#and the first words he ever heard were the above right before he was discarded

[ladyelissarose]

—————————— ☠️

“Sergeant?”

You had just sunk down to the ground, against the wall as your tried to breathe. The usual bright eyes you always wore, searching for his dark ones, are now locked on the ground as you sat across your superior, Lieutenant Simon Riley... other known as the ‘Ghost’. His callsign or sorta nickname didn’t scare you, he wasn’t the cold man every one knew him to be, instead he had grown easy around you, making his personal space your little safe haven. He was still quiet and sometimes distant, but he still was a safe place.

But right now you felt as if everything around you was too close, you couldn’t catch your breath and we’re growing anxious because of it. Panic and desperation were clawing out of you at this point, but they had no chance in escaping.

Loud ringing sounds could be heard in your ears, causing your head to pound, but above that noise in your head you heard the calm voice, call out to you in the distance,

“You alright kid?”

Your eyes still didn’t meet his, but you nonetheless replied with a small voice, unlike the loud but firm one you often used,

“I don’t k-know...”

It cracked in the end, showing Simon you were at the verge of breaking, but he could also tell you were trying to keep it together- be strong.

But it didn’t look like it was working, your breathing’s pace was picking up and there was a slight shake to you too, you were trembling.

This reaction from you was new to Simon, but he was quick to detect what it was nonetheless. Personally he’s met this kind of feeling before- he wasn’t new to it at all.

But It would be the first time he’s ever attempted to do something so deep and connecting, but he knew it would help you.

He didn’t have to force the words out of you to know what was happening or how to address it, he knew what had happened a few minutes ago was the closest thing ever to taking your life, and what didn’t help was when you ran back in the falling building anyways, barely making it out with the two kids before it fully collapsed.

Fear didn’t come close to how you were feeling, but for the past seconds to minutes you haven’t been able to feel anything, or let your mind register the trauma your body went through. Making sure everything was ok and in order, meaning you unfortunately didn’t come first when you had so many responsibilities ahead of you.

But Simon’s large hand engulfed your face, and the other got both of your hands and stopped the fidgeting, tightening the hold as he pulled you closer, bringing your head against his chest. Breaking the panic you were developing.

Slowly your eyes met his as you looked up at him, and you couldn’t help the heavy stone weighing down in your throat, blocking out the words that wanted to come out, and tell him you needed help.

Tears began to well in your eyes as Simon’s softened, the realization that you were alive and well took a toll on you, as you had barely escaped the jaws of death that day, and finally you were able to calm down and take it all in.

You looked behind you to see the building in flames and totally wrecked, Simon locked eyes with what you were beholding, and he felt how scared you were. Panic wanted to settle in you more, as you recalled the thoughts that ran through your head as you dodged the falling ceiling, hoping that it wouldn’t fall on you or the kids you were holding.

‘Don’t die don’t die- OH SHIT- that was close!! Oh! Hold the kids tighter they’ll fall and the younger one can’t walk- they’re depending on you, come on make it- please don’t fall on me-‘

Thoughts spiraling like a hurricane, until a gentle tug was felt on your hands. And a deep voice with a softness to it called out,

“C’mere sweetheart.”

His free hand beckoned you towards him, and when you got close enough it wrapped around your waist and pulled you into his lap, and took your place against the wall. Instinctively you got comfortable and laid your palm over his chest, where his heart was. He had discarded his vest so you could feel closer, and hoodie he wore was was thin enough where you could still make out his heartbeat and even feel it’s steady thuds.

Your teary face was mere inches from his masked up one, and ever so gently Simon used the pad of his thumb to wipe them all away, while his hand held your cheek.

You were like a little angel in the arms of a monster, seeking comfort in his darkness as your light had dimmed. His eyes were dark shades of brown, but they held a honey ring around it’s making them unique and him- Simon Riley.

The arm that was around your waist now slid to your bottom, holding you up closer so you wouldn’t slide off his lap. Your face was then guided by his hand to lay your head on his shoulder, your face resting against his neck, inhaling his scent which was musky yet warm and woody.. a hint of citrus could be detected too.

Simon placed his head on yours, and with the softest voice he could possibly muster with his deep Manchester accent, he cooed,

“It’s alright sweet girl.. I’m righ’ here.”

You nodded against him as you tried to breathe slowly, sniffles coming out here and there, although you tried matching your erratic breathing to his calm one, hoping to synchronize it.

A little rumble could be felt coming from his chest, a low chuckle came out of Ghost’s mask, not in a mocking way, but to ease the heavy tension.

“That gave you quite the scare eh? I’s alright... Johnny would’ve shit his pants for sure, not you though.. you’re a brave one huh sweetheart?”

A small giggle released your once trembling lips at what Ghost said about Soap, and it comforted him to know you’re cheering up a bit. You snuggled into him closer, finding comfort in his embrace as he made you feel easy and alive- even with the smallest gestures.

His hands never left as he cradled you, rubbing your back, squeezing your side, caressing your head or holding your fidgeting fingers... he never stopped letting you know he hadn’t let you go.

His soft breaths being heard, the calm beating of his heart as he made sure your ear was over it, the little hums he’d do when he felt it was too quiet, kissing your head through his mask here and there... it was his way of telling you, you were just as alive as he was.

Simon’s hold on you never faltered, as he poured his unsaid affection for you in heart-full and true actions. From now on he’d keep you an arm’s length away- if not in his arms better yet.

#simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley call of duty #simon riley imagine #simon riley cod #cod simon riley #ghost imagine #ghost cod #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst #ghost fluff #ghost angst

[puckarchives]

i'll take care of you: l. hughes

blurb: in which luke takes care of you while on your period.  / word count: 0.9k / pairing: luke hughes x fem!reader (WARNING: mentions of pain and blood, period cramps too, but they are minimal.)

Pain was always a sore (pun intended,) subject for you. You were resilient, and above all else, were adamant that you could take care of yourself. Even growing up, you would attack all the cuts, bruises, or even illnesses you had ever come across in stride, never letting it get you down for too long, and always putting up a tough front. In your mind, to show your pain, to show your sickness, was only a weakness.

Luke, you realized, wouldn’t stand for this attitude, and merely two hours after you had tumbled out of Luke’s grasp from where you two were laying in the couch, and sprinted to the upstairs bathroom— where, lo and behold, a red splotch stained the inside of your underwear. When you first felt the onslaught of painful cramps and the staining of your underwear and pants, you had almost fallen off of the couch, pulling Luke along with you when he actually fell off the couch in your rush to get to the bathroom. 

Groaning to yourself at the fact that you were entirely unprepared for the onslaught of painful cramps you were sure to get in the next few hours, as well as the fact you were wholly unprepared because you were staying with Luke for the weekend, you are caught off guard when you heard the brisk knock at the bathroom door. Shit. 

“Y/N, honey?” Luke said, a river of worry coating his voice. “Are you okay?” he asked. 

You weren’t embarrassed that you were on your period— you knew it was wholly natural and you trusted Luke not to simply walk away while you were like this, so, taking a deep breath in and trying to squeeze away the pain you could feel at your abdomen, you called out to him as well.

“Sorry, bub, I just got my period. Do you mind bringing me the clean pair of underwear from my bag? It’s on the second drawer in your closet,” you called out to him. 

