back at him, silently demanding an explanation for his actions.

Din's gloved thumb moved soothingly circles on your arm, his gaze locked on you. He took a moment to search for the right words, his voice barely rising above a gravelly whisper.

"Is...is this mine?" he questioned, his words weighted with uncertainty, his voice low and husky.

Your eyes fixated on his hand caressing your arm, and tears welled up again, threatening to break free. You bit your lip in a futile attempt to hold them back, forcing yourself to look directly into the reflective visor of his helmet. You saw your own tear-streaked face in the cold, mirrored surface of the Mandalorian's armor, and it was a sight that turned your stomach.

"Yes. I've... never been with another. Only you," the confession tumbled from your lips, the words feeling strange and heavy in your mouth. Your body tensed, and you felt a sudden, sharp tightness envelop you, a contraction, your first since the bleeding mother had shown up. You gasp in agony as your knees buckle under you. 

"Dank farrik!" Din's initial worry had given way to frustration as he cursed under his breath. He reached out and grabbed you, his gloved hands steadying you gently while Grogu made a sad noise from his perch on the ground.

"We have to get you out of here. Is there a medcenter near here?" His voice trembled with desperation as he crouched down to meet your gaze.

"What?!" You hissed exasperatedly through the pain, your frustration and agony making you bristle.

"Medcenter!" Din almost yelled, and his eyes widened when you shoved him away.

"Issa noona ibaniss a plantissia ata mountina as illa! As illa a ma a iss!" you shouted at him in anguish, your words foreign to his ears but laced with undeniable determination. (My baby will be born on this planet, at the Mountain of Mothers, like my mother and the one before her!)

Din stood there, still as stone, as your scream washed over him. 

He looked at you, his gaze falling to your trembling hands, one of them wrapped in blood-soaked gauze. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself and regain control.

He was going about this the wrong way. You had climbed the treacherous cliff, your cloth bore the sigil of the Mudhorn, and your pack was identical to the ones the men had carried. You had a well-thought-out plan; he just hadn't been part of it.

With newfound determination, he approached you, taking careful, measured steps. Kneeling down beside you, he spoke softly, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"How do I help you?" he asked, his words breaking through the haze of pain that enveloped you.

You slowly looked up at him through your tears, your eyes locked onto his helmet. For a moment, you were at a loss for words, your mouth slightly ajar as you processed the situation. With a trembling hand, you pointed towards the spring nearby. "Take me there," you said softly, your voice heavy with the weight of your suffering. 

In an instant, Din's strong hands found purchase under your knees and behind your back, and he lifted you with great care, not wanting to cause you any harm. You flushed with the ease of him carrying you, a thought flickering across your mind of how much simpler scaling the cliff might have been if he had been there. But you dismissed the thought as quickly as it came, focusing on the immediate task at hand. You wrapped your left arm around the back of his neck and placed your right hand protectively over your belly, the hard surface of his armor uncomfortably pressing against your side as he carried you toward the inviting hot spring.

"I can go from here," you said in thick, broken Basic, attempting to wiggle out of his grasp.

Din regarded you, confusion clear in his eyes as he tried to understand. His gaze alternated between the steaming water and your face. "You want to go in the water?" he asked, as if seeking confirmation.

"Yes, I can go from here," you repeated, pushing against him with a touch of defiance. His grip tightened, surprising you with its strength, and you nearly yelped in response. Shooting him a displeased look, you tried to assert your independence.

"What, and let you slip?" he asked, gazing at you through his visor before looking ahead. "No." He had made up his mind, and there was no arguing with the Mandalorian's decision.

As you were lowered into the hot spring, the initial shock of the water's heat gave way to a soothing relief. Din was surprised by how inviting it felt, and he understood why pregnant women sought refuge in such places. The water enveloped his boots and rose just above his knees as he carried you into the pool. You held onto him with a newfound intensity as he descended, afraid that he might lose his footing. Your disbelief mixed with gratitude as you realized the extent of his support.

Finding solid ground beneath the water, Din gently released your knees, allowing your feet to dip into the warm embrace of the pool. His hand slid from your back to your waist, ensuring your stability, and he positioned himself behind you in the water. You stood just below his chin, and if he desired, he could easily rest his chin on your head. His right hand remained on your waist, his gloved fingers splayed out on your side, providing you with a reassuring and protective presence.

A powerful surge of emotion overcame Din as he felt the subtle movements of the life within you under his fingertips. He stood there, motionless and transfixed, as you faced away from him, both of you submerged in the comforting warmth of the spring. His eyes traced the contour of your back, the gentle rise and fall as you breathed, and then slowly, as if compelled by an invisible force, he found himself resting his forehead against the back of your head, his helmet touching your soft hair.

He grappled with where to place his left hand, uncertain of the right way to provide comfort. His gaze drifted downwards, fixating on the water where he saw your dress floating softly as it began to soak in the pool. Carefully, he moved his left hand to the small of your back, gripping the back of your waist with a gentle touch.

In the midst of his turmoil, a soft, barely audible sob escaped his lips, and tears welled up inside his helmet, tracing their way down his cheek. "I'm sorry," he uttered, his voice broken and full of guilt. It was a plea for forgiveness, an attempt to convey the overwhelming regret that consumed him. He clung to your form, feeling the life inside you, the life he had a part in creating and then abandoned. 

His wallowing in self-recrimination was shattered by the sound of your voice and the tender touch of your hand as it caressed his right hand.

"Don't cry," your words were soft and filled with sincerity. In that moment, as the tears flowed within his helmet, you offered him understanding and forgiveness. He felt worthy of neither. 

#din djarin x pregnant reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin #mando #the mandalorian #mando x reader #star wars #star wars the mandalorian #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters

[wmarximoff]

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: you return home after being kicked out of college - your father is not happy, but your stepmother certainly is.

warnings (18+): smut, very light somnophilia hints, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), stepcest, unspecified legal age-gap, mommy kink, heavy mommy issues, sizable daddy issues, drinking, smoking, praise kink, certain amounts of angst, bad parenting, breastfeeding. MINORS DNI.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 4k

A/N: and the whole writing about stepmom!Wanda thing is getting worse…

masterlist.|

༺ᱬ༻

It was a sunny late afternoon, warm on the skin underneath your clothes, when you took the lighter close to the cigarette that appeared between your parted lips and ran the surface of your thumb across the spark wheel, creating the necessary ignition for the ember to flicker and ignite the tip of that little white cylinder, which blinked like a firefly down your nose tip.

Your sense of smell captured an emanation of wholesome, sour, idle odor – an act of teenage rebellion turned into a noxious addiction. A puff of thick white smoke rose from your nostrils. Someone gave you a crooked look when you sighed in heavy smoke.

You were sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of a long-standing oak tree in the middle of the small green square of the city, which sheltered you in the shadows of its ancient branches, in the surroundings of the structure of the white wooden gazebo that could well have been there since the fifties; the small convenience stores spread all around, the people staring at you because they all knew your fate – what your return to Westview represented, the flaw in the perfect family picture.

Everyone in town knew your parents, your father and stepmother, Jarvis (Vis for those neighbors who were more superficially intimate) and Wanda, and so your name was thrown to the wind with totally disconnected intonations to the public admiration assigned to that couple, typical small-town good samaritans – you spray-painted a billboard or got caught by the sheriff drinking in front of the gas station convenience at just sixteen years old, even though you never bothered to hide your petty misdeeds in none of these cases.

It had been a week since your return, seven days had passed that very morning. The short drive back had been as quiet as it could be – a few hours, no more, objectively and adamantly quiet to the core; the well-trained ear would just catch the sound of the asphalt sliding under the well-heeled car's tires, vibrating and petulant, icy air being expelled from the air-conditioning in cold puffs against the warm skin of your face, in a swath soon under your chin.

You followed, solemnly, your tired eyes behind your heavy lids, as the melancholy houses passed by the gloomy panorama presented in that small suburban town, sweet little houses with buttery walls and windows with wide open light cotton curtains, all surrounded by meters of pointed low wooden fences standing close together in lavish, sweeping rows in front of well-trimmed green lawns and behind neat sidewalks and vibrant trees.

You weren't born in Westview , in the heart of New Jersey, but outside in the neighborhoods of that city where all the smallest details had throughout your early life were derived – at the height of your simple ten or eleven years of age, overwhelming in an air of rebellion for an orphaned child of a resigned mother and lacking the affection of a disinterested father, that was the location chosen by that man as a starting point of the unusual life of him as a newlywed, at the time, with your stepmother Wanda Maximoff, pushing for suburban life patterned within the traditionalist mold of a square box, as socially anachronistic as it gets.

Jarvis Stark was a reserved and rather austere man, after all, an old-fashioned thinker, a classic political liberal and an unyielding conservative – abandoned by his first wife with the eldest daughter he didn't know how to raise, a father of three, the breadwinner, a proud Republican voter. And you were, then, the twenty-year-old daughter, the eldest failure, who was asked to withdraw from college because your grades were worthy of nothing but shame and stoning in the public square.

So you believed that only conformism could soothe you out of your succinct attachment to the reality which you found yourself, deeply enraged and dangerously bored, somewhere on the fine line that separated these two opposite poles of mood from ego. The car swerved around a corner, your childhood home looming into view at the end of the street. Westview, always the same, never different. So you sighed, a heavy, icy sigh, lifting and lowering your chest inside the baggy shirt you'd pulled over your head hours earlier.

Sighing was the little you could do, but perhaps it could be a prudent way of expressing your discontent with the current situation around you when Jarvis parked the car in front of the family home, Wanda's well-tended rose bushes rising into the front yard in a polychromatic vortex of blood red color.

The window of your old room upstairs looked at you gloomily as if it didn't want to welcome you back – nobody did, after all. And you looked at it as if you could stone it, with all the hatred worthy of a child that no one ever wanted to harbor wrapped up inside an adult body barely rigid to the touch.

“Y/n,” your father's dictatorial voice echoed into the silence that filled the vehicle, his pale cerulean eyes behind the lenses of his thin-rimmed glasses staring only at the leather steering wheel, irises hard with fury, never turning back to your figure sitting on the bench next to him.

“Before we go in I want one thing to be clear here, Y/n. I’m not kidding. You're not a child anymore, though you're still behaving like one, and I'm not going to treat you like one. I'm going to treat you like an adult, because that's what you are now. The playtime is over. I will no longer tolerate this type of behavior on your part.”

There was a silent pause, not long enough to give you the go-ahead to come up with a response to that man in the cashmere blazer and dark turtleneck blouse, a philosophy teacher who was dissatisfied with the denial of his academic career that had confined him eternally to the position of high school teacher.

“You're going to have to grow up. Do you even understand what that means, at least? Nothing is free anymore, the world is not going to be kind to you, and neither am I. Tomorrow you will look for a job and while you are living under my roof until you can support yourself, you will have to contribute to the household expenses and follow my rules. No more drinking, smoking, being up late or loud music, all of that is over now. If you want to have a bed and food on your plate inside my house, you will do it my way. Did I made myself clear, Y/n?”

And then Jarvis looked at you with the recognition of a father thundering in the circle of his blue irises, but the kind of father who doesn't much like to acknowledge that you are the kind of child he made, that his strict upbringing backfired and culminated in an as unserviceable adult as you could be, a reactionary time bomb in all the splendor of your young-coming-of-age as irresponsible and immature as you could be.

“Did I made myself clear, Y/n?!” he repeated, because his answer was silence. Eyes staring back at him as a result of the upbringing he gave you, your icy breath misting inside the car.

“Crystal clear, Dad,” cynicism crept under your tongue, spitting bitterness between your teeth. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of taming your fury like an angry dog gagged at a muzzle – you never have before, after all.

That man stared at you for a single broken second as if he was going to stuff his tight nostrils to say anything, but he didn't, not in the way he could have said it. He just unfastened the seat belt across his broad chest and looked straight ahead again, stoic, ever so categorical and impassive.

“Fine,” said Jarvis, then already leading his long, bony right fingers to the doorknob, “And while you're here you're going to obey your mom and help her with the housework. This is an order, Y/n. I don't expect less than that.”

There was no opening for an answer as he then got out of the car and closed the door behind him with a hollow thud. Your eyes burned the back of the café-au-lait-colored blazer your father wore on his tall, skinny body with a vaguely British bearing, and a whisper that only your ears caught was said in the icy air inside the car.

“She’s not my mom...”

Stepping out of the car into the sweltering heat of a small town was an act at least fueled by the humiliation that weighed on the muscles just above your shoulder blades, your head hanging down with gravity in a vague impression of cowardice – on the contrary, however, since the poison running through your veins was of pure yellowing fury that compelled you to crease your brow. It's been a week, and you still haven't found a job, and your dad still doesn't lock eyes with you. Not that it mattered. It didn't matter, he never did before.

The afternoon sun hid behind the hills in the distance, and night fell like a veil over the small-town square. Conveniences closed their doors and you started walking. Going back to your childhood home depressed you, but you knew that in time it would stop bothering you. Going back to the childhood home where your father lived with his wife and his other children was what made an unpleasant impression on your nerves.

Especially when going up the three measly white painted wooden steps of the porch that led to the main entrance door of that family residence, with the night also coming the sloppiness worthy of a soul so enraged that only a young girl kicked from the university could contain within herself.

Your father's car wasn't in the driveway, and your younger half-brothers, the twins, were nowhere to be found or to be seen – not on the sofa in front of the television, not a single whiff of two ten-year-olds coming from upstairs. Only she was there, gracefully seated on the dark linen sofa, sipping expensive wine, as red as the roses and her fingernails and her long, glossy locks, in front of the television that was flashing some old program she liked.

Wanda Maximoff, your father's wife, your brothers' mother. A pair of eyes with emerald irises that blinked green in the low lights of the room and crossed their path with your figure standing in the doorway. There was the hint of a tentative smile that was stopped halfway when Wanda looked at you.

“Oh, hello dear, are you–” you looked at her when she did too, “Y/n?”

And something intrinsic to the red core of her soul just unraveled the complex puzzle expressed in the muscles of your face (call it maternal instinct or just taking the time to really pay attention to you), as she promptly discarded the glass of half-drunk wine onto the coffee table in front of the sofa and then leap to her feet, only to cross the living room towards you, like an angel coming to your rescue when all the world around you seems to be in pieces, crumbling and falling. Wanda always noticed you. Wanda was always there for you when no one else in the world was.

“Y/n,” her low voice called out to you, so imbued with warmth and affection, the only person to ever say your name in such a cordial and specious way that it just made you want to hear that word slip past her pearly lips again and again.

“Y/n, honey, is everything okay?” green eyes peered into you before twitching her dark brows, such a sweet expression on such a handsome face, such prominent cheekbones.

“Did you go out for a smoke? It's been a while since you left. And you didn't even let me know before... you only act like that when you're upset, honey. Is everything okay?” a complacent hand of hers reached for your fingers, holding them in a warm, gentle touch, “You know you can talk to me about anything you have in mind, Y/n.”

“I know,” you pursed your lips into a contrite line, Wanda looking into your sleepy eyes and your smell of cigarette smoke, her left thumb stroking the skin on the back of your right hand, “I know, I– I'm just... sorry, I'm... I'm just tired. I'm tired as fuck… Mama.”

“Oh, my baby,” Wanda whimpered, “It's okay, it's okay... my poor baby, Mama is here. Mama is here for you. Come here, honey.”

And then Wanda pulled you into a hug. A long hug, protecting your stepmother's body, her arms encircled around your shoulders, crimson-dyed nails caressing in soft touches the nape of your neck. Your right cheek rested against her left collarbone that poked beneath the thin white wool sweater Wanda wore across her torso. She was warm and comfortable, as only a mother could be – she smelled like a mother.

“It's fine, baby, it's fine, your dad and the boys are out. It's alright, Mama will take care of you my sweet, beautiful girl. Come on, let's go to bed. You need to relieve your stress, honey. Let Mama take care of you.”

And you were feeling her, her figure lifted against your cold body again as it always should be, roaming your nose through the warm strands of orange in a shade of red hair half auburn, the tousled strands exuding an exotic and distinctive dry shampoo scent on an invisible background of freshly applied hair dye. You in your stepmother’s arms, with a hint of cigarettes and the purest melancholy you were sinking into.

She held you as she had that first time, even a few years before that, when you staggered drunkenly down the driveway right after your high school prom night – the inside of your mouth tasted stale, wrinkled, the insides of your cheeks numb, a rudimentary bitter taste flooding the length of your pink tongue, oozing through your teeth the heat of the sly alcohol that chained you in a catatonic state of chronic sickness, numbing down your feelings.