You heard him yell back an affirmative through the door, and then the sound of retreating footsteps from the door. As you could feel the nausea rising up inside you, however, you discarded the dirtied clothes, and waited until Luke knocked once more on the door. 

“Come in!” you yelled. This wasn’t the first time he had seen you in this state, and besides— he had seen more blood on the ice this season alone than what was coming out of your uterus. 

Now, however, after Luke had entered the bathroom and, instead of simply leaving you to suffer on your own, had started you a warm bath and washed your hair, you came out to an empty apartment and Luke’s keys missing. Before you could feel the inklings of sadness or even frustration, however, you were overtaken with the sound of the doorknob moving around— opening to let in a rushed Luke who held up two CVS bags— filled to what you could see was Cookie Dough Ice Cream, and in the other, a pack of pads— the same ones you used, and the same brand as well. God, your boy did pay attention.

“Hi baby, had to run out ‘nd get some things for you. You feeling better?” he asked as he walked towards you, putting his free hand on the side of your head and kissing the opposite side. 

You said yes, and as he led you to the couch, you felt Luke sidle up right next to you— silently unpacking the icecream and handing you one of the two spoons, as well as putting his other hand on your abdomen— splaying out the practically built-in heating pad he had, became as skinny as his hands were, they were still much larger than yours, and always warm. 

Now, however, after the events of the day waned on, here you lay: in your shared bed that Luke had carried you into, a wet towel on your forehead, and the youngest Hughes boy fluttering around you— first fluffing your pillow, checking in on your cramps and giving you the Midol and Ibuprofen, and even hand feeding you the soup he had hurriedly called his mom an hour prior on how to make— a conversation you had heard as the sounds of pots banging, a few curse words, and Luke’s newly bandaged hand brought you a bowl.

Now, however, as you laid on the bed, you took in the opportunity to be pampered— to be taken care of by the boy you loved, who was taking care of you and treating you as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him; he was up and fluttering around you, always making sure you were warm and comfortable, and truly just trying to take care of you. 

“Hey pretty girl, you feeling better now?” he asked as he returned back to where you laid, his hands coming to rest on your forehead. 

“Mhm” you only mumbled back, still caught up on the feeling of his warm hands on you, and the immense amount of love you felt for him. Not only had he rearranged the entirety of his plans to take care of you, but hadn’t complained once. He was, for a lack of better words, the best thing that have ever happened to you— something you could quickly judge based off of the way he had taken your needs into consideration, and how he kept sneaking glances at you even now— looks that were full of adoration and love, and that you hoped your own mirrored every time you looked back at him as well.

#luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #luke hughes

[paintyoureyeswithavividmind]

close to home | chapter sixty one

close to home | chapter sixty one

plot: daryl finds out what happened to the reader

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 3,790 Warnings: violence, blood, typical twd, injury, daryl being daryl A/N: thank you for reading!! how the fuck did I write 60 chapters of this I'm insane

Daryl thought about you every second of every day for the past five and a half years. He was too stubborn and pissed off to go after you the first few days, and then it got harder and harder as time went on. He tried to. At least once a week every week since you left, he tried to go to you, to Alexandria. He’d even made it as far as getting to the outskirts of the surrounding woods. But then he saw you on watch, laughing with a guy he didn’t know, and he turned around and went back. 

But he thought of you regardless. He cried almost every night in his self-pity and threw himself into trying to find Rick’s body. And after you screamed at him, and hit him, and cried to him about the other woman, he never saw her again. It didn’t matter that nothing happened, that it was only a few brief conversations in passing, but it hurt you so deeply. And he knew he fucked up. Which is also why he stayed away from you. 

Still, it hurt him. And because of it, he had several burn scars across his forearm from cigarettes. 

He even took a knife and carved your name with his last name into his crossbow because he knew there would never be anyone else. He gave you up after hurting you so profoundly and destroying the one thing in the world he cherished above everything else. He would’ve burned the world for you but ended up burning you. 

So he stayed by the river and tried to find his brother’s body. 

***

It was fall, and there was a bite in the air. Daryl sat by his morning fire with Dog beside him, staring at your name in the crossbow. He hadn’t eaten a thing in a day because of the guilt he felt. 

Then he heard a horse running and his name being yelled. It took him a second to realize it was Carol before he jumped up. 

“It’s (Y/N)!” Carol yelled, out of breath as the horse trotted in a circle. “She’s hurt.”

Daryl chewed on his lip as anxiety filled him. “What happen'?”

“She was shot.” 

The muscles in his face dropped. “Take me to her.” 

“She’s not stable yet, and Siddiq is coming in from Alexandria, but it’ll take hours.” 

“Take me to her, now!” Daryl swung his crossbow over his shoulder, mounted the horse behind Carol, and whistled for Dog to follow. 

***

It took longer than Daryl ever would’ve imagined to get to the Kingdom. He hadn’t realized how far out he was. But when he saw the approaching gates, he felt like throwing up. Carol didn’t slow down as the gates opened, and she led the horse straight to the medical building toward the back of the community. 

Sitting outside were Ezekiel, Henry, Jerry, and a man he didn’t know. 

“What happened?” Daryl yelled as he got off the horse. “What the fuck happened to my wife?”

“They were on a run. She got shot. One of our men was killed as well.” Ezekiel said. “She’s inside, follow me.”

Daryl walked anxiously behind Ezekiel into the building and directly to a room toward the back. The door was shut, and he hesitated for a second before he walked in. 

The room was quiet, aside from an unsteady beeping. You were lying in a bed hooked up to a machine. An oxygen mask was over your mouth, and Daryl saw two discarded tanks in the corner of the room. 

Tears burned his eyes as he walked closer to you. You were out, of course, and thick, white bandages dried with blood were wrapped around your middle. Your hair was braided back like always, and sweat was dotting your face. Your skin was paler than he’d ever seen. 

“How did this happen?” Daryl asked angrily and turned around. “I wanna know right fuckin’ now!”

“She got shot, Daryl. There is nothing anyone could’ve done.” Carol said. “You being angry right now is not helping.”

The door pushed open, and a man named Adam walked in; Daryl knew him as the Kingdom’s doctor. Or at least the best they had. 

“Can you tell us again, Adam?” Carol asked. 

The doctor walked up to your body and checked your heartbeat as he looked around the room. “The bullet went through what I can assume is her appendix, and with no exit wound, it’s still in there. The bruising on her stomach leads me to that conclusion as well.”

“Why ain’ ya take it out?” Daryl yelled. 

“We can’t cut her open and remove it without putting her under. Her body will go into shock, and I won’t be able to operate. Siddiq from Alexandria is bringing medication, and he’ll be better equipped with the surgery.”

Daryl rubbed his forehead. “Is that it? Ya just a waste a damn space!”

“Daryl!” Carol yelled. 

Adam looked at Daryl, your body, and Carol and Ezekiel. “I’ve radioed Alexandria, and Aaron told me Siddiq has already left on their fastest horses, but…”

“But what?”

Adam hesitated. “She lost too much blood on the way here, they were too far out. We don’t know how long it’ll take Siddiq to get here; it’ll be hours at the earliest. We’ve done a few transfusions already.”

“So what does that mean?” Ezekiel asked. 

Daryl was already shaking his head.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, she won’t survive the night.”

***

“Daryl… Daryl, stop!” 

The chair broke against the wall, and Daryl paced around the room and grabbed another one. Within a few seconds, it was broken against the wall. 

“You aren’t helping anything!”

“It’s my damn fault!” Daryl yelled, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. “If I had been there… if I wasn’ such a piece of shit!” He kicked the wall, leaving a dent the size of his boot.  

“Back off,” Carol told the guard that was standing by. “Daryl, this is not your fault. You couldn’t have known this was going to happen.”

But all Daryl could see was red. “I shoulda been there!” He nearly screamed, punching the wall. The old drywall crumbled against his fist, and he struck it twice before blood showed up on the wall. 

“Daryl!” Carol grabbed his arm. “Daryl, you need to stop.”

The archer pulled his arm away from Carol with a grunt and looked at the guard who was staring at him. “Ya got a problem, asshole? Who are ya anyway?”

The man swallowed the lump in his throat. “Me? My name is Ryan.”

Daryl’s face dropped, and he walked up to the guard and grabbed him by the shirt collar. “What the hell ya doin’ here? Huh? Why you waitin' for her?”

“She’s my friend.”

Daryl slammed the man into the wall. “Did ya sleep with her? Tell me right now, asshole.”

“No-No-I mean, I asked her out a few times, but she always said no. Said she was married.”

“Ya lyin’ to me?”

Carol grabbed Daryl’s arm and pulled as hard as she could. “Daryl, if you do not calm down, I will have them lock you up.”

Daryl shrugged her off and slammed Ryan into the wall again. “Did ya fuck my wife? Tell me the fuckin’ truth!”

“No, no!”

Daryl grunted and pushed away from him as he began to pace back and forth. Carol sent Ryan out of the room and told him not to let anyone else in. 

“Daryl, you have no right to be acting this way. You left her.”

“I didn’ leave shit!”

“Yes, you did!” Carol seethed. “You don’t think I know what happened between the two of you? How you pushed her away until she was nothing but a crumbled pile of mess because of you? You two aren’t together anymore.”

“Then why the hell ya get me anyway?”

“Because when she was bleeding out on the ground, she was crying for you, you asshole!” Carol yelled. “And I don’t know why she’s still hanging onto you after so long, but I owed it to her to get you. Now you can either man up and sit by her side or get the hell out of my Kingdom!” 

Daryl paused at her words. “She really was cryin’ for me?” His voice was soft.

“Yes. She was.”

He couldn’t stop himself from crying as he sank to his knees. “What did I do? How can I fix this?” He cried. 

Carol’s face softened, and she walked over to him. “Well, for starters, you can go pick flowers for her to put by her bed. And then you can get the only chair you didn’t break and sit next to her until Siddiq shows up.”

“I can’ lose her…”

“You already have, Daryl. But if you want her back, then start with what I just told you to do.”

***

It was past sunset, and Daryl was pacing back and forth in your room. Your body was lying there, helpless, but the beeping of your heartbeat was music to his ears--even if it wasn’t steady. 

Fresh cut flowers were in a cup sitting on the table, and he looked at them every few seconds, trying to decide if he should get you more before you woke up. But it was getting late, and Siddiq wasn’t here yet and he needed to be by your side. 

His eyes were red and swollen from crying, but that didn’t stop him from shedding tears every time he looked at you. The only thing he could think of was how much of an asshole he’d been to you. He’d wasted five and a half years chasing after ghosts when he had you right in front of him. 

Daryl kept thinking about the day he left you crying in the mud after begging him to come home. More than anything, he wanted to go back to that moment, scoop you up and never let you go again. He was so stupid. 

The chair scraped against the floor as he sat down next to you. He carefully leaned against the bed and took your hand. It was littered with old cuts and scars, and he could remember each one you got over your time together. 

“My crazy girl,” He mumbled, kissing your hand and then holding it against his cheek. “Please fight, darlin’. I can’ live in this world without ya. ‘M so sorry for bein’ such an asshole to ya. I’ll do anythin’ if ya just keep fightin’.”

His eyes started to burn with tears again, and he laid his forehead against your bed as he sobbed. “Please, God, don’ take her. Ya can take me, I swear it. Won’ put up a fight or nothin'. Just don’ take her, please… please….” Daryl hadn’t prayed in a long, long time, but he kept repeating himself and to a God he hoped was still up there. 

When he sat back up and looked at your face, he felt anger coursing through his body. “Darlin’, please don’ leave me.” He cried. “I’ll do anythin’ to fix up, anythin’ I promise. Just stay and let me. Please, (Y/N), please.”

The beeping quickened, and he watched your chest expand shakily as you took a deep breath. His heart pounded as he thought you would wake up, and his prayers were answered. 

But then you exhaled, and the beeping stopped. 

“(Y/N)...” Daryl stood as he shook your hand. “(Y/N)!”

Before thinking, he ran to the door and started screaming for Adam. When he heard footsteps, he ran back over to you. “She stopped breathing!”

“Daryl… she’s lost so much blood. She wasn’t going to make it through the night without an operation. Even if we get her heart beating, it won’t last without the operation. It’ll be cruel to do that to her. There’s nothing I can do now…” Adam said with sorrow. 

“No, no,” Daryl shook his head. “Ya get over here right now and start pumping her chest. Now!” He screamed. 

Out of fear, Adam did what the archer asked. Daryl took off your oxygen mask and waited until Adam gave him a nod before breathing air into you. The two of them repeated the cycle a few times before the door opened, and Daryl heard Michonne and Rosita yelling your name. 

“Oh my God,” Siddiq said. “Get out of my way, now! Get out of the room!” 

Daryl stepped back, shaking his head as he watched Siddiq and Adam start to try and bring you back to life. He let Carol drag him out of the room in his hopefulness, and he leaned against the wall as he started to cry again.

“‘M gonna lose her tonight, I know it.” 

Rosita shook her head and wiped away her own tears. “You lost her a long time ago, asshole.” 

***

Daryl was sitting in the corner of the waiting room. His eyes were stinging from how swollen they were, and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. It had been hours since he watched you die before him. But he hadn’t heard anything else. Siddiq and Adam hadn’t come out of the room, and he had to believe that was good. 

He kept thinking of your laugh and that beautiful smile that had him in love with you before realizing it. He thought of your soft hands in his and the way you giggled when he kissed you. He could feel your touch on his skin, rubbing circles in his back, or your fingers playing with his hair. It would kill him if he never got it again. He wouldn’t survive your death. He’d put an arrow through his skull. Or maybe he’d go insane and drag you around as a walker just to keep you with him. 

It was morning when Siddiq and Adam walked out of the room. They had blood on their clothes and looked exhausted, but they walked out with relief. 

“We had to remove her appendix, but that was where most of the internal bleeding came from. She’s got two broken ribs, one from the impact and the other from chest compressions. She’s heavily sedated, but she’s stable. She’ll probably be up tonight or tomorrow.”

Daryl started crying at the news; he wasn’t the only one. 

“Thank you,” Michonne said and hugged them both. “Thank you both so much.”