And Wanda, like a good, worried mother never being able to bring herself to fall asleep next to her husband who was snoring in their bed upstairs, not letting her spirits cool down knowing that her eldest child was out and the clock was already past three o'clock in the morning at that point, was there waiting for you. As she had already done so much and so much more she would have to do, Wanda looked at you from the sofa when you opened the door, dragging your heels in soft steps into the house.

“Where were you?” was the first thing the low tone of voice across the room did reach your drunken ears, a pair of verdant irises burning holes in your forehead, “The deal was until midnight at the latest, Y/n. It's almost four o'clock in the morning! I was worried sick about you!”

The world around you was like being on the deck of a fishing vessel in a storm on the high seas, confused and treacherous, ready to engulf you in an eternal sullen, salty darkness. From beneath heavy lids, you glared at Wanda with brazen scorn leaking from your irises.

“Fuck you.”

“…What did you just said to me?”

There was a second of silence. You had to place a sinuous hand on the wall near the left side of your body to force yourself to continue standing during the afterglow of dawn, since, drunk as a skunk, cheeks as red as two ripe apples, eyes lost – you didn't even had an idea what you were talking about.

“Fuck you,” you repeated under your breath, the words as bitter as the alcohol pooled in the corners of your mouth cavity, “You’re not my mom.”

And you couldn't even tell why you said it, words so disloyal and tormenting, raw and piercing, that the woman older than you just didn't need to hear that night – after all, Wanda was your mother in a way, the closest you've been to one since the woman who conceived, bore, and gave birth to you decided to pack her suitcases in the car and disappear one afternoon when your father was away.

But Wanda has always been there for you from the moment her figure became a constant presence in your life. Wanda was the woman who raised you, who gave you the first taste of a sweet maternal love, so discordant and confusing for your cognition worthy of an abused animal. Wanda was the first woman you loved because she was the only person who loved you back.

“I'm sorry,” you wailed in a limp lisp, becoming aware of the sharp pain in your stepmother's vexed brows, the disappointed hesitation in the wavering green of her gaze, “I'm sorry, Wanda, it wasn't my – it wasn't my… my intention–”

“It's okay,” her voice was low, carrying a grief-stricken weight, “You're drunk and I…I overreacted– I know it's not my job, I'm just your stepmo–”

“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head, your eyes filled with tears of confusion, “No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I– I'm sorry–”

“Y/n, it’s okay–”

“No, Wanda–”

And so you crossed the room quickly on your shifted ankles, your lack of motor coordination even reminiscent of a hesitant child staggering still learning to walk – your balance was internal, vulnerable.

“Wanda...”

You cried out for her, stepping across that plush rug to under the coffee table. Your arms raised, probed by the maternal touch that you were denied so early on, everything that you were deprived of and that you only sought to drink from Wanda until the last drop. She looked at you with affection, such an unfamiliar affection, her face too close. But your drunken brain couldn't even prepare you for the soft feel of the commission of your stepmom's peach lips, still tasting faintly of minty mouthwash, against your rough mouth that tasted like cheap beer and rancid blues.

You had kissed Wanda, because your body needed to have her close on an intrinsic level, to her core, as if you wanted to hide from the world within the amenities of her womb. And she kissed you back because she loved you, she always had, absorbing you with strong arms into her motherly warmth, giving you a security that alone you could never reach.

“M-Mama...” your lips connected again, in the living room of that house where only one family lived. And you laid her back on the sofa cushions where your brothers, her children, birthed by her, spend most of their day playing video games.

“Shh, it's okay, it's okay, baby,” Wanda whispered in a love sigh, one hand stroking the alcohol-warm skin of your cheek, you on top of her on those pillows, your heart pounding in your chest, the pride of a mother looking at you through green eyes.

“Mama is here for you, my little girl.”

Wanda pulled you down for another kiss, your knee vaguely brushing the hollow of her inner thighs, skimming against the thin pajama bottoms she was wearing. You apologized softly, stroking her where you could, where your touch reached, on her tummy rolls and in every graceful stretch mark that appeared in your stepmother's bulky silhouette on top of that sofa, with the family portraits hanging on the wall next to the stairs bearing witness to what you had to do. Calling her, reaching for her, for Wanda, for Mama, one being synonymous with the other.

What you did all summer of that year when your dad was away and your brothers were at some other friend's house, on the living room couch biting a pillow and at the kitchen table with her red nails dug into the crown of your head, on your bed of freshly laundered sheets and hers too, crammed with feminine perfume and the sweet red scent of her pomegranate moisturizer – Wanda on top, you on the bottom, she all on all fours, you behind her clamoring with your hips for what was yours, with an adulterine urge to be physically inside her innards at all times.

Even back home from the first semester of college that you already knew you would not finish, during the night when Wanda snuck out of her bedroom shared with Jarvis only to ride your thigh like an animal in heat, because she had missed you so much that her body ached.

“My little girl,” she said, “Mama has missed you so, so much, I can't bear the thought of being away from you, Y/n, please don't leave me again,” and the feeling was as mutual as it could be, because you also couldn't stand spending so much time away from an affection like no other ever felt by your empty and abandoned chest. You would always seek the motherly comfort Wanda had to offer to ward off your ills and soothe your spirits.

Even returning home after the failure of a dead academic life, your stepmother would always welcome you with open arms and legs – the sharpened ridge of red-painted fingernails digging into the thin skin above your shoulder blades, crescent-shaped marks piercing your flesh, marking you as hers, the headboard bumping in impassive rhythm against the wall, you rutting into Wanda's cunt with a silicone toy she had bought solely for your amusement.

“Mama,” you spit against the gleaming sweat from Wanda's throat, your hips bumping in wet slaps that echoed off the four walls of the room, your skin sliding against each other, “Mama, I love you, I love you, Mama...”

“Mama loves you too, baby,” Wanda moaned in a broken voice, “Mama loves you too. Mama loves absolutely everything about you, my little girl.”

You thrust that fake dick down her hole with a yelp of lustful satisfaction, a deafening delight, giving your stepmother's womb a rushing sense of pleasure. It was the height of belonging – being inside her, being embraced by her walls, feeling her loosen up internally to receive you all. It didn't matter that her wedding ring, placed on that finger by your father, felt so cold behind your back.

“Mama, Mama I– I’m gonna–” you growled, your brow furrowed, your hips crashing into hers in waves, your breaths ragged and shabby, your thrusts hard and sloppy, “I'm gonna come, Mama, p-please, please, Mama, Mama– M-Mommy! Mommy, I'm gonna come in you!”

“Do it baby, do it,” she smiled, so sweet and complacent beneath you, “Let Mama see your pretty face while you come, sweetheart. Come in Mama, give me all of you.”

Your clit was sliding frantically against the harness that circled your hips, and smelling her, feeling her heat, hearing her moans, was like an explosion inside your belly. You came – hot, strong, a red electric current inside your veins, running down between your thighs.

“Mama!” a squeaky little scream broke out of you, and from that open crack in your soul, the tears flowed down your face. Hot tears that dripped all over Wanda's sternum, mixing with the beads of sweat that exuded from her pores.

“Shh, honey, it's okay, it's okay,” a hand cupping your head brought you to snuggle against her chest, Wanda's heartbeat could be heard from the position you were in, your ear pressed to her skin.

“You did a great job, baby. You've let all your stress out. Mama is so proud of you, honey,” Wanda hummed, fingertips bent stroking your hair humid with warm sweat, “Do you want Mama's milk now, my sweet girl?”

You looked up from under your lids glistening from a silent cry, into her inviting eyes, “Can I…?”

Wanda smiled, “You know you don't have to ask me, sweetheart.”

You blinked once between lashes heavy with lust and tears before looking down at your stepmother's rosy nipple, which you brought to your mouth to close your lips on the circumvallation of it, earning a satisfied groan from Wanda.

With the twins approaching ten years old, there was no longer a single drop of sweet milk to be actually sipped, but something in the comfort imbued in that very intimate action, facing two naked bodies fresh out of the animalistic mist of such a carnal act, was enough for you to do it again and again, whenever you could, whenever she let you.

“That's right baby, that's right,” Wanda's melodious voice crooned, her fingers stroking a lock of hair close to the tip of your ear.

“Mama loves you, did you know that? Mama loves you so much, Y/n. No matter what others say about you, Mama is very proud of you, baby. You are my special girl.”

It was the movement that reconnected the two of you, bringing together two fragments of a shattered whole that, when put together again, made up a complete whole within Wanda. Consuming the human instinctual act, you both merged with a momentary perfection, a holdover of lustful nature during countless lapses of comfortable affability. A new hot tear trickled from the corner of your eye.

“Mama loves you,” Wanda repeated, one hand stroking the length of your back, “Mama loves you very much, my perfect girl.”

#wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda reader #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff imagine #scarlet witch x you #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x y/n #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen x you #elizabeth olsen x female reader #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #fanfic

[vampi-fixx]

Grind My Gears 

- normal au!mechanic!kenpachi zaraki x reader | bleach  - summary: visiting your parents for the holidays is always trifling, but even more so when you (a) just broke up with your ex, (b) you car breaks down halfway there and you’re forced to confront the bad boy you had a thing with in high school, and (c) you realize that you still have feelings for said guy (and he is still. kinda hot. in a scary, rugged way.) - word count: 6.9k words (hehe 69) - tropes: begrudging friends to lovers? awkward fling as teens to rekindling romance as adults? - tw/cw: 18+ minors dni. fem!reader, sex on a table, kenpachi’s foul mouth, several references to kenpachi’s monstrous cock, size kink, fingering, handjobs, dirty talk, underage drinking/smoking?? (20 is legal age in Japan), reader and kenpachi get frisky when they’re 18+ --author’s note: my late secret santa fic for @unohanadaydreams​! sorry this took so long, but i’m hoping the disgustingly long length makes up for it kind of sort of??? disgustingly long like kenpapi’s co-- wow i'll stop

—

“Goddamnit.”

While you’re no expert on cars, you’re certain that the smoke emanating from your car’s hood is not a good sign. Neither is the sputtering sound coming from the area you vaguely recognize as your engine. You’re still an hour away from your parents’ house, back in your old neighborhood, and you’re hoping–praying, even–that your car makes it. But just after taking its final shuddering breath, the car comes to a complete stop, lurching you forward slightly. You turn the key in the ignition once, then twice. 

Nothing.

You smack your hand against the wheel, cursing your luck. You were supposed to be there by noon time, but an unpleasant conversation with your very recent-ex delayed you. Now the sun is dipping past the rim of the sky, dusk approaching. With a heavy sigh, you end up calling a towing service. They offer to drive you to the nearest auto shop, and you agree. 

Zaraki Auto Repair. 

You’re not sure why the familiarity of the name doesn’t register in you sooner. But it’s not until you’re staring at his rugged, scarred face, with his ever-present scowl, that you realize why you should have remembered. 

If he recognizes you, he doesn’t let it on. You don’t think you’re imagining the way his gaze briefly narrows at the sight of you, but then again, it could be him. 

He rarely ever looked happy unless he was fighting.

As he examines your car, you feel yourself clam up. You clench your fists, suddenly aware of the damp sweat accumulating in your palms. Briefly, you debate asking the tow guy if he could drive you to another shop. But when you glance behind you, he’s already gone. 

Damn.

“Damn. You really did a number on this.”

You nearly jump at the sound of his voice, just as gravelly and deep as you remember. It takes you awhile to register what he said. “Is it…” You clear your throat, swallowing past the lump that’s formed. “That bad?”

“Yeah.” Blunt as ever. “Surprised you made it here in one piece. Only an idiot would drive a car in this condition.” 

An idiot. Your eye twitches in annoyance. If you recall correctly, that was something you used to call him. Not the other way around. He mentions something about spark plugs and oil leaks, but truthfully, you don’t care about the specifics. 

“Can you fix it?”

He emerges from under your car, rising to his full height. You nearly forgot how tall he was. Even back in high school he towered over you. Now? The height difference is just ridiculous. 

“Gimme two days.”

And that is how you end up with Kenpachi Zaraki driving you back to your parents’ home, on a route he knew all too well. 

—

He was a delinquent, honestly. 

Your homeroom teacher approached you with the request. “Please… you’re one of the top students in the class. Zaraki… he’s really bringing down our school rankings. Rumors are going around about… it doesn’t paint a good image of our school’s reputation. Maybe you could mentor him?”

Mentor him? You and Kenpachi had gone to the same school since you were babies, sure, and you did live in the same neighborhood. But he was known for his foul attitude and violent nature. He never showed up to classes, and last time a teacher approached him about his behavior, rumor was that they ended up in the hospital. Word on the street was he spent most of his days getting into fights with students from other schools–sometimes even college students. He was a delinquent, in every definition of the word. 

You were certain he would sooner spit in your face than listen to any drivel you had about “making something out of his future” or “the importance of respecting his education.”

But still. Your teacher had begged and pleaded, even offered to write an amazing letter of recommendation, and to put in a good word with the admissions department for one of your dream colleges. Was it bribery? Sure. Did you care about the morality of it? Not really. Still, you had to try and uphold your end of the deal. 

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

Kenpachi stared you down. Despite being only a third year, he was already over six feet tall, taller than some of the staff of the school. Not only was his size intimidating, but the ever-present scowl on his face was too. You weren’t that short, but next to him, anyone would seem small. You were sure that you made a hilarious sight, trying to block him from exiting through the school’s entrance doors.

“Out of my way.”

You crossed your arms, standing before him defiantly. He cocked his head to the side, gaze narrowing. 

“Are you deaf–”

“No. And no. I won’t.”

Kenpachi’s stare bore into you. Even without the scar across his left eye, he made an intimidating sight. One that would have lesser men quaking.

“And why the fuck not? Who are you tell me I can’t leave?”

But for you? You just saw him as a nuisance that had to be taken care of. Unfortunately, by you. You straightened up before him. 

“We have third period class right now,” you snapped back. “What the fuck do you mean why not? Get back to class.”

His eyes raked down your form, seeming to size you up. Finally, he laughed, a dry, rattling sound that for a moment, had you reconsidering your choice of words.

“I didn’t know Seirei’s star student had such a foul mouth.”

You opened your mouth to retort, when he stepped forward. The wolfish look on his face made you falter, suddenly aware of the truth behind some of those rumors. 

He looked like the kind of person who would devour you whole if you showed any hint of weakness.

“Makes you more interesting. You’re not a goody-two-shoes, stuck-up bitch, after all. Still, I don’t like repeating myself. Get out of my way.”

—

“Seriously, I can find a cab.”

“It’s not a problem. We typically offer to drive customers home,” Yumichika says, handing you the paperwork for the repairs. “It’s a courtesy reserved to our clientele.”

You weigh your options. You could Uber to your parents’ house, but you were tight on money… not to mention how much the repairs would cost you. But if you let them drive you there… Well, as long as you weren’t alone in the car with him. Maybe Yumichika or Ikkaku could take you; it would certainly be less awkward. You remember them vaguely from high school, as the two seemed to be in Kenpachi’s inner circle of… you weren’t sure you’d call them friends. Lackeys, maybe. 

Interesting to see that some things never change. 

“Ikkaku can drop you off at your parents’ house,” Yumichika offers, sensing your hesitance. 

As long as it’s not him, you’d accept any help.

“Thank you–” you start.

“I’m driving her home,” Kenpachi says, brusquely entering the office. “I have to go that way anyways.”

While you smile graciously on the outside, internally you’re blanching. In a car? Alone? With him? You think your flaming death trap of a car is perhaps a better alternative. 

It’s too late to reject the offer, though. Your car is already in his garage. 

Kenpachi grabs keys off the counter, motioning for you to follow him with barely a glance back at you. His lack of hesitation is clear–you have no room to reject his offer. 

–

It’s quiet. Too quiet. 

The both of you sit in the car in absolute, stifling silence as he drives. Glancing at your companion, you note that he’s focused on the road, seeming intent on ignoring you if need be. Was he always this unaffected, this distant? You can’t seem to remember much past his wolfish grin, his bored, dismissive eye roll every time you tried to lecture him about school, the way his large hand felt, rough and calloused, as it gripped your thigh–

Woah. Woah woah woah. 

You shake your head, willing the thought away. Now’s not the time to think about that.

Reaching for the radio, you tune it to the closest station. Of course, the very first thing that plays is a love song. Fuck your luck, honestly. Fiddling with the stereo, you desperately try to find something else. Anything else.

After settling on some generic pop song, you settle back into your seat. You catch him staring at you, and swallow down your reservations. 

The past be damned. You can’t stand how awkward and quiet this reunion is going. 