“You guys can sit there, but it’ll be a while before she wakes. We all should get some rest. I’d like to give her blood before, though. Is anyone an O?” Siddiq said. 

“I am,” Rosita said. “You can take as much as you need for her.”

Daryl followed Rosita and Siddiq into the room and watched quietly as Rosita donated a bit more blood than a typical amount. But he was thankful for it, and he thanked her quietly. She didn’t respond. 

He insisted on staying with you, so after everyone came in and made their peace with you being alive, they went to rest. 

Once the door was closed, Daryl carefully grabbed and kissed your hand a few times. “Thank you for fightin’ darlin’. That’s my girl.”

***

A few hours later, Daryl was asleep with his head on the bed next to your hip when he felt you stir. He was immediately up and staring at you as your eyes opened for the first time.

“‘M here,” Daryl said, taking your hand.

You looked around the room with hazy eyes, the sedation running through your veins still. When your eyes finally met Daryl’s, he sighed with relief. “Hi, beautiful.”

“This… dream…. Daryl….”

Your head hit the pillow again, and you were out. But he didn’t care. You were going to be okay.

***

The next morning, you were awake. Michonne, Rosita, and Carol were in the room with Daryl, and when he heard you waking up, he let the women stand before him. He was scared of what you would say to him without the sedation. 

“Michonne?” Your voice questioned whether you were awake, and he wanted more than anything to hold you.

“I’m here, (Y/N). We’re here. Me, Rosita, and Carol.”

He heard you moan, and then you started to cry. “It hurts, everything hurts.”

“I know, I know. Do you remember what happened?”

“I remember those guys coming out of the woods… and I remember looking down and seeing so much blood. And then Carol and Ryan trying to stop the bleeding…” You said through tears. “It hurts, something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Rosita said. “Siddiq looked at you this morning. You have two broken ribs, babe; it’s gonna hurt for a while.” 

He heard you let out a sigh and then groan in pain. “Is Henry okay?”

“He’s just fine.”

“Okay…good…” 

You were out again.

***

When you woke up later that day, Daryl was the only one in the room. He heard you stirring and was anxious but had to talk to you. He had to. 

You groaned in pain as you adjusted on the bed before realizing who was sitting next to you. When your eyes met him, Daryl felt his heart in his throat. 

“Get out.” 

“(Y/N), please,”

“Get out. I don’t want you here. You shouldn’t have come.”

Daryl tried to grab your hand but you pulled it away. “Darlin’-”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your anything.”

He shook his head. “Ya still my wife, ya still my girl. Ya always will be, even if ya don’ think so yaself.” 

“Fuck you.” You muttered and then groaned in pain. “Why are you here? Don’t you have a river to be in or that woman to fuck.”

Daryl sighed and moved from the chair, getting down on his knees beside the bed. “Crazy girl, I was never with that woman. I swear.”

“I don’t believe you. Get the fuck out, Daryl.”

“I swear on my life, on everythin’ I have which I know ain’ much. I only spoke to her a few times, and that day ya came by, the last time… I never saw her again. I never fucked her. I promise ya.” You turned away from him and stared at the wall. 

Daryl started crying again because he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take what he’d done to your marriage and to you. “‘M so sorry, darlin’. I hate what I did to ya, what I did to us. I love ya so fuckin’ much. I’ll do anythin’ to make it right. Just tell me how.”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you looked at him. “I will never forgive you. I gave you everything. Everything. And you threw it in my face. I hate you.”

“Don’ say that. Ya don’ mean it.”

“Oh, I do.” 

Daryl hung his head and tried to calm himself down. “Just tell me what I can do…”

It was silent for a long time, and Daryl was too afraid to say anything else in fear of you telling him to leave and never come back. His heart wouldn’t be able to handle it. So he stared at your clenched hand for a second before slowly grabbing it. You tensed but let him hold it, and he rubbed it the same way you used to when he was angry. 

“I don’t hate you.” You whispered. “I’m sorry I said that.” 

“I deserve it.”

You didn’t argue, but you did pull your hand away. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. If I had known all it would’ve taken for you to talk to me was getting shot, I would’ve done it long ago.”

“Ya almost died. Ya did die.”

You sighed and leaned your head against the pillow. “Why did you come?”

“Because I love ya.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

Your words caused his chest to hurt, and he felt tears slip from his eyes. “I love ya, I do.”

“Stop.”

“I love ya more than anythin’ else in the world, and I was the biggest idiot for lettin’ ya go. I ain’ gonna do it ever again. Ya my wife and I was a shitty husband, but I’m here now, and I’m back, and I’m beggin’ ya for just one more chance.” He met your teary eyes and felt you grab his hand again. “Please say somethin’, darlin’.”

“Kiss me.”

Daryl didn’t hesitate to do so. He could taste the salt from his tears, but more importantly, he could taste you. It was so familiar even after all these years, and it made his chest beat ferociously. All he wanted to do was wrap himself around you, hold you, cry, and beg for forgiveness.

His lips moved against yours slowly, and when he pulled away, he saw tears falling from your face. 

“You should leave.” You whispered.

“No,” His voice cracked. 

“That was goodbye, Daryl.”

“No.”

“You don’t get to just say no.”

“‘M ya husband, through thick and thin. Ya my wife.”

“I gave you the ring back years ago.”

Daryl sat back down and held up his necklace. “I still got it. I kept it. It belongs to ya. Please take it, darlin’. Please.”

“What happened between you and her?”

“Nothing,” Daryl said as he got down to his knees. He felt his heart quicken at the change of tone in your voice. "I swear to ya. I just knew Dog, and he followed me home.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

Daryl blinked back tears; you were slipping away again and he didn’t know what to say. “‘Cause ‘m desperate. And ya the only woman I’ve ever looked at. The only one I ever cared about. Ya know that, (Y/N). Ya know I would never do that.”

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Your question broke his heart and his tears started falling again. “Oh darlin’, ya was always enough. More than enough. More than I deserve… I don’ know what happened. All I know is that I regret it, and I wanna spend the rest of my life makin’ it up to you.”

You groaned in pain as you moved on the bed and Daryl looked at you with concern. “I’m in a lot of pain, and this is a lot for me to handle right now. I wanna sleep.”

“Can I stay? Wanna watch over ya.” You glanced at him as he intertwined your fingers. “Please darlin’, please, let me stay.”

Finally, you nodded. 

#daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x y/n #twd #daryl twd #daryl dixon #daryl x you

[gay-dorito-dust]

Full fic idea credit to @goldensunfyre (might need to make this a two parter idk the ending was kinda shit and rushed.)

And thanks to @targtowers for this thought 💭

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Aegon was slinking through the halls of the Red Keep from sleeping in the chambers that use to be yours; Hoping that your scent still lingered on the pillows and sheets like they did the night before your family’s departure back to Dragonstone, when he heard that the King was dead. He had long since accepted from a young age of the harsh reality that Viserys never wanted anything to do with him nor his siblings; Refusing to view or accept them as the children of his loins. Due to Viserys’ attitude, Aegon didn’t feel it was his place to mourn, to cry over a man whom he shared blood and a last name with and nothing more. Instead he felt like he was hearing the passing of someone else’s father rather then his own; incapable of mustering any words of condolences for his sister as he wasn’t at all that close with the decrepit king.

Aegon felt nothing, no remorse, no sadness, no anything. He just felt numb, his foggy mind lost amidst the implications this had on him specifically. He remembered nights where he’d stay up, staring up at the starry skies that hung above his head like the crown he was promised to wear. He wondered that if instead he were born a girl much like Rhaenyra, and if his life would be remotely any different then it was now? Would he finally have Viserys’ eyes on him for once, shining brightly with pride whenever he entered the room instead of dimming with disgusts? Would he finally have the love and care that he had been deprived of all his life? Would he finally be the apple of his eye like Rhaenyra was and defend him and his illegitimate children from all discrepancies until his last breath? Turning a blind eye to his multiple shortcomings and protect him like a father should?

Whatever maybe the case, Aegon was born the first male during Viserys’ second marriage to Alicent. A fate he could not change no matter how much he would plead to the Gods, both old and new. The pressure that came with being the firstborn was never a task he was built for, Aegon never claimed to be strong enough to bear the accursed burden that befell all firstborns in Westeros. Nor did he claim to be strong enough to meet the expectations of his peers to become the perfect prince; For it seemed that no matter what he did it was met with either dismissal or disregard more so from his mother then anyone else. Aegon didn’t need to be told that he was unbefitting to become the future king, the troubled prince was more then aware that he was unfit to rule, unfit for duties he was unsuited.

If he could rid himself of the crown, the throne and strip away his titles, throwing them elsewhere without an ounce of regard for some other aristocratic nob who wants it, he would do so in a heartbeat. It was just unfortunate that he couldn’t. Aegon lost the right of growing up like a normal child; Forced to kill that version of himself with his own hand as his mind was plagued with thoughts that one day his step-sister would reclaim the Iron Throne that was promised on dragon back, taking his head with her as a consolation prize. He regretted it, regretted ever giving his mother the time of day to hear her indecent monologues about procuring the future, for not only him but his future kin also. The kin he firmly believed at one point that he was going to have with you, not Heleana.

Jaehearys and Jaeheara could’ve been yours and his children for when he has asked Alicent if there were ever any plans to have you marry him. She claimed it had been a thought in process that was immediately discarded with your younger brother, Lucaerys, took Aemond’s eye that night on Driftmark. Aegon didn’t know what hurt more, knowing he was originally meant to marry you or the fact that due to your rivalling families, it forced a wedge in your relationship; Causing an ever growing rift to grow between the two of you until it was apparent that neither of you couldn’t recognise the other anymore. Without wanting to be caught like a sitting duck, Aegon hastily rushed to his chambers; Changed out of his clothes to the assortment he wore whenever he payed the streets of silk a late night visit, to then take off into a secrete passage that lead him into town when he heard the sound of footsteps leading up to his chambers.

It didn’t take them long enough for Aegon’s liking to figure out that he had gone missing, seeing as he was still in the midst of locating a believable hiding spot. Then again he felt stupid for underestimating the very people who’s occupation were to oversee his comings and goings. While the Red Keep was filled to the brim with servants, gardeners, guards, knights and so forth; He was the future king of the Seven Realms so it made all the more sense for his recapture to become top priority over someone more replaceable. Aegon had to admit, they were quick to catch on that he had left but even quicker to discreetly dispatch the Kingsguard to go after him without raising suspicion within the public. Which only meant that it was a matter of time before he was brought back to the feet of his disappointed mother and grandfather kicking and screaming. Originally he was planning on hiding within The Great Sept but quickly disregarded it once he saw the cloaked hooded figure of his brother, Aemond and Ser Criston Cole.

Whom in Aegon’s honest opinion looked like a right nonce with that stupid hat on his head. The runaway Prince had to console his snickers behind his hand because the knight looked that stupid in his inconspicuous attire. If anonymity was what they were going for, they missed the mark by a mile but given his one reputation, Aegon couldn’t excuse himself from his own criticisms either. “Shit.” He hissed, pressing himself up against a nearby wall, when Aemond’s eye shifted in his direction. Despite being the eldest, Aemond somehow managed to put the fear of god in Aegon, sure he would take the piss now and then but it was comparatively light then to the teasing he dished out when they were younger. Another instance that the events on Driftmark truly changed the course of everything, if not then an indicator for even worse things to come. “You seen him my prince?” He heard Criston ask Aemond, clenching his eyes shut in hopes that his brother would give him mercy just this once.

“He went this way.” Aemond replied but instead of hearing footfalls coming towards him, they were heard going in the opposite direction of him. Aegon heaved a sigh of relief he didn’t know that he had been holding onto the entire time. Thanking the gods for once before peeling himself away from the wall and began making his way to his second option. The Dragon Pit. His backup plan was more hastily put together then his first, it wasn’t fool proof and it was bound to be intercepted should Aemond change his mind for leading the hunt elsewhere. Aegon surmised that if he could reach the pit before his captures caught up, he could take his dragon and fly to Dragonstone, to you; Proclaim Rhaenyra as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and hope for all responsibility to drop off his shoulders like deadweight so he could fixate on working your relationship to where it once was.

Aemond can have Heleana because all Aegon ever wanted was you; Growing up together since children, you were quite possibly the only person Aegon came to genuinely care for because you cared for him once upon a time ago. Your arms were the first thing he wanted to be within whenever Viserys or Alicent forgot that he too was a child; Holding him tightly as his tears soaked your shirt before helping nurse the blistering red hand marks upon his cheeks by means of a cold compress. Not only did Aegon remember you as kind but also as someone who was unafraid to go against the status quo, as you would often partake in sword training with your brothers, Jace and Luke, alongside Aemond and himself under the tutelage of Ser Criston Cole. The knight was against the idea of you joining at first but when you proven solidifying points as to why you should uptake a means of defence, he merely sighed before gesturing you to pick up a sword from the sword table.

The triumphant look upon your face was one that Aegon would never forget even as he was laying on his back, looking up at you as your sword poised at his throat. It was a look he’d rather have paint permanently upon your face, for the one he received the night he called yours and your family’s legitimacy into question before a thousand pair of eyes broke his heart. The betrayal written clearly within your eyes as you pressed your brothers beaten and bloodied faces into your side, away from sight. The lines in the sand of which you both stood for had been drawn and still to this day they were never crossed. Things only got worse when Vaemond outright called you, Jace and Luke bastards and your mother a whore before Daemon swiftly silenced him for good with Dark Sister. He and Aemond only made things even worse at the banquet for both families, soon after the fight erupted you had grown weary, tired and downright embarrassed that you slipped away to your chambers. Not uttering a single word about it to anyone.

Aegon wanted to right this wrong for awhile but never found the opportune moment. Which maybe due to his…habits and the fact that Alicent forbade him from doing so. “Where that bloody useless prince.” ‘For fucksakes.’ Aegon thought as he stood froze at how clear and crisp Arryk’s voice was. Which might as well insinuate that the whole Kingsgaurd was looking for him. Great. “Not here that’s for definite.” Erryk replied a little way aways. Aegon just had to peer his head round the alleyway, just as the twins were turning to face his direction. Neither him nor the twins moved for a split second as they stared one another down in awkward silence. It only grew more awkward when neither of them did anything until Aegon finally had enough and bolted down the street leading to the Dragon pit. “Oi get back here!” Arryk exclaimed, giving chase as Erryk followed suit although halfheartedly in comparison “He’s heading towards the Dragon Pit!” He shouted to his brother when noticing where the prince was leading them towards.