“So, uh… you’re still in town, I see,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“Never moved?”

“Nope.”

God. You forgot he isn’t one for small talk. Never was. Even back then. 

You try again. “Nice of you to inherit your relatives’ car shop.”

“I didn’t. I took it over after the guy I was working for died.”

“Ah.” You nod slowly. 

“He was old. Weak. Couldn’t throw a punch anymore if he tried. Had no family, so he gave the shop to me.”

“Oh. Oh no.”

He shrugs. “People die. Happens all the time. Too bad he couldn’t put up more of a fight before he kicked the bucket.”

This… is starting to sound suspiciously like Kenpachi had a hand in this death. You force yourself to refrain from speculating, reminding yourself that he is giving you a ride. He is fixing your car. You will graciously accept his favors for two days, and after that you will never see him again. 

“I thought you moved to the city?” Kenpachi says suddenly. 

“Y-Yeah. I’m back for the holidays. Visiting my parents.”

He nods. He brings the cigarette he’s holding in one hand up to his lips, inhaling before blowing a puff of smoke out the window.  

In a sudden jab of irritation, you ask, “Are you smoking right next to me?”

—

“Are you smoking in front of me?”

“Yeah. Why?”

The two of you are having lunch together on your school’s rooftop. Kenpachi usually left school around lunch apparently since he didn’t see the point of staying around after morning classes, so you came up with a tactic to get him to stay:

You would pack an extra bento for him as long as he didn’t skip school during lunch period. 

While Kenpachi was initially reluctant to the idea, claiming it was stupid and a waste of your time, after one bite of your food, he came around. It was almost a daily thing now for him to come to class, and for you to offer him some of your food. 

It was his idea to have lunch up here. While you marveled at the view, Kenpachi ruined the mood by mentioning that he really only came up here to smoke, before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. 

“Kenpachi, we’re eighteen. That’s not even legal!”

“Quit your yammering. Mind your own business, would ya,” he said gruffly.

“That’s kind of hard, since you’re doing it right in front of me!” you fumed. 

College acceptance or not, he really wasn’t worth mentoring. 

—

You still at the memory.

“We’re not kids anymore.” His voice interrupted your train of thought. 

Oh, so he did remember you. He was just acting like he didn’t. You toss him an irate look.

“Yeah, but it still smells like shit.” You wrinkle your nose. “And the smell. It lingers.”

He snorts, putting out the cigarette on the door of his car before tossing it behind him. 

“You never change, huh,” he says sardonically. “You still love to nag.” 

You bristle at the comment. You’d like to think you have changed. It’s him that’s still the same. But just as you’re about to retort, the car stills. You were so distracted by your own thoughts that you didn’t realize he parked right in front of your parents’ house. 

“Ever consider you’re the kind of guy who basically asks to be nagged?” you retort. 

“Heh. Can’t say you’re right about that.” 

You gather your things to you, before you realize that, embarrassing as it is, you were so distracted by the idea of being alone with him that you forgot to ask. Turning to face him, you say, “Yumichika never clarified the price. He threw a few figures around but.... How much is it going to be to fix my car?” 

Kenpachi stares at you long and hard.

“Nothing.” You’re about to protest, when he cuts you off with a raised hand. “It’s on the house.”

You give him an incredulous look.

“Seriously? I can’t accept that.”

His stare bores into you. You always found it rather intimidating, but this time, you meet his gaze, raising your chin defiantly. 

He caves first. 

“Fine. Ten thousand yen for the labor. We already have all the parts.”

Based on your experience with mechanics though, that’s still ridiculously cheap. You can’t accept that favor. Your jaw sets as you intend to argue further with him, but then he unlocks the doors, motioning towards your parents’ house. Your mom approaches, waving at the sight of you. 

“Your stop.”

By the time you make it out of his car, greet your parents, and bring your things to the front doorstep, he’s already gone. Driven away.

—

You don’t want him to owe you anything. 

Not after what happened. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t see you anymore. This? Us? It wasn’t even a thing.”

—

Two days later, Yumichika calls you to inform you that your car is ready for pickup. Your dad drops you off at the shop, and after you pay the fees, you ask him where the boss is. With great amusement, he points you towards the back of the shop, sending you a wink as you walk past him, along with a ‘go get him.’

Your face warms. Are you that obvious?

As you approach the car where Kenpachi’s giant frame is positioned under, you have to stifle a laugh. It’s almost hilarious seeing just how small of space he has to contort his large frame into to do the job. 

Once you’re a few feet from him, you clear your throat. “You and me, Rukongai Bar on 80th Street. This Friday. You down?”

A pause. He wheels himself out from under the car. It is the second time since you’ve known him that Kenpachi looks completely caught off-guard. 

“Should a woman really be inviting me to a bar on that side of town?” he finally says, an edge to his tone.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t tell me you suddenly give a shit about gender roles, Kenpachi.”

He seems to think about it. Your palms feel sweaty, and you clench and unclench your hands into fists. You’ve never seen him debate for something this long. He’s always been a man of action. 

“...See you then,” he says, then halts, as if he’s about to add something onto that. Before he shrugs it off, putting down his wrench and wiping his hands on a rag. 

You fidget. Somehow it feels wrong to leave off on that note. 

“The car looks great, by the way. Seems like it runs better.”

He nods. “It should. Spent all day and night working on it.”

Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks heat up. Your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“R-Really? You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs again. “I promised it by a certain date. Had to get the job done.”

“As thanks, then…” you say, finding your voice once more. “Please allow me to treat you to some drinks!”

“Alright,” he says. As if it is the easiest thing in the world. 

Just two adults getting drinks together. Two adults getting to catch up again, after having grown up and spent several years apart. Two adults who or may not have a history with each other. Two adults who may or may not still have a lingering fondness for one another. 

It could be that simple, right? 

Right?

–

As Friday approaches, you grow oddly giddy. So much so that nothing can dampen your mood. Not your family’s comments at their holiday gatherings, the you really still haven’t found someone yet? quips. Not the sympathetic looks when one of your parents chimes in about you going through a recent breakup. Nothing. 

After one such party, you check your phone, which you haven’t done all night. 

Two unread messages. 

One of them from an unknown number. 

“Kenpachi. Make sure your gas doesn’t fall below half a tank for at least a month.”

The other. From an all too familiar name. One that you thought you blocked after your last fight. 

“Hey, can we talk? I know we left off on a bad foot, but I miss you–”

You don’t even finish reading the message before you toss the phone onto your bed. Heart pounding, you plop onto the edge of your bed, clutching a hand to your chest.

What are the odds that you would meet Kenpachi again, after all these years. The odds that it was his auto shop that your car was towed to. The odds that you would still feel something after all this time. And the odds that it would be while you were still heart-broken over your–

History has a funny way of repeating itself. 

–

It was all way too much. The stress of entrance exams, compounded with the fact that your boyfriend of three years had just broken up with you. And not to mention, dealing with fucking Kenpachi, who you had to tutor because his grades were atrocious. 

“If you’re going to be an ass,” you said, dropping your notebooks and textbooks unceremoniously onto the table. The loud thud did little to ease your sour mood. Honestly, the fact that Kenpachi decided to actually show up this time did little to comfort you either. You were out for blood. “Please don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

To his credit, he usually knew when to shut up. He was the kind who didn’t waste words if he didn’t need to.

Kenpachi raised a brow. “What’s got your panties in a tangle?”

You didn’t know why. It’s not like it was uncharacteristic of him to be crass. It wasn’t even him necessarily. It’s more that everything had piled up, and his comment was the last thing you needed before you snapped. 

He was certainly the last person you should be doing this in front of. But you burst into tears in front of him. Your words jumbled in a barely intelligible train of sobbing.

“I just… I just got broken up with, okay? And I don’t exactly f-feel like going out, much less coming to the library to tutor you, when you don’t even show up half the time! And college exams are so s-s-stressful, I’ve been biting my nails down to the beds. Everyone has such h-high expectations for me, but I don’t think I can m-meet them.”

Kenpachi was stunned into silence. He stared at you as if you had suddenly grown two heads. You didn’t know why, but his lack of response stung even more. Of course, what could you expect? This was Kenpachi, for crying out loud. Your school’s number one delinquent. He wouldn’t know what to do. 

Finally, uncomfortably, as if he wasn’t used to being the shoulder to cry on (you doubt he was), he handed you a handkerchief that he grabbed from another student passing by. They complained, but a look from Kenpachi silenced them before they scurried off. 

You dabbed your eyes with it, sniffling. 

Still awkward, he rubbed the back of his spiky hair. He said it almost like a command. Which in hindsight, was even more hilarious–to see just how out of place Kenpachi was with a woman’s emotions.

“Nothing and no one is worth your tears. So just… I dunno. Quit crying already.”

—

The bar is crowded, even for a Friday night, Bodies bustling past you, the various conversations around you raucous and rowdy. You picked the bar because you figured Kenpachi would enjoy the environment, especially since it was on his side of town. Sure enough, there are all kinds of hardened-looking individuals frequenting the bar. Surprisingly though, Kenpachi is easy enough to spot, his sheer size and distinctly spiky hair adding to his recognizability. 

He’s already downing a drink when you slide into the seat next to him.

“You seem right at home here,” you greet him with. 

“I come here often.” 

You order a beer, before sitting back down. 

“This brings back memories.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Last time we went drinking together.”

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter. 

“Still shitty at handling your liquor?”

“No!” you protest, taking a sip of your beer. The face you make says it all. Kenpachi snorts, taking a long sip of his second beer. 

“Fancy place,” you comment. 

“Didn’t you pick it?”

“Yeah,” you say, jabbing him in the side. “Because I thought you’d like it.”

“Well, why would you go through all that trouble,” he says drily. You give him a sour look. 

You take a few more sips of your beer, before slamming the bottle down. He raises a brow at you. Liquid courage does wonders for your nerves, as you work up the courage to ask him the question that’s been on your mind.

“So… you got a girlfriend?”

He looks at you like you just asked him the dumbest question in the world.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asks.

Alright. He won’t share until you do. 

“Ha. Had. Right before I drove down actually.”

He stares at you for a moment, before taking another swig of his drink. 

“You?” you press. 

He laughs sardonically. “Nah. Got the kind of face that scares women off, apparently.”

“Well.” He glances at you. “Most of them.”

“You’re not ugly, Ken. You’ve got the bad boy kind of appeal. Girls dig that.”

Another raised brow. You really are getting him to work his facial muscles today. A sharp contrast to his constant scowl or terrifying grin. 

“Last time we spoke…” you start. 

“Don’t mention it,” he interrupts. 

“I wanted to explain my side.”

“Ha. There’s nothing to explain. What happened, happened,” he says, something hard in his voice. 

“Kenpachi.”

–

“We’re going,” Kenpachi had said decisively after your crying episode. Neither of you were the partying type, but here you were, two strangers in a sea of grinding teenagers and booze. He grabbed you a drink, and the two of you crammed yourselves onto the narrow staircase. You knew that Kenpachi wanted to get your mind off things. But somehow the sight of everyone practically grinding against each other did little to help you forget your ex.

To his credit, Kenpachi looked just as out of place. He rested his arms on his legs, holding his beer in between them. He fidgeted with the rim of the bottle, looking like he’d rather be any place but here. 

You took a sip of your drink, smacking your lips at the taste, before pulling a face. 

He snorted. “First time?”

“Why does it taste like ass?”

He shrugged. “It’s beer. “‘S supposed to.”

You offered him your drink. “I don’t like it.”

He grabbed it from you, taking a big swig. A group of girls squeezed their way past you on the steps, giggling and tipsy. You inched out of their way, but one of them still managed to knee you in the back–hard. You would have fallen forward down the last few steps, if Kenpachi hadn’t caught you. 

“Ah. Sorry–”

The two of you locked eyes. This close you realized how deep the scar on his face ran, the strong set of his jaw. His wiry, muscled arm around your waist.

Hesitantly, you leaned closer. He didn’t move away. 

Your first kiss with Kenpachi was a spark lighting on kindling, over before you knew it.  He didn’t respond. When you pulled away in disappointment though, he grabbed the front of your shirt, yanking you forwards. 

Your kiss set you ablaze. He slammed your lips onto his. His teeth dug into your bottom lip, and you gasped at the iron tang of blood in your mouth. That seemed to only spur him further. He practically hauled you into his lap. Before you knew it, you were making out in the open. 

Kenpachi shoved his hand down your shirt, palming your breast. You straddled his leg, playing with the buckle of his belt. When your hand brushed the tent in his pants, he hissed, bucking up into your touch. 

You were only snapped out of it when someone gasped near you. When you looked up, it was him. Your ex. 

—

The next day, rumors flew around that you were fucking Kenpachi. Certainly the sight of you two at the party was proof enough. 

For that reason, your ex-boyfriend asked to get back together again. He said he realized he couldn’t live without you. You had the choice between Kenpachi, a delinquent, rough around the edges, and crass. Versus your ex. Excitement versus stability, the bad boy versus the good guy. 

You chose your ex. 

Kenpachi was exciting, but you couldn’t fathom seeing yourself in a long-term relationship with him. Not to mention, you doubted you two would be on the same path. You had aspirations, dreams for your career.

You stopped showing up to your meetings with Kenpachi. And by the time he confronted you, you told him, with no little uncertainty,

“I’m sorry, but I can’t see you anymore. This? Us? It wasn’t even a thing.”

You didn’t stay around to see his reaction. 

The irony is, you and your ex ended up breaking up again soon after once you found out of his infidelity. 

— 

“What I mean to say was… if I was–more honest with myself. Less cowardly,” you start. You try and gauge his reaction. Kenpachi is as impassive as always. You swallow it down. “I wouldn’t have chosen him.”

He glances at you briefly, before staring down at the rim of his drink.

“I–I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve felt bad about it ever since.”

“The past is the past,” he says. “Forget about it.” 

“But I–”

He groans. “Look, I’m already over it. You should be, too. What kinda guy would I be to hold onto a silly high school thing.”

“So, you’re… not mad?”

He stares at you blankly. “How many times do I have to repeat myself? I’m not a fucking loser.”

“Okay, okay… yeesh.” The two of you sit in silence for a few more moments. 

“I did… I did mean it, though. At the time.”

“Don’t,” Kenpachi says sharply. “Quit bringing it up!”

“What I said… That didn’t mean I didn’t like you at all, you know that?”

He falls silent. While he won’t look at you, you get the sense that he’s listening intently for your next words.

“I did like you. I still…”

You pause, losing courage in the words you want to say.

“Still,” he repeats flatly.

It’s hard to figure out what he’s thinking. He’s inscrutable. He seems like an easy man to decipher, but when it comes to anything but fighting? He’s a closed book.

“I… I can’t say I’m completely over you, Ken,” is what you mutter out in a rush, cheeks warm.  You’re scared to look at him, to witness his reaction. 

He says nothing. His silence puts you on edge. He motions the bartender over before paying for his drinks. Then he’s tugging your arm. 

“What?”

“I’m not gonna carry you, even if I can. Get your ass up.”

The two of you end up in an alley at the side of the bar. When you’re a good distance away from anyone, Kenpachi turns to you.

“Why are we–”

And then he’s grabbing you by the waist, tugging you into him. You land in his chest with an oomph. Then he’s leaning down, grasping your shoulders before slamming his lips onto yours. Just like before. 

Kenpachi doesn’t hold anything back. His nose digs into your cheek. His lips greedily claim yours, over and over again, as if he’s making up for lost time. 

Breaking the kiss, you stare up at him breathlessly. 

“You’re an idiotic woman, you know that?” he says defiantly. “Denying what’s yours.”

The taste of beer is heavy on his tongue. He’s warm, so warm against you. 

“You’re not gonna be able to get rid of me that easily this time, though. I don’t care what kind of loser ex you have waiting for you at home. You want me. That’s good enough.” 

Your eyes widen. “Kenpachi….” 

Why did you have no idea he felt like this before? Is he right–are you actually an idiot who didn’t notice?

“Besides…” He grins maniacally. “Can anyone else compare to this?”

His mouth crashes onto yours once more. Kenpachi’s not the kind of man to hold himself back. He kisses you with fervor, like he wants to fuel the fire in both of you with each touch. He has no reservations.

Lifting you by the waist, he pins you against the wall with his body. He’s all tough muscles, hard and bulky even through his shirt. Your breath hitches when you feel his erection press against your thigh. It feels massive.  

You want to feel more of him. You want to see what he’s been denying from you for so long. 

“Your place or mine?” you gasp out. 

“The shop is closer,” he grunts out. 