“He’s backed himself into a corner then the twat!” Arryk responded, confident in his ability in being the one to capture Aegon on Otto’s behalf; Meanwhile Erryk on the other hand made conscious efforts in slowing him and his brother down by tripping over his own feet and pulling his brother down in the process. “What the fuck are you doing Erryk, get off me?!” Arryk screamed, infuriated with his brothers constant fuck ups this morning. Aegon looked over his shoulder to see Erryk wave him away as he floundered with his brother on the cobblestone, mouthing the words ‘go’ as he struggles to restrain a red faced Arryk. The prince didn’t have to be told twice, he mustered up the last ounces of strength he had within; Running the final stretch of town and towards the entrance of the Dragon Pit before collapsing to his knees in exhaustion.

His lungs were begging for rest, his legs were throbbing and felt as though they’ve been set aflame, sweat laced his forehead and sticking strands of his unkept hair to it. Aegon smiled widely, resting his head against the cold stone flooring, sighing in relief. “I’m coming my beloved, just hold out a little longer.” He whispered to himself in an promise of sorts to himself; Removing the now filthied blue from his shoulders as it was beginning to weigh more then it should, allowing it to pool beside him in a heap. However nothing good ever lasted long enough to be savoured as a voice could be heard from behind Aegon. “Hate to cut your celebration short my prince but the running stops now.” Aegon didn’t move, he couldn’t, he had worn himself thin from all the running across town. “When will it get through any of your thick heads that I never wanted to be king.” He spat, unable to comprehend what part of his blatant rejection of the throne and all it entailed wasn’t clicking with any of them. Were they purely stupid or just didn’t care for how he thinks?

“That’s not your choice to make I’m afraid, so why don’t you be compliant to come back with me to Queen Alicent. She’s been worried sick about you.” Aegon couldn’t help but find humour within the irony of the knights words for he began to chuckle under his breath; Situating himself on the cushioning of his legs in an kneeling position, head flung back so he was staring up at the ceiling. “If she cared as much as you claimed then why didn’t she personally see to it then?” He asked as his throat tightened. Aegon was so close, so fucking close to leaving his accursed home for the one within your arms. Was he cursed to be apart from the one that he holds dear or had his luck with the gods ran dry? ‘Fuck.’ He thought bitterly to himself as frustrated tears began to well up in his eyes, much like they always did whenever he felt an abundance of an certain emotion that he couldn’t keep bottled up or express properly. He didn’t know when this habit came to be but deep down he knew it wasn’t one he was going to be shedding anytime soon.

“She has other more important matters to attend to then to personal see to your capture.” The knight replied, “now enough with the games and come-“ his words were interrupted as the guttural screech of Sunfyre could be heard growing ever closer as though affected by Aegon’s desire and frustration to be free. “Call off your pet.” The knight demanded of Aegon, yanking him by his hair. “I didn’t call him,” Aegon grunts, “he’s calling to me.” He smirks as he saw the life leave the knights face, “so I suggest that you let go of me before the Dragon Keepers are forced to scrap your charred corpse off of the premises.” The knight gulped, letting go of his short platinum locks. His eyes darted to whenever they could for the beast, unnerved by the sudden silence. So when nothing happened after sometime the knight snorted, then he chuckled before finally laughing until his stomach hurt. “Was that it?!” He cried, gripping Aegon’s hair once more, causing the prince to grunt, “was that your ultimate party trick? Hate to say it but I’m not impressed.”

Aegon saw from the corner of his eye Sunfyre’s shadow growing ever larger across the walls as he encroached up the slope. “Well if that didn’t please you I’m sure this one will,” he said, glancing at the knight before looking back to his dragon,“Dracarys.” The knight seemed confused for a moment as he turned to where Aegon was looking, his grip loosened enough for the prince to gain some distance just as the knight was bathed in dragonfire, screaming. Aegon wanted to savour this moment but Sunfyre had other motives as he grabbed Aegon’s exhausted form with his claws securely and wasted no time in flying out of the Dragon Pit and on course to Dragonstone.

#hotd fluff #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #hotd imagines #hotd imagine #house of the dragon x you #hotd x reader #hotd x you #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon imagines #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen imagine #aegon targaryen x reader #Aegon targaryen fanfic #Aegon Targaryen fic #aegon x reader #Aegon x you #Aegon imagines #Aegon imagine #Aegon fic #Aegon fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #Aegon ii targaryen imagines #Aegon ii targaryen imagine #Aegon ii targaryen fanfic #Aegon ii targaryen fic

[cupidlovemail]

( genshin impact ) xiao x reader

reader :: gender-neutral

genre :: fluff

word count :: 1.4k

warnings :: none!

characters :: xiao

details :: xiao takes you sightseeing around liyue (:

The entire expanse of Liyue stretches out beneath your feet, the ponds resembling puddles and the trees little more than dark dots in the night. The marsh stretched for what seemed like forever before it melted away into towering stone peaks and cliffs leading toward the neighbouring region of Mondstadt.

“Don’t fall.” 

You tilt your head back in greeting to the voice behind you. Xiao, appearing out of thin air like he normally does, approaches the railing on the balcony of Wangshu Inn and leans his back against it. The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments. You look up at the stars twinkling above your head, forming so many constellations that you couldn’t dream of memorizing them all. A small flock of birds fly beneath your feet to remind you just how high up you really are. You finally break the quiet, letting out a sign that causes Xiao to dip his head towards you slightly.

“Do you ever wish you could fly, Xiao?”

He’s quiet for a moment, subtly adjusting his posture. He wondered if he should lie to you. This wasn’t the first time he had found you on the railing of the Inn, your legs over the edge and your head tipped up towards the sky. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge you in your interests and feign interest towards something you’re passionate about. You, however, would see right through him. He had tried before to alter his words to suit what you wanted to hear and each time you told him not to restrain himself.

“If I ask you something I want to know what you honestly think, not what you think will make me happy!” You had told him one night after insisting to make him dinner. He knew you had spent all day gathering ingredients and studying the recipe only for it to end up burning on the stove. Xiao had insisted on eating it anyway, claiming that quality was not a concern for an Adeptus. He was right, there were very few foods he enjoyed and none of them were necessary for his survival. Regardless, he had accepted your offer simply to make you happy. You lingered behind him as he began to eat, checking for any change in his facial expression.

“How is it?”

“It’s… good.” Xiao answered, not wanting to hurt your feelings. In reality, the dish was quite hard to chew and had a strong, bitter taste to it. He grit his teeth and tried to bear it, however, not one to cause a fuss. That was until he heard you stifling a laugh and turned to face you, your hand covering your mouth.

“If it's really that bad you don’t have to eat it!” You exclaim, picking the plate up off the table and preparing to discard it.

“No!” Xiao stood up before he even realized what he was doing, reaching one arm out towards you. “I’ll finish it.”