He’s right. You don’t fancy having your parents catch you getting frisky either. He grabs you a cab. The entire time, his hand grips your thigh possessively, the calloused pads of his thumbs stroking your skin sending shivers down your spine. A promise for what’s to come. 

—

In a tangle of limbs, the two of you manage to make it through the door and into his shop.

Kenpachi swipes a hand over his work desk, sending his supplies scattering. Then, in an impressive feat of strength, he lifts you around the waist with the other hand, placing you on his table. You yelp. 

His lips are on yours in a bruising kiss. It almost feels like he’s snarling through the kiss, his teeth bared. His large hand roughly squeezes your breast through your shirt and you moan.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Keep making those sounds.” 

His other hand splays your legs apart, near ripping your skirt off with his brute strength. You slide it off you, and his hand digs crudely between your thighs. He raises a brow at your choice of underwear, a scrappy thong that he could snap in two with one tug, before surging forward. He presses down hard on your clit with his thumb, and you mewl. 

“K-Kenpachi, please… more.” 

You unbutton your shirt. Kenpachi watches you strip with an inscrutable expression. When the fabric falls, and he gets the whole view of you in your skimpy bra, his hands come forward. Clamping around your hips, he drags you forwards as if you’re nothing but a rag doll.

He thumbs the thin, scrappy material covering your breasts. Your cheeks flush when he flicks a nipple through your bra.

“You dress like this all the time?” he finally asks.

“Ah. No, I just thought…” 

His eyes flash. 

“You knew we’d fuck tonight, huh.” 

The crass, plain way he says it has you flustered. Closer now, you tug at the hem of his shirt. He yanks it over his head, before tugging off his pants. The image of his boxers, seeming to barely contain the sizable members inside them, has you clenching your thighs. He looks just as big as you felt against you earlier.

He surges forward, his hands yanking down the cups of your bra down as he pushes your breasts together, seeming to enjoy the sight of them. His other hand circles your damp pussy through the thin fabric, before yanking it down as well. Impatient, as if he can’t wait to feel you. Suddenly he slips a long finger inside you, and you gasp. 

“Shit. You’re so…” 

He grunts. “You can take it.” And sure enough, the burn of him is eased by some of your own arousal. But it still stings. 

Slipping his finger in and out of you, Kenpachi builds up to a rhythm. He slips in another finger with little warning, thrusting all the way to the knuckle. You yelp, unprepared for the intrusion. He swirls his fingers around, looking bemused when your walls grip his fingers as he slides out with a pop.

“Damn. You are tight.” 

His comment, said in the most casual tone, flusters you. You reach between you for his boxers, feeling him more substantially now. 

Oh. Oh god. Your eyes widen as you feel just how thick he is. Hesitantly, you pull him out of his boxers, your trepidation increasing. Holy fuck. Is it possible for someone’s cock to be this big? It’s long and girthy, nearly the size of your forearm.

He’s watching you carefully. 

“We go just as far as you want.” 

You stare up at him, biting down on your lip. Do you want it? Your hand strokes him from base to tip once, and it throbs in your hand. Your fingers can barely even wrap around it. You squeeze lightly, and Kenpachi makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat, thrusting forward into your hand. 

Yes. You do want it.

You wonder idly how many partners he’s scared off with this thick cock of his. It makes you all the more eager to keep him to yourself, just for you to enjoy. 

Jerking him off with one hand, your other hand comes up, grasping him by the back of his neck. You bring him down for a kiss. It’s oddly intimate, him fingering you, you stroking him on his work desk. Kenpachi snarls into the kiss when your thumb works over the tip of him, spreading his precum around. His fingers jab into you, and you jolt, moaning against him.

Breaking the kiss, you decide that if you’re going to try and take his downright monstrous cock, you definitely need more prep. Your hand leaves his neck, coming down to play with your clit. That, combined with his fingers inside you, has you shaking around him. He’s watching you intently, his hand a near vice grip around your breast. You moan in slight pain, and he lessens his hold. 

Then his hand is digging into your waist. It seems the faster you stroke his cock, the harder he grips onto you. The thought that Kenpachi is going to leave his marks all over you has you working your clit faster, swirling harder. 

Kenpachi’s third finger circles your entrance, his eyes locking with yours. He surges all three fingers into you with little remorse, and you have to bite down on your lip to hold back your yell. But when he starts relentlessly pumping his thick fingers into you? You can’t hold back.

“K-Kenpachi!”

He grunts, seeming pleased by your reaction. He fucks his fingers into you as if it’s a preview to how he’s about to fuck his cock into you–an all-out onslaught, merciless. Kenpachi shows little remorse in the way his fingers burrow into you, pressing deeper and deeper until you can almost feel him in your gut.

Kenpachi’s fingers leave you, and you nearly cry at the feeling of emptiness. But then the thick, fat head of his cock is at your entrance, and your breath catches. He catches your gaze again, holding it as he sinks the tip of his cock into you. The stretch is intense. Even his large fingers are nothing compared to the real thing. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this full, and he’s barely gotten started. Your thighs tremble around his waist as he hunches forward. He exhales roughly, seeming near overwhelmed by the pleasure of being mere inches inside you. 

“Shit,” he curses. “Who said you could be this tight. Fuck.” 

Kenpachi’s rutting against you, working his cock inside you slowly. A glance down has you tightening around him, and he grunts, grasping your hips tighter. He’s only a third of the way in, yet he’s already stretching you to your absolute limit. You marvel at the fact that you can even take such a monstrous cock as his, even as your walls clamp down insistently around him. 

“Feels great,” he grunts, dragging his cock out of you, before surging forward again. “Feels fucking amazing.”

Kenpachi’s hips pick up the pace. Each thrust has him inching further in, until you’ve taken in half of his cock. His hands dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he fucks into you, his hips moving like pistons. You’re mewling, your hands gripping his forearms, searching for some kind of purchase in his relentless onslaught. 

He’s snarling with every thrust into you like a man possessed. His gaze seems fixated on the way your pussy swallows him whole, clinging desperately to his length. The sounds of your coupling seem to amuse him greatly, a wicked grin stretching his face at the loudening squelch accompanying each of his thrusts. 

“You gettin’ off to this? You like being fucked like a whore?”

You moan, shaking your head. Your nails dig into his arms, but Kenpachi shakes one of your hands away. With his now free hand, he grabs a handful of one of your breasts, squeezing and kneading. 

“I think you do. Think you like it rough. You tightened up on me just now.” He grunts, his hips near bruising in the way they slam into you. 

You cry out his name. Kenpachi’s eyes narrow, his thrusts increasing in ferocity. The slap of your hips is surely loud enough to be heard across the street. Releasing your breast, his hand coming up to grip your chin. He presses a finger down on your lips. 

“Suck.”

You do, slipping his finger into your mouth before lolling your tongue around it. Then he brings his hand down to your nub, his thumb crudely rubbing your clit. He doesn’t go for technique as much as sheer force, but it, combined with his cock pounding into you, has you trembling around him in no time. 

“K-Kenpachi!” Your toes curl, your legs tensing around his midsection as waves upon waves of pleasure crash around you. For several beats, you’re in sheer bliss, muscles clenched, that is, until Kenpachi’s heavy panting and cursing brings you back down.

He’s gripping your thigh, using it as leverage to fuck into you. You’ve taken almost all of his cock by this sound. Sweat trails down his forehead, his teeth gnashing together.  

“Where do you want it?” he grunts out.

“I—on my—“ 

You gesture at your body helplessly. Kenpachi drags his cock out of you, making a hoarse sound in the back of his throat at the loud squelch from your combined fluids. His hand flies over his cock, his hips tensed. With a guttural groan of your name, thick jets of his spend splatter onto your stomach and chest, some even landing as far as your chin.  He’s panting heavily, his fist still working over his cock as he milks himself of every last drop of his seed before he slumps forward.

“Fuck,” he curses, catching himself on the table before he falls onto you. He’s still breathing hard, his gaze darting to the cum pooling onto your skin. With a grunt, he grabs the nearest rag to wipe you off, thankfully a clean one. Then he wipes himself. You press a lazy kiss against his shoulder, expressing your gratitude. Then he hoists you up into his arms, before dumping you onto the couch.

He does slump over you this time, and your face ends up smushed up against his armpit. You smack him lightly, before he adjusts your positions, his body laying over yours more comfortably. 

“Sleep,” he grumbles out.

Again, a demand. Not a request. But you’ll let it slide this time, you think. Your eyelids drooping, you drift off to sleep in the safety of his arms.

—

The next day, Yumichika and Ikkaku make it to the shop. They open the garage door, only to be greeted by quite a sight. 

Yumichika whistles appreciatively. “Well, would you look at that~”

Their boss and you traipsed across the couch in his office, naked as the day you were born. A thin blanket covers both your bodies, a precarious method of preserving your modesty. Kenpachi’s snores serve as the sole proof that you two are alive, his arm wrapped around your body possessively. 

Grinning, Yumichika placing his hand out. Ikkaku sighs, fishing around in his pockets before forking over 2000¥.

“Told you they would,” he says, counting the money with glee. 

“How was I supposed to know?” Ikkaku threw his hands up, smacking them against his head. “You think the boss has game? I didn’t think he’d get to fuck on the first date.” 

Yumichika rolls his eyes, pocketing his cash. Glancing over at your bodies, he resists the urge to take a picture of you two. God, he loved a juicy story.

“Mission success. Getting the boss back together with his high school sweetheart. The only woman he loved.”

#kenpachi x reader #bleach x reader #kenpachi zaraki x reader #bleach smut #tati writes #not sfw

[theetherealbloom]

UNEVEN ODDS - CH. 9 (Epilogue)

Chapter 9 (Epilogue): There’s Some Kind Of Heaven Just Around The Corner

Summary: The Reader is dragged into the Last of Us universe and has no choice but to watch the events unfold or will she be able to change what was already written?

Paring: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Age-gap Romance, Violence, ANGST, Swearing, Suicide, FLUFF, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, the pandemic, character death, INFECTED, MY SCIENCE IS WONKY, probable plot holes, rusty writing, TLOU is dark please read at your own risk!

Word Count: 2k

A/N:  After many months of not writing, I present to you the epilogue of S1 for TLOU. Thank you for sticking by me with my silly little stories, I can never express how grateful I am to have you all. I’m horrified and excited at the thought of S2, maybe the reader could change the important ending… who knows. Stay safe everyone &lt;3

Song: Intermission by Sleeping At Last

Previous Chapter -> Season 2 | Series Masterlist

TLOU WORLD 2023

SILVER LAKE, COLORADO TO SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH – A FEW WEEKS LATER…

The cool breeze of the evening brushes against your face as you sit on the porch of the farmhouse, strumming the strings of the guitar Joel now treasures. The people of Jackson have embraced you warmly, welcoming you back into their community. The topic of the Fireflies remains unspoken, a shared understanding between you and Joel. It lingers in the background, a memory that only surfaces when necessary.

Life in Jackson has brought a sense of normalcy, a semblance of the life you had before the chaos consumed the world. But this time, it's different. This time, you feel like you belong, like you are loved. The little family you've formed with Joel and Ellie has found solace within the walls of this farmhouse. As the seasons pass by, a routine settles in, and the farmhouse pulses with life, as if it has its own heartbeat.

The bugs begin to retreat once again, signaling the transition from summer to autumn. You find yourself on the porch, the guitar resting gently on your lap. It was a gift for Joel, a token of appreciation and love, but it also earned you a playful scolding. Joel made it clear that you should never leave Jackson without informing him first. It was a testament to his protectiveness, a reminder of the bond that has grown between you.

At this moment, the world seems so simple. The rush of blood through your veins transports you back to your youth, when fear and uncertainty were distant notions. Seventeen again, you find yourself unafraid of death, daring to dream once more. The curve of the valley before you holds a profound meaning. Happiness emanates from within as you gaze at the serene surroundings.

As the words echo in your mind, they bring a smile to your face. Joel's voice resounds in your memory, "I'll never let you go." Those five words hold a depth of emotion, a promise that transcends the hardships you've endured. In this tranquil moment, you realize that you have found a home, a place where love and safety intertwine. You are content, knowing that Joel is by your side, ready to face whatever challenges may come.

The future may hold uncertainties, but for now, you bask in the stillness, cherishing the connection that binds you and Joel together. The world may be broken, but within the embrace of this farmhouse, you have found solace, love, and a renewed sense of purpose. And as you continue to strum the guitar, the notes reverberate through the air, carrying the harmony of your newfound happiness into the world.

Lost in the nostalgic melody, you find yourself humming a tune that holds a special place in your heart. The tranquility of the moment is interrupted by the gentle reminder that you're wearing one of Joel's shirts, two sizes too big. It's a simple gesture, a symbol of the closeness you share, but it also serves as a reminder that nothing is certain in this world. Doubts linger, even as you begin to feel at home.

The passing year has been arduous, and its weight lingers in your mind. The slow progress makes you question if you're truly moving forward. Trust is a scarce commodity, earned by only a select few. The scars etched upon your bodies, remnants of battles fought in your youth, serve as a constant reminder of the dangers that persist. And yet, the revelation of a collapsing sun and rising seas, of crumbling buildings, brought about a new understanding of the fragility of existence.

As you continue strumming and humming, Joel stands by the door, captivated by the beauty that radiates from you. The sun begins its descent on the southern horizon, casting a warm glow on the scene. Unable to resist any longer, Joel quietly approaches, his footsteps barely audible. He wraps his arms around your waist, his presence causing you to giggle. His lips press against the side of your neck, the scruff of his chin tickling your skin.

"Joel!" you playfully chide, a mixture of surprise and delight in your voice. He responds with a hum, his voice filled with affection, "My sweet Birdie..."

You quickly place the guitar on the side, and in that tender moment, you realize that despite the uncertainties and doubts that surround you, you have found a sanctuary in each other. Joel's embrace offers a sense of security, a refuge from the storms that rage outside. You feel a rush of gratitude for the love you've found amidst the chaos, and a renewed determination to protect what you hold dear.

Basking in the warmth of Joel's affection, you turn your head to meet his gaze, curiosity tugging at your thoughts. "How was the patrol today?" you inquire, wanting to know about the world beyond the safety of Jackson's walls. 

Joel plants gentle kisses on the side of your head, your cheek, and finally on your lips, his love conveyed through each tender touch. His gaze locks with yours, his southern accent subtly peeking through as he responds, "Today was good, darlin'. Nothin' for your pretty head to worry about."

A sense of relief washes over you, knowing that for at least one day, the dangers that loom outside haven't posed a threat. But your thoughts naturally drift to Ellie, the young woman who has become an integral part of your lives. You can't help but bring her up, knowing that Joel's bond with her is unbreakable.

"What about Ellie? How's she doing?" you ask, genuine concern lacing your words. Ellie's resilience and determination have become a source of inspiration, even amidst the darkest of times.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of Joel's lips as he replies, his voice filled with fondness, "Ellie's holdin' up. Been keepin' busy, learnin' new skills, and takin' care of herself. She's got that fire in her, just like you."

The mention of Ellie's fiery spirit brings a wave of admiration. You can't help but feel proud of her growth, of the strength she embodies. In this broken world, the relationships you've forged hold immense importance, anchoring you to hope and reminding you of the enduring power of love.

Nestling closer to Joel, you rest your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart a soothing lullaby. "I'm glad she's finding her way," you murmur softly, your voice filled with genuine affection. "We're lucky to have her in our lives."

Joel's arms tighten around you, his voice brimming with tenderness as he responds, "Ain't that the truth, darlin'. We're blessed to have each other, and no matter what comes our way, we'll face it together."

Feeling a surge of love for Joel, you lift your head from his chest to meet his gaze. The twinkle in his eyes tells a story of unwavering devotion, and a mischievous grin plays upon his lips. You can't help but become enveloped in his warmth, finding solace in his presence.

"I don't tell you enough, Joel," you begin, your voice filled with sincerity, "but you mean the world to me. I love you.”

Joel's expression softens, his gaze locked with yours. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle yet purposeful. "You know, darlin'," he replies, his voice slightly husky, "you mean the world to me too. There ain't a day that goes by where I don't thank my lucky stars for bringin' you into my life."

The vulnerability in Joel's words tugs at your heartstrings, and you lean in, pressing a tender kiss against his lips. It's a gentle affirmation of the love that binds you together, a silent promise of forever.

As you pull back, a playful glimmer dances in Joel's eyes. "You know," he says, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "I reckon I'm the luckiest man alive. Not only do I have the most beautiful person by my side, but I've also got a hell of a good kisser."

His words elicit a giggle from you, the sound filling the air with pure joy. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you whisper, "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Miller."

The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, relishing the closeness and the unspoken language of love that flows between you. With each passing moment, the world outside fades into insignificance, leaving only the warmth and tenderness of this intimate connection.

A gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead, the delicate dance of foliage creating a symphony of nature. Your fingers entwined with Joel's, each touch a testament to the warmth and tenderness that envelops you in this serene moment.

In the ambient glow of the evening, the air pulses with an almost tangible affection. The space between you and Joel becomes a canvas painted with an unspoken promise that transcends the limitations of words. In the delicate interplay of shared vulnerabilities and profound love, you find a sanctuary where the concept of time fades, replaced by the eternal embrace of this connection.

In this fleeting instance, bathed in the gentle twilight, you take solace in the richness of your conversation. Despite the shadows that loom from past events and the uncertainties that await, the presence of Joel beside you becomes a steadfast beacon, guiding you through the dimly lit corridors of life.

The embrace continues, a dance of shared whispers and laughter, a rhythmic exchange that weaves together the tapestry of your lives. Amidst the harshness of the world, the cocoon of your love becomes a refuge, a source of strength, and a testament to the formidable power of unity.

Yet, beneath the surface of this idyllic scene, a quiet ache persists, a shadow that lingers in the corners of your consciousness. There are nights when Joel lies peacefully asleep beside you, unaware of the storm that rages within your mind. In those quiet hours, memories materialize, hazy and elusive, casting a spectral glow on the canvas of your thoughts.

You can see him on the porch, the soft strains of a guitar accompanying the melancholic melody of your recollections. The air is charged with the bittersweet echoes of a past that refuses to be forgotten. There are nights when tears silently trace the contours of your face, the weight of remembered endings pressing upon your heart.

Joel, the silent guardian at your side, remains oblivious to the tempest within. His presence is a comfort, but the specter of a different ending, an alternate narrative, leaves you restless in the quiet hours of the night. The story, once written in ink, now seems to bleed into the realm of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.

And so, in the embrace of the night, you grapple with the dichotomy of love and loss, finding solace in the tangible warmth of Joel's presence, even as the ghosts of untold stories linger in the shadows.

TAGLIST:

@memento-mora @elijahssuit @tartiflvtte @lillylilly2 @kyuupidwrites @amethystwonder11 @syd-vixious @kidkrow666 @soulofapatrick @ponyboys-sunsets @superflymaterial @chaotic-imposter @vainbimbo @eva-stark @loki-an-idiot @littleshadow17 @undermoonlightwalk @afternoon-evening @notmysunnydale  @slurmp69 @gyllord @aerangi @mac5323 @friskynotebook @earth-to-lottie @chaotic-imposter @kodzuvk @hawkins-2000 @reallysparklychaos @trust-dreamcatcher @darkened-writer @memeorydotcom @welcomebackfelicia @rainbowpitofdoom @omg-its-typical-aesthetics-fan @marvelsimpcz @dorck26 @evienorville @munsons-queen @little-miss-bi @mxltifxnd0m @ohjoelmiller @coalix @taestrwbrry @avengersheart @gyllord @valentine-babe@missdragon-1 @ponyboys-sunsets @ipadkidsworld @otternanamilolo @issybee0611 @technicallysassyfox @cupcakemachete @manuchyy @darkened-writer @andyrazzledazzle @glossythor @virtueassassin @witchy-jadda @imonmykneessir @norr1e @mando-bix @thicficbich1 @adoringanakin @lalla-04p @reallysparklychaos @hollywoodmariposa @mando-bix @lunatic1012 @davosmymaster

#joel miller x reader #etherealupdates #joel miller x female reader #joel miller masterlist #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel miller series #joel the last of us #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic rec

[whims-of-a-star]

Nothing

Days after Sam’s death and subsequent resurrection, Dean refuses to stop sleeping in the same bed as him. When they both settle into the sheets Dean wraps himself around Sam as if he is once more the little 12 year old brother, tucking Sam’s head under his chin.

Despite Sam’s complaints, he lets Dean maneuver him into being the little spoon, curling long limbs to his chest as he settles himself in his big brother’s arms, ear against chest.

Sam doesn’t remember much in the time between passing out from the pain in his back and waking up in an old shack, doesn’t understand Dean’s sudden desire to be near him, but allows it anyway. And truth be told, he missed his brother’s warmth, tightly wound around him and emanating safety and home. After a certain age, Dean had begun to dislike showing physical affection, or ‘chick-flick’ moments as he calls it, and Sam had been fine with it, wanting to not be treated like a kid anymore.

Still, when Sam is half-asleep in the middle of the night and feels the soft press of lips in his hair, he says nothing. And when he chooses to shift a bit closer to his big brother, listening to the strong ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dumps of his heart, Dean says nothing too.

#gencest #end of season 2 spoilers #i suddenly wanted to write this #drabbles

[sophieinwonderland]

The word "tulpa" is used first by Alexandra-David Néel (Belgian-French buddhist anarchist) and phoneticized from "sprul-pa" (also rendered as "trulpa"). You can also trace the term back to sanskrit as "Nirmita".

The concept of an apparition is Buddhism can be attributed to aṣṭamāyopamā (sanskrit) or the 8 similes of illusion, which are basically metaphors for explaining how something can be perceived without it actually existing in the physical world. Apparitions (Nirmita) is the 8th simile.

She visited Lhasa in Tibet, a place which was inaccessible to foreigners at the time, and wrote the books "My Journey to Lhasa" and "Magic and Mystery in Tibet", where she explains what she learned in het journey. She then coined the term "tulpa", which spread to westerners of New Age practices as a type of thought-form.

Thought-forms in mysticism are attested by the book "Thought-Forms: A Record of Clairvoyant Investigation", which explains how many theosophists believe that thoughts are not simply a subjective thing that is confined in the human mind, but that they are "things" which have intrinsic properties. These thought-forms have principles (colour, form and clearness are determined by the type of thought) and classes (thought-forms can have certain forms which express the thought's inherent properties).

Tulpamancy today is not related to thought-forms.

Tulpamancy as it is today started, funnily enough, on 4chan - specifically in the paranormal board /x/ and subsequently the My Little Pony board /mlp/. Before that, the process of creating a tulpa was not known to people, and it generally involved ritualistic or metaphysical practices.

In /x/, some people began (in my opinion kind of haphazardly) making tulpas, and they reported their success. They then began writing guides which were freely shared in the community.

The real "explosion" in popularity started in the /mlp/ board, where topics of tulpamancy started popping up, which interested a lot of users. This snowballed into the creation of a forum ane a subreddit for the community (which were founded only after a Tulpamancy IRC was created, mostly made up of /x/ board users).

The approach to tulpamancy at this time was mostly psychological, instead of the previously metaphysical view of the practice.

The practice of tulpamancy and the practice of creating emanations are very different from each other, with the only similarity being the name (with "tulpa" only being a phoneticization of the tibetan term).

With the argument of cultural appropriation in the tulpamancy community, we need to first define what cultural appropriation is in the context of word usage.

Cultural appropriation in the context of word usage refers to the adoption or use of words from another culture without understanding or respecting their cultural significance, often resulting in the trivialization, misrepresentation, or exploitation of the originating culture.

Is the usage of the word "tulpa" mocking the original practice? Not really I don't think. The word "tulpa", while it was coined by a buddhist is generally not used when referring to emanations. (What I am about to say is personal experience, keep that in mind) Most buddhists I have spoken to at most will have a fear of non-buddhist practices and ideas being wrongfully thought of as being buddhist, which may have been a problem in the past when tulpamancy was indeed though of as a buddhist practice, but now the community fully separates itself from any religion or spiritual practice.

Here's a link to a post on /r/Tulpas on reddit from a Tibetan Buddhist with an emanation:

https://www.reddit.com/r/Tulpas/comments/unt6h7/i_am_a_tibetan_buddhist_with_an_emanation_tulpa/

---

What do you think about this, Sophie? I found it as a kind of copypasta to explain how tulpamancy is not cultural appropriation.

It's a pretty good overview! 😁

Appropriation topics are always tricky, but to me this conversation comes down to two question. The first is if the original tulpa from Alexandra David-Neel was appropriative. In my opinion, while it may have veered away from the Tibetan sprul-pa in some ways, it was created by a Buddhist convert with the aid of Tibetan translators like Lama Kazi Dawa Samdup. For this reason, the original ADN tulpa is generally considered more a result of cultural exchange.

I do think treating the ADN tulpa as an authentic Buddhist practice might be harmful, but it would be unfair to say it was made without regard to the original culture. (I would also say that it's hard to judge how much of this was indeed an authentic Tibetan Buddhist practice or not. Most people who have said it isn't are looking at current Buddhist practices 100 years later after an invasion by China destroyed many religious texts and records and heavily suppressed the religion.)

The second question is if modern versions of the tulpa are appropriative. And I don't consider this to be the case. Modern tulpamancy, while born from ADN tulpa, mostly just uses the words and general concept. As you say, the big problem within Buddhist circles is certain practices being falsely presented as Buddhist, muddying the waters. Over the last decade, the tulpamancy community has made a strong effort in distancing themselves from Tibetan Buddhism and tulpa's etymology.

...

Here's the direct link to the Reddit post from the Tibetan Buddhist with the emanation:

#tulpa #tulpamancy #buddhism #tibetan buddhism #syscourse #pro endogenic #pro endo #multiplicity #plurality #pro tulpa #endogenic #religion #cultural exchange #plural #systems #system #plural system #tulpagenic #actually plural #actually a system

[bokutosworld]

the home we’ve made | bokuto k. 

pairing: bokuto koutarou x f!reader word count, genre: 1.6k words, family au, aged up bokuto, fluff.  summary: bokuto treasures the family he’s created. but he’s in for the shock of his life when one day, his precious daughter announces she’s in love.  

my note: i noticed this has been in my drafts for almost two years. so i wanted to post it as a belated bday greeting to my still sunshine, bokuto ☀️

“Mama, how did you know you love Papa?”

The question catches you off guard. You look at your little girl who is enthusiastically coloring the pages of her art book. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, making you smile as it reminds you of a certain someone. Abandoning your book in the moment, you go over to her side and brush her hair as she fusses over which shade of pink would match the bear.

“Hm, that’s an interesting question, Hana-chan.” 

Your five-year-old looks up at you with her big eyes, curiosity emanating from them. 

“If you really want to know, it’s because your Papa makes me the happiest in the world.” 

She listens intently, her mouth slightly pouting in the same way your husband does whenever he is contemplating about something. They were way too much similar. No doubt that she is his daughter. 

You cup her cheeks in both your hands and press a kiss to her nose. “Plus your Papa gave me you.” 

Hana tugs you closer, her voice small and quiet when she timidly reveals her secret, “Mommy, I think I’m in love.” 

Just then, the front door bursts open and in comes the man of the house.

“I’m home!”

Hana’s eyes immediately light up at her father’s arrival. She stands up on her feet and runs out of the room towards the living area where he was already waiting with open arms. 

“There’s my little princess!” 

“Papa!” She’s beaming with excitement, jumping in his arms. They fall down sitting in the middle of the floor, hugging and laughing as they obviously missed each other.

“There, there, Hana-chan. Your Papa still has to wash up.” You help take Hana from his grasp, making sure to give him a pointed look. He chuckles, knowing how much you were a stickler for being clean inside the home and that meant Bokuto always had to take a quick shower whenever he returns from his trips outside.   

He leans to give you a kiss, “I’m back.” 

“Welcome home.” 

— 

When Bokuto comes out of the shower, he’s quick to recognize the smell of his favorite home-cooked meal. His stomach grumbles and it reminds him just how much tonight’s practice wore him out. 

All throughout the day, he couldn’t wait to get back to his family—to his charming daughter whose antics and smile could instantly bring his energy back and to his wife whose presence he was eternally gratefully for. He sits on the bed and dries his hair. 

In the corner of his eyes, he sees the picture frame on the bedside table. He smiles at the image, of you proudly showing off your engagement ring and him donning his bright smile with his arms wrapped around you, remembering how he felt — both the nerves and the excitement — when he asked the words will you marry me. 

He felt like he won the jackpot when you said yes. And even after years of marriage, Bokuto is still very much in love with you and every day feels like he is walking on cloud nine. You were perfect for him, you made him happy, and since high school, you never once wavered in your support of his volleyball career. He thought his life with you couldn’t get any better until the little one, Hana, came along. 

A sweet angel borne out of your shared love. The moment he held her in his arms, Bokuto swore that he was immediately wrapped around her fingers, promising that he’d do anything to protect her and become the best father in the world. 

He hears the pitter patter of little feet on the floor and anticipates the door opening. Hana peeks her head in the small opening she created and calls him. 

“Mama said to call you. Dinner is ready.” 

He stands up and walks towards her. She has her arms held up high, asking to be carried and he complies. He ruffles her hair and gives her a peck on the cheeks before heading towards the dining room where a table full of his favorites is waiting. 

The atmosphere at the Bokuto household is always lively, especially at the dinner table where Koutarou is eagerly telling stories of his teammates, sharing how he aced the spike he’s been practicing, and expressing how he’s looking forward to playing so he can make his daughter and wife proud. 

And very much like her father, Hana has tales of her own—recounting how she spent her day at the kindergarten, taking her parents through the new things she learned and the activities she enjoyed with her friends. 

And tonight, she’s sharing the news of her first love. 

“Oh also, Kento gave me a flower from the garden and said that I look beautiful.” 

Your little girl was grinning from ear to ear as she mentioned the boy’s name. While you were amused at how bashful she was being, someone on the other end of the table has put down his utensils and was staring in shock.

Before he could say anything, you asked Hana, “Who’s Kento, darling? Was he the one you were referring to when you said you think you were in love?” 

She hid her smile in her hands and nodded. You could hear the way your husband dramatically gasped, now leaning with his arms on the table and almost reaching out to Hana. 

“Kento always hangs out with me during break. He also holds my hands when we walk together. His hands are soft.” 

The soft giggle she lets out makes you utter an audible aww. Your kid was experiencing her first crush. And through the stories she’s told of Kento, you could see how she adores the boy so much. However, your husband has been eerily quiet.  

His current state reminds you of the times he’d be in one of his moods back in high school. But of course, you understand him. 

Hana was not anymore the small crying baby he held in his arms years ago. She wasn’t the baby whose diapers he’s changed in the wee hours of the night. She’s growing to become a little lady and discovering the wonders of life. It was only natural that he’d be surprised upon knowing his little girl was navigating puppy love. So, before she could notice that her father was acting differently, you indulged her, listening to more of her stories about Kento. 

“He sounds like such a sweet boy.” You nudged Koutarou’s foot under the table to pull him out of his trance. When he does, you smile sympathetically before turning to Hana again, “We’d love to meet Kento someday.” 

“Really? Can I invite him to play here tomorrow after school?”

“Yes.” 

“No.” 

“Koutarou.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, sending him a message that everything will be fine through telepathy. He caves, mumbling a fine and proceeding to finish his food. 

Smiling at your success, you turn to Hana and reassure her, “Bring him here and I’ll bake your favorite cookies so you can share some with him.” 

The kid was so overjoyed that she pushed her chair back and ran towards her room, where you suspect she’ll be contacting Kento about the plans for tomorrow. 

Now left alone with Koutarou, you catch him pouting at his food, the same way that Hana was when you were telling her about what you loved about him. 

Trying to soothe his crushed soul, “You know, it’s only an innocent crush.” 

“She’s five years old.”

“That’s right. And she’s turning six in two months.” 

“She can’t love any boy other than me yet,” he whined which only caused you to laugh in your seat. His frown deepened and his glare at you became much intense. “It’s not funny. I don’t want her giving other boys her affection just yet.”

You try to stop your giggles, “I know. I’m sorry.” You reach your hand out to him and he takes it, intertwining his fingers with yours. “A crush is just a crush, you know. No one can replace you in her heart. She loves you very much.” 

“I know that,” his words muffled as he presses his mouth to the palm of hands.

“It’s not like Kento will immediately ask for her hand in marriage. They’re both only kids. Let them have their fun.” 

Looking at you with his pleading eyes, you already know what he was asking for without any words. Standing up, you go to him and sit down on his lap. You let him hold you just like that—with his arms tangled in your torso, his face buried in the crook of your neck and his hair poking your cheeks. 

“She’ll always be your beloved girl.”

He exclaims, “She’s just growing up so fast.” 

“Yeah, she is. But you know, she’s not leaving the nest anytime soon.”

Koutarou looks at you with eyes full of affection and presses his forehead on yours when he whispers, “We raised a great child, huh?”

“We really did. We’re lucky to have her.” 