“Xiao, there’s no need to lie to me. If you don’t like something you should tell me, it wouldn’t hurt my feelings. I want your honest thoughts, please don’t tell me what you think I want to hear.”

He was stumped at this, from all of his time living amongst humans he had assumed he was doing the right thing. There were countless times he had seen mortals bite down their own feelings in order to compromise for their partners, something he tried to replicate when spending time with you. This outlook seemed much more reasonable, however, and he nodded his head.

Snapping back to the present, Xiao realized that you were now leaning back far enough to look at his face. He quickly turned away, feeling somewhat embarrassed that he had begun to reminisce about something so mundane. Very unfitting for an Adeptus, he thought.

“No. I’ve never considered it.” He answered honestly.

“I have. Isn’t it beautiful up here? Sometimes I wish I could stand on the highest peaks in Liyue and look down.” You sigh, shutting your eyes to daydream about the possibilities.

“I have an idea,” Xiao says after thinking for a second, a small smile on his face. “But you need to trust me.”

“Always.” You reach out to grab his hand and he helps you climb back over the railing. He leads you to the middle of the balcony, one arm wrapping around your waist while also never loosening his grip on your hand.

“Ready?” He asks and you nod. Your eyes flutter shut you feel the wind begin to pick up around you, blowing through your hair. It almost felt like you could be blown over at any time if it wasn’t for Xiao holding onto you. Your head began to pound, your ears were ringing, and you squeezed your eyes harder to try and stop them from watering. Just as your knees were about to buckle, all of your sensations disappeared as if they hadn’t been there at all.

You timidly open your eyes, revealing the thick clouds above the rocks at your feet. You let out a gasp and nearly stumble backwards, thankful again for Xiao holding onto you.

“Where are we?” You ask, your mouth falling open as you take in the sights. The world below you was so far away that you had to squint in order to make anything out. Birds flew below, their wings resembling shadows instead of feathers. You could almost make out rivers flowing into waterfalls, collecting into one large pond between the mountaintops.

“Qingyun Peak.” Xiao answers, “Is this high enough?”

“Xiao, this is incredible! You’re incredible!” You exclaim, throwing your arms around him as a thank you. Being so far from civilization made him comfortable enough to return the gesture, a small smile never leaving his lips. He watched as you spun around to take everything in. Your eyes were sparkling like the stars and your quiet murmurings filled the air. 

“Don’t get too close to the edge.” He said, stretching out his arm to continue holding your hand.

“I just want to look, don’t worry.”

“I always will.” Xiao nearly whispered, not wanting to interrupt your joy. While he sometimes struggled with adapting to human customs, one thing he wholeheartedly understood was the desire to make you happy. You could ask anything of him and he would do it. And now, watching you giddy with delight over the view from the mountain, he felt his heart beat faster than it had in his entire lifetime.

Maybe this was okay. He always tried to distance himself from people, promising to keep them safe from his karma. You were different, however. You never hesitated to be around him even when he acted cold. You never stopped inviting him places even when he brushed you off. You never stopped caring even when he tried to convince you it wasn’t worth it. Looking at you now, Xiao couldn’t be happier that someone was willing to do so much when he never originally reciprocated. He wanted to do everything he could to make it up for you. Even though it went against everything in his being he strived to be vulnerable with you. He wanted you to trust him - both with your protection and with your feelings.

He could see the tiredness in your eyes by the time you approached him again. It was well after midnight when he had found you at the Inn, no doubt waiting up for him as you normally did. Xiao would always tell you to go to sleep without him, he still had a job to do and hated making you wait. You would shake your head and smile at him, making up some excuse about how you couldn’t sleep until he was safe. He almost had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes the first time you said it. He thought you were just being cheesy, something he saw so many other mortal couples doing to try and express their feelings. It wasn’t until recently that he began to understand your words. When Xiao found himself acting recklessly, your voice would flash in his mind. He would put more care into his actions, never wanting to see the look on your face if he came back wounded. While mortals viewed death vastly differently than Adepti, Xiao now had a reason to fear it.

“Thank you so much, Xiao.” You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder and sighing. “I really appreciate everything you do for me.”

“Anytime.”

Anyone else hearing this response would assume that he was being cold, however you knew him better than that. You knew that he would truly do anything he could for you. You knew that he would protect you no matter the circumstances.

You knew he would always be there for you.

taglist :: @iamblushingatyou​ @chiisananingen​

please ask to be added/removed! thank you so much for the support (:

#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #genshin xiao x reader #genshin fluff #xiao fluff #fluff #sfw #my writing

[indecisivemuch]

Time wasn't in our favor - Part 4 (Sad Ending)

Pairing: TASM Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) x Female!Reader

Summary: What if...your soulmate is from another universe but you didn't know? Soulmate AU. Set during NWH, fluff.

Word count: 3k

Series Masterlist: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Happy Ending, Sad Ending.

The first thing Peter Parker did after he returned to his universe was swing back to his apartment. He needed the confirmation despite his heart already giving indications of the truth. Ignoring the injuries that he was sporting after the multiversal battle, Peter checked his soul mark. A shaky chuckle echoed as he saw the mark identical to Y/N’s.

His tattoo indeed changed after meeting her. They were red - a color Peter never thought his tattoo would ever be in again. Peter shook his head as his brain started racking up ideas on how to see her again. While changing out of his Spider-man suit, an item fell out and onto the ground. They were the photos he took with Y/N from the photo booth.

Peter quickly threw on a hoodie before picking the photo up. His hands ever so lightly held the item, as if afraid he would ruin it. But as of that moment, it was the only thing left of her that he had - excluding the tattoo, of course. He settled down onto his bed, eyes never leaving the item. He traced every inch of her face, clinging to every detail the little paper would convey. He finally had time to breathe, instead of getting tangled into the rush of saving the day. It was only now that he got to memorize every inch of her face, something he, unfortunately, could not do before leaving the second chance he got at a soulmate.

Suddenly, the sound of his front door unlocking caused Peter’s senses to perk up. The hero immediately listened for more signs of danger. He set the photos on his desk before inching towards the bedroom door. His hands gripped the knob as he heard the sound of a sigh, some things being dropped before footsteps sounded. With determination, Peter stormed out of his room and prepared to attack the stranger.

“Oh my gosh, Peter, you scared me,” the voice yelled right after yelping. The person started soothing their heart by rubbing their hand above where their heart would be. 

Meanwhile, Peter froze in disbelief.

“...Gwen?” his voice broke while calling out to his first love.

“Yeah...who else?” she jested, giving him that familiar grin that he once wished to cherish more often than before. But now, he had the chance to see it again. “Oh my gosh, what happened to you?” she asked upon noticing the dried blood on him, inching closer and putting both her hands on his face. 

“I-I’m not sure,” the boy muttered, lost in the thought of her and what was happening.

“Must be quite a bad guy, huh? For them to be able to do this? I do trust that you kept your promise to be careful though,” Gwen caressed his face, lightly tracing it as if scared that she would hurt him.

“H-how did you get in?” Peter asked, finally realizing that he always locked his front every time he got home.

“...What do you mean?” she asked, looking at him as if he had lost his mind. All that came back at her was a genuinely confused face. “Peter...I have a key?” It was a statement that came out as a question. “I...I live here with you? We’re married?” Again, Gwen was met with no replies. “Babe, this is our home,” she continued.