He hums, his thumb stroking your cheek, tracing over your lips before kissing you with a sweet, gentle passion that has you leaning closer in his hold. When you pull back, you see him flash the brightest smile and you’re left breathless when he says, 

“I’m lucky to have you.” 

He knows a day will come when he’ll eventually have to give Hana to the guy she loves. Nevertheless, he looks at you fondly, knowing that you’ll always be by his side. And right now, he concludes, he’s lucky to have both you and Hana to call his home.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines #bokuto scenarios #bokuto x reader #haikyuu fluff #bokuto fluff #haikyuu fics #haikyuu one shot #bokuto x you #hq x reader #hq x you #hq fics #haikyuu bokuto #bokuto koutarou #hq fluff #haikyuu!! #haikyuu au #belated happy bday bokuto! #i am still in a writing break i just wanted to post this hehe

[felassan]

Let's talk about these new images & the new/clearer looks at images from the Dragon Age Vinyl. (first, read this post hhhh). under a cut for length.

These resemble the map of the Fade in DA:O.

This one with the eluvian is labelled as the "Black City" side of the flip mat merch item. behind the eluvian is a flower-like pattern. and this is the first time I remember [? could be wrong] seeing the 'roots' of the 'tree statue' structures. from root, to trunk, to branches. [interestingly with root and branches looking like veins, lyrium veins, Titan veins..]. an eluvian shattering in the context of the "Black City" - again the splattering, the shattering..

and I looked up and saw the seven gates of the Black City shatter, and darkness cloaked both realms.

were/are the seven "gates" eluvians? ^^ they are portals and a gate is type of portal.

On the left here is Grey Warden imagery - griffon, sword, Joining Chalice with darkspawn blood drop.

I can't make out the two middle images - is anyone skilled with image manipulation able to unskew them?

On the right here, the four circles pattern looks similar to the pattern on Solas' Hermit Tarot card. and in the middle is the sense once again of an eclipse - in the very center, a sun-like shape/representation of the sun. and behind that, two overlapping spheres/two shadowed spheres.

Codex entry: Old Elven Writing

This elven writing found in the Arbor Wilds is so old as to be incomprehensible. There are whispers from the Well of Sorrows. It's impossible to understand the entire text, but certain parts suddenly reveal a shadow of their original meaning. "In this place we prepare to hunt the pillars of the earth. Their workers scurry, witless, soulless. This death will be a mercy. We will make the earth blossom with their passing." For one moment there is a vivid image of two overlapping spheres; unknown flowers bloom inside their centers. Then it fades.

And here is our first clear look at the Black City version of the art. we can now make out details in it that we couldn't the other day. the 'feel' of the image is that the sunrays emanating from the dragon/just behind the dragon cause/caused the now-Black City to destabilize and crumble. the wings and foliage also have a color gradient. at the bottom, gnarled and blackened, where the rot set in and is spreading. it spreads upwards to marr the little amount of gold that there is left, killing the foliage in the process.

but the main new exciting detail here is the heads held in the wings. there are 6 of them and they have elven ears. on their helms are the 'Evanuris headpiece/symbols'. seen from different angles in some, but it's these symbols nonetheless. you can match them up, like so:

After matching up the heads to these symbols, only the central one, the biggest one, is left out. and as you can see, what does match that is the Black City dragon's horns (recall they or the dragon itself changes from the Golden City version of the art to this one) and the staff of the figure facing the dragon in the Golden City version of the art.

close up of that figure shows they have pointed elven ears.

here's an Elgar'nan asset from DA:O. compare the horns with the staff top, the Black City dragon horns and the symbol in the biggest semicircle.

I still speculate that the figure and therefore the second 'Black City' dragon is Elgar'nan (with the first dragon being Mythal). opposite Mythal, he's the leader of the gods, the Zeus. that semicircle and symbol is the biggest. There isn't another big one because Mythal was murdered, and of course there isn't a ninth because that's Fen'Harel. I wrote in my last post on this,

left, silvery dragon - Mythal? right dragon (which is gold-toned despite the blackening) - Elgar'nan, after he’s approached her [maybe as the figure on the rock promontory] and then murdered her and taken her place as the god, ruler, dragon who presides over all? moon and sun, moon dragon and sun dragon, beauty and destruction.. the shape of the 'right-hand’ dragon’s horns match the evanuris headpiece on the ring which is in the biggest hemisphere, and of the 7 gods those headpieces apply to (9 Evanuris, minus Mythal and Fen'Harel), the 'biggest’ naturally is the patriarch leader opposite Mythal, Elgar'nan.

husbands killing, betraying or doing acts of violence against their wives is unfortunately not a rare thing. and in the lore this has happened before. Andraste (with her Mythal-like crown..) was betrayed by Maferath. Conobar betrayed Flemeth, the human woman whom the spark of Mythal - betrayed herself by other Evanuris - crawled to. the spark of Mythal "clawed and crawled through the ages" to Flemeth when Flemeth cried out for help. there is a reason Flemeth is the vessel the spark of Mythal joined with, their stories are similar. Dalish lore and the memories of ancient elven lore we see in DA:I sometimes show that Mythal sometimes had to temper Elgar'nan's fury or defuse situations involving him. of course, just because Elgar'nan was the main culprit of Mythal's death didn't mean that he did it alone or acted alone. other Evanuris were involved. Solas says "and in their lust for power they killed her". in their lust for power, the City was blackened.

the question is, what do the Evanuris heads in the dragon's blackened wings represent? ofc it's another version (really different art style etc) of this event. the heads/symbols, the City blackening.. it's the same event being depicted. but the way their body-less heads hang there in the blackened wings, dark and connected to the corrupted tree.. it reminds me of the theories connecting the Evanuris to the Blight somehow. "What the Evanuris in their greed could unleash would end us all. Let this place be forgotten. Let no one wake its anger. The People must rise before their false gods destroy them all." The Balrog Theory. Andruil travelling into the darkness of the Void and returning, twisted and mad. stuff like that. that's what the heads in the wings remind me of. so other Evanuris ("they") were involved in Mythal's death, and they were up to something shady "in their lust for power" that was giving 'not great for the world' vibes.

also, stylistically the choice to show their heads like this also reminds me of the faces in the borders of the beautiful map that came out with the Tevinter Nights book. those borders not only also contain two different dragons facing off from each side of the map but a bunch of celestial body, sun/moon and eclipse imagery...

anyways, we also get a more detailed clearer look at the Golden City cover art and in this we can see -

this is the door/gate to the Golden City in this Art. and idk, it just reminds me of this dragon Mythal mosaic or this Mythal dragon statue.

also -

soo is Elgar'nan is one of the "Evil Gods" that has Thedas in their sights? that mural could be read as implying that there were two returning or at least lurking ominously. All 7 non-Mythal-non-Fen'Harel gods coming back or being at risk of coming back in one game could be too much both in terms of irl meta-resources for development (there are lots of other things going on in Thedas to cover as well) and too much as a threat, if I was a writer I personally might handwave most of them to the side like "oh yeah, 5 of them got corrupted/stuck/lost forever over the Ages since while they were trapped and only Elgar'nan and [Other One] remain to pose a threat. they're still looming and ominous though". yknow?

but who knows, this was just one guy's take. to be further updated on all things gaming news reviews and discussions, stay tuned right here on yongyea, I'll see you guys next time, yong out

#dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #solas #mj meta #violence cw

[brujitaadinbo]

hello everyone… late coming back but here I am to close this segment of "enemies then lovers" with one of my favorite couples in Naruto and I can assure you that it has so many parallels with Din and Bo katan.

"Shikamaru and Temari" or for fans of this shipment "ShikaTema"

And the truth is that the similarities in both couples are very obvious.

For example; age. Even with a small difference, Temari is a little older than Shikamaru.

Just as Bo Katan can be a little older than Din but without exceeding the rank so much.

After Shikamaru, belonging to another village and another tribe, which at first were in conflict with Konoha, later the Sand village (to which Temari belongs), becomes an ally, since Naruto and Gaara are involved in this. This is how Shikamaru and Temari begin to unite more in joint missions and as allies in battle.

Coincidentally (obviously not LOL) Din and Bo katan unite their tribes to then resolve quarrels between both groups and get them to get along and this is when Din and Bo begin to be battle allies and feel closer, more intimate.

Shikamaru and Temari at first were enemies in combat, they did not get along but coincidentally, for some reason he feels attracted to her and allows her to take command in some circumstances.

She also felt him as an enemy but suddenly she felt the energy he emanated, an attraction for him, which several times made her save his life, when this boy got into trouble.

When the villages become allies and become companions and allies in battle, you feel the chemistry in both characters, they talk very closely, they support each other, they take care of each other, there is previous flirtation, glances, very notable body language. Even Naruto himself (who is supposed to be a fool in these matters LOL) manages to see the interaction in both.

The best of all is that even though Shikamaru's character is very apathetic and tends to be discreet in certain aspects, with Temari he usually looks very different and seems in love. When Temari feels this, she falls too. And although her character is strong and tough, she can become bossy, with him, she begins to give in. It is a healthy relationship in certain ways and at the end of the day they are mature, bilateral feelings are noticeable.

And if we go with Din and Bo katan; We find that they first hated each other, Din spitting at Bo Katan that his only priority was the child, she calling him a fanatic. Afterwards the relationship improves, they come together, they become stronger; They manage to remedy their problems between both of them and between their factions. You feel the chemistry between them, as allies, companions and friends.

But suddenly you start noticing things they do and you think "ok; friends don't do this, because well "Friends don't look at each other like that, they don't approach each other like that, they don't talk to each other like that."

You begin to see that dynamic of looks, their body language, their way of speaking and their dynamics. Obviously you can't avoid shipping them.

I'm hoping Din and Bo end up like Shikamaru and Temari; together, happy and with many family adventures ahead.

This is the way.

#the mandalorian #star wars #dinbo #bo katan kryze #bo katan x din #din djarin #bokadin #din x bo #this is the way #clandetres #lucasfilm #naruto #shikamaru x temari #shikamaru nara #temari #temari x shikamaru

[twogyuu]

We Can Just Dance to This

Pairing: Lee Chan x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff(?), angst(?), dirty dancing!au, summer love, good girl gone bad(but Chan's not a bad guy?)

Warnings: I mean . . . it's a dirty dancing!au so mildly suggestive but no explicit smut

WC: ~1.7k

A/N: This has been sitting in the WIP pile for who knows how long and the thousands of bulletpoints I added to this document went nowhere 😀

Originally inspired by the movie, Dirty Dancing and Dance To This by Troye Sivan ft. Ariana Grande. Happy reading 💙

. . . .

He didn’t belong in this town. 

He didn’t belong in this family resort. 

This wasn’t the dance studio he dreamed of: a musty cabin built over thirty years ago tucked away on a hill in the woods. The interior was redesigned to mimic a poor excuse of a studio. Mirrors lined one wall, though over the years they were stained with oily fingerprints from the young children of the guests who came by for lessons. The large screen windows revealed too much of the intimacy and vulnerability that came with the art. Dirt tracked from climbing the dusty stone stairs filled the grit of the floor tiles and flies were starting to get stuck in the bright overhead lights above. It was a shame that the resort was most popular in the summer – the age old fan hardly cooled anyone off these days. 

Lee Chan did, however, belong on the dance floor. 

He deserved to be in the spotlight on some big stage in LA or New York City. 

Somewhere, along side a pop star or shining under the spotlight himself.

You decided this was certain as you watched him expertly move his body to the Normani’s ‘Motivation’ from the corner of the resort dance studio. It was almost as if the music emanated from his core and flowed through his limbs to his finger tips. You were in utter awe of how he paid attention to every detail of his move, from the way his feet were positioned in a perfect crisscross to the point of his fingers. 

“It lasts longer if you take a picture,” Chan chuckled breathlessly as he made his way towards you. He kneeled and settled in a spot in front of you. 

You were so lost in him, you didn’t even notice the change in pace of the song – an entirely new one playing at that. You ignored the way your cheeks heated up, handing him over a water bottle that he hastily gulped down. You tucked your knees into your chest, resting your chin atop them as you peered at him quietly. His bangs were stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. You didn’t want to, but you did take note of the way his veins bulge along his arms.

“You’re good,” you mumbled. 

He stopped mid-drink and side eyed you, frowning. “You’ve been watching all this time and it’s just good?”

“I mean,” you shrugged, “It’s not like I know much about dance . . . you looked skilled?”

Silence, then a beat. 

Chan leaned forward on his hands, his head tilted slightly and a playful smile tugging at the right corner of his lip. 

“What are we gonna do with you, baby?” he teased in a low voice. You could feel his breath grazing across your cheek.

You froze. 

Baby.

The nickname felt different coming from him. 

You didn’t know how to reply, so you didn’t, simply shrinking back. 

He stayed like this a while longer; you, internally squirming under his gaze. You hoped your demeanor was stoic and didn’t show the way a simple lazy look from him could stir so much in you. 

After a moment, Chan slid back. He gave you one last look before getting up and making his way to the speaker set up. He swiped at his phone connected to by the AUX cord, ceasing Jason Derulo’s falsetto in ‘Want To Want Me’, replacing it with the electronic piano of ‘Versace on the Floor’ by Bruno Mars. 

You furrowed your brows in confusion as he sauntered over, one hand tucked in the pocket of his baggy sweatpants that hung loosely around his hips. His smile had spread into a grin as the strumming of the guitar and percussion began. 

Chan extended a hand in your direction. Dumbfounded, your gaze flickering from his hand to his face and back.  

“Dance with me,” he asked. “Let’s see what you can do.”

The longer you hesitated, his confidence began to falter like a middle school boy being rejected by his crush. Chan gulped as he felt his throat constrict – the last thing he wanted to do was make things awkward between you and him. After all, you had to see each other all summer and there weren’t many places to hide around here. Even if he hadn’t danced with you yet, he could’ve sworn, there was chemistry, at the very least a spark between you and him. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, right?

Finally, you gingerly placed your hand in his and pushed yourself off the floor. He released a small breath of relief, eyes examining your fingers settled in his. He chortled softly at your baby pink painted nails – chipped and outgrown. It was fitting for you for some reason. 

“I don’t actually know what to do,” you said anxiously. 

“Wait,” Chan held out a hand to you. 

Great – you already fucked up and you haven’t even started. 

“You should take off your sneakers,” he pointed at them. 

“Why?” 

“So you don’t step on my feet,” he peered down at his sock-covered toes. 

“Fair, I guess.”

“Relax,” he told you, noting how stiff you were. Chan led you to the center and positioned your hands: one on his shoulder, the other resting his own hand. “Just follow along, hm?”

“Easier said than done,” you grumbled. 

The hairs along your spine pricked up when you felt the warmth of his hand settle on the small of your back. 

“We’ll start with a simple square waltz,” Chan explained. “I step back, you step forward, then to the right – so on and so forth to make a square.”

You looked up, trying your best to memorize the steps. 

The first few times, you stumbled. He was right to make you take off your shoes. Even looking at your feet, you stepped on his toes a few times, apologizing profusely, while the dancer just laughed and reassured you.

“Relax,” Chan said again, “Feel the music and move with it. Let it guide you.”

You peered up from the ground and caught his gaze, his eyes amused and warm. He nodded at you encouragingly and stepped forward. Instinctively, you stepped back. 

“Good,” he chuckled. 

 After a few rectangles and triangles, you were finally starting to get the hang of it. Though the Bruno Mars song had faded into ‘Night Changes’ by One Direction, you were able to keep up with the faster beat. A feeling of accomplishment filled your chest at this, eliciting an excited smile on your face. 

“Cute,” Chan said softly. 

You looked at him in surprise.

“What?” he asked teasingly. 

“Nothing,” you muttered. You looked behind him, met with the reflection of you and him moving in sync in the mirror. The steps were simple, but you with him . . . looked right. 

Feeling something funny in your chest, you looked out through the screen windows, clearing your throat loudly. 

“Didn’t take you for a Directioner?” you commented. 

“It’s a nice song,” Chan offered. You shivered at the way his lips grazed against your ear. 

“Noted – Lee Chan, directioner.”

He rolled his eyes, chortling at the tease. 

“Wanna take this a step further?” Chan challenged.

“Is this payback for making fun of you?”

“You could say so,” he shrugged, pulling back to look at you. “I’ll spin you and then twirl you out.”

“Don’t let go?” you said immediately. The irrational fear of him letting you go and the momentum of the spin taking you crashing into something overtaking you. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chan didn’t warn you, letting go of your waist and raising his hand for you to rotate under. The rest was a blur, the room turning white as the colors mixed together and you felt your forearms stretch. 

Before you knew it, you were enveloped back in his arms – though closer than before, your chests flushed against one another. You could feel the rise and fall of his every breath; perhaps even the beat of his heart, and it was fast. The music seemed to have faded and it was only the mix of his and your heavy breathing.

If his eyes were warm before, they were swarming with something else now – you couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Curiosity overtaking you, you reached up and swept his bangs out of his eyes, fingers lingering in his locks to no avail. His dark orbs scanned over your face, flickering from your own eyes to your lips. He looked a little too long – enough for  you to know what was on his mind as much as your own. 

You felt his hand wrap around your wrist, his other gripping around your waist. The press of each finger seeping warmth into your skin, though this time, you were less anxious as you were lost in him. 

In fact, you almost welcomed it. 

Chan leaned in, hesitantly pressing his lips against your own plush ones as if to test the water first. When you kissed back, you could feel him relax, almost falling into you as you stumbled back to steady yourself and him. He smiled into the kiss, his hand coming up to adjust your neck for better access to your lips. 

The seconds melted into minutes, minutes suddenly into infinite. 

When you felt him pull away, you opened your eyes slowly, one after another. Chan breathing shallowly, a silly, tight smile stretched across his face as he tried to hold in his laughter. 

He wasn’t laughing at you, but rather out of joy. 

Lips swollen, you sucked in your bottom lip in between your teeth, a faint taste of his mint gum lingering. 

“You’re not completely hopeless,” he muttered, breaking the silence in an attempt to tease you. However, it didn’t feel as such. 

You scoffed and pressed a hand against his chest, silently asking him to let you go after ruining the moment. 

But he didn’t. 

In fact, he only pulled you closer. 

How about it, baby?” Chan asked. “Help me out for the summer?”

You looked back at him. 

Playfulness? 

Maybe that’s what it was in his eyes – or lust?

“I . . . don’t see why not.”

You were interested, to say the least, and for once, you wanted to take the leap of faith.

Take a chance on him.

Take a chance on yourself.

Perhaps, you could become something more than the sweet and obedient 'baby' everyone else knew and adored.

#lee chan x reader #dino x reader #lee chan scenarios #dino scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen scenarios #lee chan #svt dino

[cas-backwards-tie]

Chapter Two: A New Day Dawns

COD men x Reader

Trials & Triumphs | Previous Chapter

Summary: After familiarizing yourself with everyone in your squadron, departure is upon you. With a loose thread that reeks of a fishy lead into the underworld your long-op needs, you can only hope that your strike team--TaskForce 141--knows what they're doing.

Words: 5.5k

Warnings: cursing, death, murder, blood, descriptions of death, weapons, gunfire, hostages, injury, bombs, graphic descriptions of injuries, tension, suspense, military lingo(?)

Mentions of: crime, government,

A/N: Delving deeper into the mission and some of the darker themes and topics that I hope to venture into... I'm gonna remind that the warnings should be thoroughly looked at. FYI I will also be putting all the lingo I'm using at the bottom of the fic, right before the taglists. And if anything ever comes up that you don't understand, just send comment, send an ask, or message me <3

The sun is beating down in focused rays of energy, simultaneously fueling and draining you of resolve. Considering your squad has been staking out a suspected hideout of an acquaintance to your Primary Target now for hours, it makes sense. Sometimes the hardest part of the job is the most seemingly simple piece of the puzzle. This isn't going to be easy, by any means. While the roots of the Party live and breathe throughout the world, there's no way of telling that anyone is overtly a 'participant'. However, hacking, biometric data, and DNA have all played a role in supplying enough evidence to at least garner suspicion and questions among the FBI. Over time, evidence had to be sent through Interpol and its sequestered national databases, eventually proferring up the fact that this is no longer a national threat, but a global-scale threat.

The epidemic you're facing isn't a localized problem, but one that's been brewing and festering beneath the surface for ages to come.

Data, files, and transmissions had been carefully collected in clustered patterns and sporadic correspondences over the past six years in order to get where your mission lies today. "We see him land- we go in, secure the perimeter, get him, and shut it down. You got it?"

The plan had been laid out a week before time. Mister Boris Wagner, a mid-level entry into the world you need access to. He'll know the ins and outs of the underground, the layout of their corner in the black market... the signs, the warnings, the signals.

"König, I need you on infiltration. I've heard it's your specialty, let's see it in action!" Having hyped up the team on their allotted positions and ability to accomplish this delicate task, you have no doubts you'll be interrogating Wagner by the end of the night. "Keegan, you're with me. We go in, stealth is our goal. You and me find him, take him down."

"B team's with Captain Price. He'll tell you what to do. Horangi, I need you in the nest. Up top as surveillance. Got that?" A nod from the Korean is all you need, grateful to see that he's listening, paying attention, and knows what he'll be doing. "Graves, you're on perimeter duty. You and Horangi should be in close touch." Ignoring the somewhat annoyed sound that emanates from the Commander, you lean further against the table, hands splayed out across the map as you continue to point and circle around the map at various locations according to your plans. "König, once you've cleared the building I need you on standby with Graves keeping a lookout. Hopefully, we shouldn't have too much trouble with Horangi looking over our shoulder and Bravo team less than a quarter mile north, but you never know."

Just a month prior NATO had gotten tip-offs from a certain South Asian country that there'd been illegal shipments crossing through their borders coming and going. They'd tracked them down to a group of buildings, what looked like houses in an Al-Mazrah community just twenty miles outside the city. Without civilians to worry about, it makes things fortunate for your operation, yet on the other hand, you're not quite sure what lies in wait within the houses you've been told your Target is lined up for a meeting at.

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"I've got eyes on the Target," Ghost's gruff voice comes through the comms. He's on the Northern side of the mountains, just nineteen kilometers away.

"Affirmative. Suspect is in an AFV accompanied by three others." It's the Captain. With Bravo team clearly already within range of the enemy, you all know it's game on.

"Copy, loud and clear. Remain in position. Over," you instruct, lying in the sand beside Horangi in the rooster's nest your team's help built him for sniping and surveillance.

"There are twenty five soldiers, at less," Horangi speaks. Still looking through the scope, he continues to watch the scene unfold.

"Notify them," you command him. While he'd done the courtesy of letting you know that verbally, along with the Alpha team, you can't let Bravo down. They need the warning as well. Horangi takes to this immediately, Keegan garners your attention with a bump of his forearm against yours.

"They're headed inta the buildin'. Should we head out? Pack up?" Pulling the binoculars up to your eyes you can see the well-dressed man exit the vehicle, guards on either side of him loaded with AK-47s and strapped with tactical gear. Jaw tense, you can't help but lick your lips and take a deep breath as you contemplate.

"Soldiers spreading out, taking formation and securing a perimeter." This time it's Gaz's voice that rings out over the comms.

"Two AFVs roundin' perimeter. Do'ya think th-" Soap's transmission is cut off as another voice pipes in.

"They definitely know we're here. Got them parked East side of the building's," Graves informs. Pulling your eyes away from the scene and off the binoculars you look over your shoulder back at him. His intense blue eyes stare down at you, a stoic expression on his face; if you didn't know any better, you'd guess he's already disappointed you didn't barge in and set up camp before their arrival.

The comms start to go a little haywire as Bravo team starts asking questions to one another. "Just waiting on Team Leader to give the go ahead," Captain Price answers one of them. You catch this, and immediately butt in.

"I say we're clear. All stations are a go. Handing it over to you, Captain." With one last quick breath of peace exiting through your nose, you sit up. Dusting off your tac pants, you head for your packs. In the distance, you can hear the commotion of panic as the enemy starts to panic. As soon as you'd given permission, you knew Ghost was going to take down the spotters with his sniper. Horangi doing the same. The quiet fwips of the bullet slicing through the air--thankfully--not in your direction, is comforting... for now.

"South side clear. You're ready to go. Watch for East side. Do not know what is behind the A F V," Horangi informs you. Slinging the backpack straps over your shoulders, you untuck your braid from it before giving him one last look and a thanks, before heading out.

"I got it," König announces. While you'd both put on your packs at the same time, he's already practically running down the hill in plain sight. Though the sun's already begun to set and the desert is cast mostly in light blue on the South side where you're stationed, the man's still highly visible considering he's a hulking giant. The momentum of gravity takes him down the hill faster and faster, the Austrian making quick work of the soldiers that unfortunately round the AFV unsuspectingly, terrified screams echoing out shortly before they're quickly silenced by the Giant's handiwork.

"I've got South side then. Watch out for... him," Graves warns you, eyeing the Austrian suspiciously as König yanks the knife he's carrying out of the man's neck, a gush of blood blubbering up and out of the wound onto the concrete below. Turning your attention back to Graves you find him feet away heading in that direction, having silently departed without another word or acknowledgment.

"We've got five in the building. That I can see, at least. The right side and basement are grayed out," Keegan announces. Lifting the night vision scope momentarily, Keegan lays a hand on his waist as he waits for the Austrian to join the conversation. "So you're goin' in first. Clearin', then we follow?" The Southern boy clarifies.

"No, we're following as he's clearing. We need to back him, Keeg. You can't just let him go in alone. Especially if it's grayed out. Where are the five you can see?" Turning the safety off your SMG, you arm yourself. A roll of the shoulders, you eye the building before you, ignoring the way the dark blood stains on König's uniform stand out in the periphery of your vision.

"We've got hostages, Tiara." Nightvision goggles on, you know Keegan's not messing around when he calls you by your callsign. "Three, top floor left side. Looks like a woman and two children. One in the hallway behind them. One on the ground floor by the right side."

"Shit," you curse, "okay." Closing your eyes, you get yourself together. There's no telling whether there will be hostages on any given mission, and while it's usually not an issue, there's always a greater chance of something going awry when there are hostages involved. At least, in your opinion. "König? You've got a plan? We're following you, okay? We've got your back. We can do this. I suggest we go ground floor and then head upstairs, but you're the expert."

"Ja." It's as simple as that. You'd have thought you'd get anything more than one word from the Austrian man. Maybe you'd wanted more, maybe if he'd said something- anything, then you'd be reassured in any way, shape, or form, but the fact that he'd simply agreed and turned on his heel heading straight for the door is something you were unprepared for.

Nevertheless, this is the work. Expect the unexpected. Graves is still in the clear, and while the comms have been separated between teams from the moment you'd given the go, everything seems to be--thank god--going according to plan. Following the Giant into the building, you're a little surprised that he's as quiet as he is. Sure, you're not completely taken aback. I mean, he's in the military, surely he'd be somewhat stealthy, no? Well... thinking on it, you've known some people who aren't, but anyway--this is special ops--of course he'd be. Needless to say, you're impressed. Through the front door, you can see through cutout doorway to your left a vacated living room, and the beginnings of a staircase, the rest blocked by the wall before you.

König goes right, through the cutout doorway opposite where you'd been looking. It's the direction Keegan had pinpointed someone's location on the border of a grayed-out area. With it grayed out for him, the building must have one side, and the basement, encased in concrete or some other durable material too thick to see through. With that in mind, it could also mean they have either a bunker, or a bomb shelter in place for one reason or another. "Proceed with caution," you whisper.

"Affirmative," both men respond, one after the other. Keegan watches your six while you watch König's surroundings. Blocked by the Austrian's stature, you can't see but hear a gun pop and watch as König rushes forward through the next cutout doorway and drop-kicks the soldier onto the floor. His gun goes skittering across the hardwood floor, the small chandelier in the dining room shaking along with the whole house, dust filtering down from the crevices in the panels above your heads.

The enemy shouts something in Arabic that you don't understand, but is quickly silenced when König breaks their neck. It's too late. Gunfire fills your ears as bullets rain down from the ceiling. It's the person in the hallway upstairs! Bullets ricochet off gear and you can't help but disperse as you run through the opening on your left, a hallway that connects on the other side of the way you'd just come. Like a loop! At the bottom of the stairs, you ready yourself for an enemy ahead as you decide to forgo König's help and do this yourself. You know that there will be hostages ahead of you, approximately three, Keegan guessed, and while you don't know if they simply appeared as hostages through the goggles, and it's a trap... you'll have to take that risk. It's nothing you haven't done before, right?

"Tiara, wait!" Keegan calls after you.

While gunfire continues to resound through the dining room you'd come from, you aren't sure whether it's from the person you're going after, or one of your teammates trying to retaliate and shoot the Tango through the floor. No time to waste, you continue quietly walking up the steps and entering the room above. It only takes a moment for you to spot someone. The glimpse of a purple scarf elicits your attention; the whimper, and attempt to cower further into the corner, however, tells you all you need to know.

Eyes resettling on the doorway you're sure the real enemy is behind, you continue to step forward. It isn't until you can meet the woman's eyes that you're able to put a hand up, attempting to tacitly comfort her. It hurts, the way your heart clenches at the sight of her cowering in the corner behind the desk, her baby tucked into her lap between her knees curled up as high as they can go in an attempt to shield the precious life she'd created. An older, still young boy--couldn't be older than six or seven--clings onto his mother's arm with his body, while the other hand presses itself to his ear, eyes screwed shut.

You know why you're doing this... and it's so moments like these will never have to happen. Not just to this family, but to any family, hopefully, for a long, long time, if not, ever again.

Just feet away the demanding voice of a man shouts something in Arabic. You don't know what he's saying, you're unable to tell, and can't decide if he's talking to you... through a comm... to himself. He's not surrendering, you doubt that. It's only as the woman's lip wobbles and struggles to say something, opening and closing like a fish out of water that you realize. He's forcing her to keep lookout.

When she doesn't answer immediately, he yells something else, stomping around the corner before his eyes meet yours. Immediately firing, a bullet whizzes past you, another grazing your arm as you fire back. One- it hits his leg, eliciting a groan and a contortion of his face as fury takes over. Two- it embeds into his shoulder, twisting his body from the recoil as he has to steady himself. You slide to your right, past and behind the opposite side of the desk the family is at, a trail of bullets not stopping as he follows your figure, shooting the desk, bits of wood flying into the air. As he rounds the desk you aim and fire the last one--three--it sinks into his stomach. If the others wouldn't have taken him out eventually from infection or bleeding out, he's definitely gone now.

His body sinks to the floor, and you can't help but stay there on the floor, lying half up-right as you gather yourself. The creaking of floorboards signals someone's arrival and you gasp, quickly turning your gun on them. "Scheisse," König curses, eyeing you from the doorway. "We found the entrance."

A sigh of relief leaves you. Holstering your gun, you get yourself standing before rounding the desk and offering a hand out to the woman. "We're here to help you." She shakes her head, only clutching onto her children tighter, tears cascading down her cheeks silently. It's clear she doesn't believe you. With your hands, you attempt to communicate. Circling the three of them, you point outside.

"Do you want me to grab them?" König offers, still lingering in the doorway. You know from having read his file that he's actually good with hostages, usually taking his time and being patient with them, earning their trust. Something you're sure isn't easy for someone his size and stature, easily mistaken as intimidating, you're sure. Yet, you know that if they've found an entrance to whatever's beneath the house and Wagner's already aware of your presence then it's only a matter of minutes in your hands: you either get to him now and leave the hostages here for god knows what to happen to them, or you get the hostages to safety and let Wagner escape.

"Give her a minute," you answer calmly, voice quiet as you take a step back, hands up. If she wants to stay for now, that's fine. Perhaps, you can send Graves in to get them. Though knowing the Commander it might not be your favorite choice. Nevertheless, your eyes roam her one more time, and perhaps it's the inkling of a smile you gave her beneath your mask, or something in your eyes, but she relinquishes. Grip loosening on her child, she stands, baby still coddled in her arms. Holding onto the boy's hand, her other carrying the baby, you motion for her to leave her hiding spot. "You're safe now, I promise."

As the family rounds the desk hesitantly, you follow, making sure that they're okay. König holds out a hand to the child, his hand practically monstrous in comparison, yet the child looks between his mother and the Austrian before hesitantly taking ahold. Guiding them outside, König is quick to get them to Graves, politely shooing the family's attempts to now thank him. "T, we've got-" Graves begins.

"Secure them, please. We've found the bunker," König informs the Commander as he hands the family off.

"Gaz, I-" Graves speaks into his comms, fingers pressed up to his ear as the other dismisses you two.

König quickly jogs back to the house, and you follow suit. Keegan is pacing around a door you hadn't spotted in the dining room. "Finally! God. B team is drownin'. We went to the wrong buildin' and Horangi saw Wagner go into this building, so he has to be in here, but there are more soldiers at the North building."

"Distraction?" König proposes, cracking the metal door further open than it'd already been. With careful steps he starts slowly down the first few.

"Drowning?" You ask, seeking clarification.

"They've been dealing with hostages out the wazoo! They had ta delegate Gaz and Soap just to securin' the hostages. Anyway- doesn't matter. They've almost cleared the buildin' an' no sight of Wagner. Ghost hasn't seen him, trying to figure out if he's escaped."

"So we check here," König states, eyes shifting between the two of you and down the steep corridor of concrete steps.

"Exactly," Keegan agrees. Goggles on, he nods his head, ushering you in first. "I'll trail ya, make sure nobody's followin' us."

"Okay. Well, did you at least inform Price what we're about to do?" You question Keegan, needing to know that whatever you're stumbling into you're not going in blind without reinforcements. If there's one thing you're sure of, it's that once you're underground, there most likely won't be anymore reception and comms will go dead.

"Affirmative," Keegan answers, lifting his fingers up to his ear, "but if it makes you feel better. All stations, Tiara, König, and I are going dark." With everyone informed, your anxiety lessens just a smidge.

The tunnel is lined with sconces encased in little cages, classic bunker lights. The hallway smells of mildew, oddly, and the long grey hallway is eerily silent. Minutes of walking turns into what could probably be approximated by a football field's length walk. Your quiet footsteps slightly echoing and bouncing off the close walls. Finally, you can see there's an opening ahead where it looks like the tunnel opens up into a large room. In the middle of the room lies a large covered pallet you can see even from yards away. Upon getting closer you can hear the buzz of radios and have to assume there's a control station of sorts down here. Surely, there's bound to be more people, too. Though oddly enough you haven't seen anyone, yet.

Just as you breach the cutout opening up the room, you can see the layout clearly. In the middle of the room beside the pallet is a huge beam that holds up the ceiling. On the other side of the room lies a stairway upstairs, presumably to the Northern building Bravo team just cleared, and on the right side of the room in the corner is a control station. A huge TV is hung on the wall, along with a computer on a desk, radios, dials, and cabinets. Next to the control station is another cutout leading toward another open room, though all you see are shelving and what looks like a glimpse of a root cellar-type door.

Despite your keen ability to take in observation and information quickly, you're immediately swarmed by the enemy. Flanked by soldiers on either side, from the other room to the right, the stairway opposite you, and whoever had been hiding in the left corner waiting for you as you came all the way down the hallway, they clearly planned for this. It's a trap.

In the center emerges Wagner from his men, a smug smile on his ugly frog face as his eyes once you over. "Who sent you?" He asks.

"Give us the next meeting location of the Party and you'll find out," Keegan barters, aiming his pistols at Wagner's men, he doesn't back down.

A throaty and nasally chuckle escapes the man as he shoves his hands in his pockets. "We've got you surrounded. Do you really think you're in the best place to bargain with me?" The air of confidence and egotistical nonchalance is enough to make you want to vomit. "I will only ask one more time."

As the man continues to speak, König braves another step inside. Due to his size, it's considerable. He's got his Glock out, eyes scanning the room as he eventually lands on yours, silently and subtly affirming a plan. You shift your gaze to Keegan, and then back to König before subtly nodding, hoping and praying it goes unnoticed as you attempt to play it off as nervousness, moving as if you're just new and untrained. As Wagner goes to speak again, the first syllable to interrupted by the sound of gunfire as you both start firing. Pops, whizzes, and pings of ricochet echo throughout the space as a gunfight goes down. Bodies drop left and right as you'd had the upper hand of an at least somewhat formulated plan. Keegan wasn't going to back down and was ready, you knew this, König was game, and you two were in sync. Together, you all have multiple rounds.

Their armor-piercing bullets make them drop like flies while your quickfire gun had at least stunned, wounded, and distracted long enough to get more kills in. König takes the left, you take the right, and Keegan decides to go straight down the middle after Wagner. It's only when there's a loud beeping sound that things go sideways. König goes after the soldiers and Wagner as they attempt to flee upstairs through the Northern building. As you get the last two guys in the adjacent room, you don't hear Keegan doing anything, which worries you to say the least.

A little focus goes a long way; one of the men uses your distraction as an advantage, switching to melee as he slices your arm with a knife. Stumbling backward with a cry you kick him in the stomach as he lunges at you again. Shooting generally at the second man you manage to fire multiple rounds at him, his body dropping. While the man you'd kicked fell flat on his butt, he pulls something out from his pocket, a scared look in his eye as he moves without thought. Meeting his eyes for only a moment, you see him pull the pin. "Shit!" Without thought you drop your gun and run into the next room, sliding as far away as you can before ducking and covering, attempting to shield yourself from the grenade blast as best you can.

Boom!

"T?" It's calm, yet you can hear his breathing, and it's somewhat shaky. Uncurling from yourself, you spot Keegan just feet away, lying by the pallets on something you'd failed to spot earlier. How could you fail to spot something as obvious as that? Panic immediately rises to the surface as your heart pounds in your chest. Underneath the lower half of his body lies a pad- a trigger of some sort, a pressure pad. It's a form of lock used to release the mechanism in the system for a bomb to start counting down. As you take in the way he's clutching his stomach and how there's blood seeping not only from around his fingers, but from another place in his thigh, you can't help but feel yourself freeze.

Your eyes finally meet his, following them as they stay locked onto the giant television that's on the wall. It's crooked now, dangling, most likely from the grenade that'd just gone off, yet... it's no longer a dark screen. It's on... and there's a countdown clock on it. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see it- I just went for 'im- I couldn't let 'im get away, I-" Keegan begins to blabber, his voice coming out much more sorrowful than you're used to.

"It-" you scramble onto your knees, hands up as you try to shut him up, "It's fine! It's fine! Just- just..." Mind going a mile a minute you can't help but flounder as you try to figure out what to do. A bomb's going to go off. You don't know that you can get Keegan out of here safely, intact, in time. Not to mention, Wagner could be getting away right now.

"You have to get him! Go! Leave me," Keegan demands, gripping your shirt and tugging on it, forcing you to get his attention. "Don't think! Just act. Get him! It's your duty, soldier. GO!"

Pure adrenaline courses through your body at this point in time as you run through the basement and up the stairs you'd seen. You only have your service pistol in hand, and aren't sure where everyone else had gone. As the space opens up into the hangar of the Northern building there's a sporadic quiet pops of gunfire to the South, while directly to your West there's suddenly a gigantic BOOM! You can hear multiple voices in your ear all shouting and directing one another as they scramble with whatever situations they're in. Concentration escapes you as you can't help the overwhelming anxiety that floods your body, dread, and fear continuously washing over you in waves over and over.

"If you have the shot, take him out!" You hear Graves shout into the comms.

"It's too close-" Ghost responds, voice cool and calm. "Either tell 'im to lead 'im away or get outta there. Now."

While you have no idea what they're talking about, you can guesstimate. Regardless, with the sound of gunfire close by and the sound of their voices you know they're all not too far away. If anything, it seems like all the chaos has shrunken down to just surrounding this building.

"Horangi, update!" Gaz demands. There's another boom, and then another. Though it shakes the ground you're standing on and causes you to stumble and almost trip over your own two feet, you manage to get outside the open hangar doors the team had bust down. Smoke fills the air, and you can now see what's going on. "Update!"

"It should be down now. They are blind." Horangi responds.

Ghost is still in the B team's roost nest keeping lookout. While far away, you know he's not focused on whatever's going on here. The smoke makes it hard to see, and you wind up coughing as you wave it from your face. Through it, you can barely make out what you think is the rest of B team attempting to gather and herd the hostages. Dozens upon dozens of civilians scream, cry, and huddle a few yards South, closer to where Graves had been stationed. You assume he's still there. Closest to you, an AFV is active. Clearly, one of the last remaining soldiers jumped into the tank and decided the only way to protect themselves was by using it to save themselves. Or, to take out everyone, including the civilians, since it seems that's where the blasts were going.

"Fuckin' hell, finally. McKay, Gaz, moving in," Soap announces.

"NO!" You yell. Though you don't have your comms on, you shout into the distance and know they can hear you. "Soap, I need you! Graves, McKay, Wilson- anyone can help, but I need you- there's a bomb!" Eyes looking between where you know Soap's approximately located and the basement, you know you have to hurry. "Keegan- he's- I need you. Now!"

"Fuck," you hear Soap curse. "On my way!" While you can hear skirmishes going on to the right somewhere, you focus on regaining your breath. As the sound of feet padding toward you gets closer you raise your pistol just in case. "Christ's sake, Lass! Dinnae point that thing at me, yeah?" With a sigh, he pats your back. "Lead the way."

Back down in the basement, you're relieved to be back by Keegan's side. At least then, you know you can do your work. Something you'd always been good at on testing day was being an on-field medic, so while you don't necessarily want to ever have to... when push comes to shove, you're glad you can and know how to.

With gentle hands you gently feel around his thigh for the bullet. To your surprise, he'd gotten lucky with his leg, the bullet only slightly lodged into it. While the general rule of thumb is to keep any intrusive objects within until in a safe place to remove them, that doesn't apply when you can easily tourniquet the wound. After all, from inspection, you can see that the blood was seeping from around the bullet anyhow. Keegan was either moving around too much, opening and tearing the wound further, or he tried dislodging the bullet by himself. A bad idea either way.

Unslinging the backpack from your shoulders you undo your medkit and get out the antiseptic, gauze, and scissors. "I can't stitch you up here, but on the helo I can fix you up," you reassure him. Gently smacking Keegan's arm a few times you attempt to keep him awake. "Hey, hey! Hey- Keeg- what happened? Tell me what happened, talk to me. Say something."

Eyelids continuously fluttering between open and closed, you debate whether or not this is serious enough to stab him with the Epi-Pen. "Don't make me stab you with the Epi-Pen, Sergeant."

"Is that a threat?" His words come out slow and somewhat slurred, but it's enough for you. He's still awake. Still responsive, that's good. You brace one hand above the wound to keep him in place, while the other grabs the small pair of forceps that'd been in your medkit. In truth, you'd rather warn him of what you're about to do, but in all honesty it's probably better to just do it and get it over with. Rip the bandaid off, for lack of better words.

"How's it looking over there, MacTavish?" You ask, trying to keep things casual and calm. Silently counting down in your mind, you place the grips of the forceps around the bullet in Keegan's leg. Three... Two... One.

Keegan's scream rips through the basement, making both you and the Scot jump in your skin. The Southern boy jolts, attempting to sit upright. You hush him and force him back down. "It's okay, it's okay. That's done! It's done. I just have to wrap it."

"No... stop. It's fine," he refutes, trying to push your hands away. Never, have you given him a stink eye like now, he thinks.

Soap clears his throat. "How long's that gonna take? Exactly?" There's an audible tension in his voice. With swift hands you make quick work of the final knot in the tourniquet on Keegan's thigh, ignoring his groans. Looking over your shoulder you notice the sweat donning Johnny's eyebrow.

"Why? What's wrong?" You ask. Coming closer, you look over his shoulder at all the wires connected to the batteries, switches, and jumpers on the pallet. Bombs were never your specialty. Of course, everyone knew about the simple sort of red, blue, and yellow situation. Red is usually bad, yellow equals okay, and blue is good. But... that's not always the situation. You'd only ever done the practice exams, and... well, didn't exactly pass most of them. Therefore, that specialty was definitely out of the question for you. Needless to say, the device sat before you is more complicated than the Da Vinci code. "He has a whole laceration on his stomach that's bleeding severely. I'd have to do stitches- that'd take... fifteen minutes, tops? If they're good. Bad? Ten. Unsterilized, which could kill him... five? but... we're not doing the latter."

"Then we've gotta move him. And fast," Johnny instructs. The downturn of his lips doesn't shift as he turns to face you head-on. "I'm not risking two teammates for some jugaad bomb. I can carry him upstairs easy."

Together it was exactly what Soap had predicted: easy. Keegan wasn't in good shape, but he was alive. The rest of the mission flies by, and soon you find yourself sitting strapped into the helo seat, hands cradling your head as you process everything that'd just happened.

~~~~~~~~~~

acronyms:

AFV: Armored-Fighting Vehicle

SMG: Sub-Machine Gun

Tango: Target or Enemy (aka the saying "tango down")

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

t&t taglist: @cosychick , @konigsqueen , @cutegor3

#please read tags at top #my writing #my series #cod men x reader #cod x reader #cod reader insert #t&t #t&t series #trials & triumphs #trials & triumphs series #simon ghost riley x reader #könig x reader #keegan russ x reader #keegan p russ x reader #simon riley x reader #task force 141 x reader #taskforce 141 x reader #call of duty reader insert #johnny soap mactavish #phillip graves #kyle gaz garrick #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #captain john price #john price #g writes #kim horangi hong jin

[ineed-to-sleep]

7 + 12 + 26!

7. What circumstances led to your tav becoming their class/subclass?

Her entire life has led up to being a rogue/thief, basically! She was a little kleptomaniac and had a knack for being a menace from a very young age. She just *had* to get her grubby little hands on everything and if something of yours caught her eye, it was no longer yours.

As a kid she spent a lot of time on her own, mostly because her caretaker(her uncle) wasn't... *around* that much. He would often leave her with enough to fulfill her basic needs and go out on hunting trips for several days. She was scared at first to be all alone, but after some time getting used to it, the boredom started settling in. Walking around the house and playing with old trinkets in her uncle's attic wasn't cutting it anymore, she needed some action in her life, and she decided to make that everyone else's problem 👍🏻 She went out into the nearby town, made some friends, made some enemies, and discovered her passion for taking things that don't belong to her, invading spaces where she's not supposed to be, and telling people the most dogshit lies to get herself out of trouble. She was a natural.

The town she lived by was West Harbor, in Merdelain, and she ended up expanding on her skillset by doing the most insane thing a child growing up in the Mere can do- she went out into the swamp. By herself. Several times. She explored nasty lizardfolk caves and Illefarnian ruins alike. How she survived is honestly a wonder, but she did, and learned to handle herself in difficult terrain and both create and disarm mechanical and magical traps, as well as learned a few magic tricks on her own. This was of course only the start of her rogueing career- she had another 40 years ahead of her to develop that skillset- but I'd say she was off to a pretty good start.

Putting the rest under a readmore bc this is getting a little long snjsjsjdk

12. What opinion does your tav have about the Gods?

She would like to have a word with them. She's not mad ok she just wants to talk.

So, you know how I mentioned it's a wonder she survived in the swamp? It was mostly a little bit of skill and a whole lot of luck, but in the beginning, she had a little leg up because of the blessing of a certain goddess.

You see, most wilderness is protected by Mielikki, primarily goddess of the forest but patron of all rangers, regardless of the terrain they choose to traverse. Nawen's uncle was a favored of Mielikki and she was both confused and fascinated by his religious practices. She would watch him pray, mimick him and learn the words to the prayer like a song. She took one of the symbols of the goddess he had in his altar, tied it to a cord and wore it like an amulet, just like he did. Traversing the swamp, there were times where she felt magic emanating from it, and a sudden streak of luck whenever she prayed. She believed it was the goddess, somehow, choosing to help her. And for that she was grateful, she had a positive view of the Gods.

That didn't last long though, because as she grew up and moved into the city, delving into its criminal underground, she felt the magic slip and the presence of the goddess fade. It's been over 20 years since she hasn't felt any sort of divine intervention and hasn't been able to rely on another God since. She felt abandoned by her, loved and then cast out like an old toy, and she knows it's probably because of her life choices, but she still feels bitter about it. She believes the Gods don't truly care for anyone and are only concerned with whatever suits their whims- and sure, she can see how that sounds awfully similar to her own attitude and it would be hypocritical to judge them based on that, but she still thinks it's stupid to idolize, follow and dedicate your life to someone like that.

26. Does your tav have a treasured item with them? If yes, what is it and why is it special?

Yeah, she still carries that symbol of Mielikki around ajajdjksk for all of her cynicism towards the Gods, she still feels wrong about throwing it away and in some little part of herself deeeeep deep inside, hopes that Mielikki will look at her again and show her that she cares. She doesn't wear it as an amulet anymore though and just has it usually in a pocket or kept among her things in her camp chest.

#hope that made sense!! I had a great time writing these and drawing these sketches of her sjkwkskf so thanks for sending this <3 #also I will not lie to you. when I was researching and deciding what god her uncle would worship #I mostly picked mielikki bc I took one look at her symbol and went that's it. that has to be it #I couldn't pass up the opportunity to make my edgy ebony d'arkness dementia ravenway rogue worship the mlp goddess #asks #bg3 #tav #oc.nawen #nawenlore #sleepyscribble #ask game