Home? Why does home sound so wrong? He could not help but wonder as the words spilled out of her mouth.

“Did they hit you that hard? The bad guys? Are you...do you have an amnesia?” Gwen touched his forehead at this. 

“No, I-” he stopped himself, staring at his supposed wife in disbelief. 

How did this happen?

“Don’t worry about me,” Peter finally settled on saying.

“Yeah, well, it’s included in the vows so I can’t really opt out on that. ‘Through sickness and in health’, remember?” Gwen smiled, finally removing her scarf and discarding it on their sofa. “Well, how about I make dinner tonight, you’d like that?” she asked, even though her mind had already settled on the idea. Gwen proceeded to wrap her arms around her husband’s neck, grinning up at him like a kid on Christmas day.

“Yeah, I-I’d like that.”

“Good, now, go shower. You stink,” she confessed, offering him another one of those gorgeous smiles before walking into the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He saw his ring on the sink when he walked into the bathroom.

Marriage was definitely something Peter had wanted his whole life. However, he could not help but be scared at the thought of knowing he was in one right that second. He was already unsettled from the fact that Gwen’s stuff was already in the bedroom when he returned but he was so engulfed in post-battle and thoughts of Y/N that he did not notice.

Y/N.

Peter looked down at his tattoo. It was still identical to the one on the wrist of the girl he had met a day ago. The color was still bright red. Peter could not tell how he should feel about Gwen no longer being his soulmate. Seeing her again right after finally healing that one wound he never thought would stop hurting made it worse. Either way, he has to face this.

Exiting the bedroom, Peter found Gwen swaying to the music playing on their speaker.

“I bumped into one of my old classmates from Oxford and had a quick catch-up. I just can’t believe how long ago it has be-” Gwen immediately let out a chuckle as she heard the next song come on. “It’s our wedding song. Dance with me, Peter, please?” she asked, tugging at his hand.

“Won’t the food burn?”

“It’ll be quick,” she pulled Peter out of the kitchen and into their living room, where her hands found themselves around his neck as the two started swaying to the song that apparently signified so much to them. However, to him, it was the first time Peter heard that song. It hurt him so much to know that he somehow unintentionally missed out the last few years of their relationship. He knew that it was somewhat selfish cause he should feel grateful to have her back, but half of his thoughts were purely about Y/N.

Before he knew it, the song was over. Gwen lifted her head from his chest and looked into his eyes. She inched on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the lips. 

“I love you,” she said after breaking away from the kiss.

“I love you too,” why was it so damn easy for those words to slip out of him.

Maybe this is a sign from the universe. It gave her back to him.

Next thing he knew, Peter was bending over as he groaned. His left hand immediately clung around his wrist, where his tattoo would be. It felt almost numbing, yet the burning sensation made Peter want to collapse on his knees. Without even looking at Gwen, Peter stormed into the bedroom and locked the door.

“Peter? Are you okay?” he heard her from inside the bedroom, but dismissed it as he rolled his sleeves up to look at the source of his pain. 

There it was. His skin was swelling and morphing into something new as the previous red mark blistered and scarred. Peter gasped for air as the pain seemed to amplify while his heart rate tripled. He looked away from the tattoo as he hid his face in the pillow, letting out a muffled scream over the agony.

Then just like that, the pain abruptly stopped and all Peter was left with was a hazing feeling. He weakly lifted his head up in disbelief over the experience. Almost immediately, his eyes landed on the wrist and almost dry chuckled at the situation.

There it was, a red soul mark. Except this one matched with Gwen instead of Y/N. However, he could briefly see a scar underneath that resembled what was his second chance. 

Sitting up, Peter blinked wildly as he tried to comprehend what was happening. He approached the desk and saw the photo booth photo again. The boy picked it up and stared at the item in confusion before hearing Gwen call out again.

“Peter, please let me in. I’m worried about you.”

He turned towards the bedroom door before his eyes took in the sight of what used to be his bedroom. It was now his and Gwen’s bedroom. There were photos of them hung everywhere. His stuff was intertwined with hers. Every little thing here resembled a life that he somehow missed. Everything in this room was what he had always dreamed of. His happy ending was right here, but why does it feel so wrong to have it?

“No...” Peter muttered as he tried to have an internal conversation with himself. A part of him tried to convince his mind that perhaps he deserved this and the hesitation would go away once he settled into this life. After all, this was what he had wished for for so long. 

Maybe it was time to just take things for granted. Perhaps this was life giving him a true second chance. What is to say that he will ever see Y/N again anyway? His heart ached at that, but Peter ignored it as he tried to sway the thoughts away. He looked back at the photo in his hand. 

Maybe...the ‘this feels wrong’ feeling will disappear...if he lets the memories go.

With that, he dropped the photo out of the window, letting the wind take his what-ifs away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Come back in two hours, yeah?” though his voice made the question come out as more of a command than anything. But the girl knew it was all with good intentions, so she nodded and watched as the man closed the magic portal.

Y/N was here on a mission: find Peter Parker - the one that belonged to her, and…possibly stay here and run from Doctor Strange if he tries to take her back to her universe. Though now that she is in his world, she felt almost foolish to come here without a plan to actually find her Peter. So here she was, standing in an alleyway, clueless and lost. Neither does she know how to find him either.

“Life, please give me a sign on where to find him...” she groaned as she muttered to herself. The girl covered her face as she brainstormed on ways to find Peter. That was when something light hit her head, which made her uncover her eyes and look at the object. Her mouth fell agape as she recognized what had landed on her a second ago. Y/N picked up what was metaphorically “a sign” for her, It was the photo she took with Peter in the photo booth. However, the girl scrunched her eyes as she realized this was not her copy, but Peter’s.

Y/N looked up into the sky before averting to the building next to the alleyway. She then saw the light turning on in one of the rooms. In a slight cliche way, a lightbulb almost went off in her head as she deduced the situation. Perhaps Peter lived in this building and left his window open, and somehow the photo fell out and reached her. Even though Y/N knew it was technically illegal, the girl decided to try it anyway. She climbed through the fence and reached the fire escape with slight difficulty. Once there, Y/N made her way up to each window on each floor, peering in slightly to check and hoped that it was Peter’s apartment.

She almost gave up when she reached the fourth window. However, that was when Y/N halted as she peered in. There he was, just like how she remembered him. Except now he was in ordinary clothing that fitted him, instead of his spider-suit or clothes of a Peter Parker from another universe. Blood was no longer on his face, but there were marks indicating that the battle did happen and that he had saved her New York City.

But what struck Y/N was the blonde that was with him. Y/N desperately wanted to believe she was only a friend, but with her hand on his face and the ring on both their left hands’ fourth fingers. Y/N bit her lip as she glanced around his bedroom and saw the photos that hung on the wall. They almost all had the blonde in them. He also looked so happy in all of them. 

He looked in love.

Y/N hands gripped slightly harder on the photo booth’s photos, scrunching it slightly. She held back the tears, but all her self-control broke when she saw his wrist.

His soulmate mark did not match hers.

A sob left her lips as she felt pain jolt through her wrist. Y/N slapped a hand over her mouth as she ducked down from the window, afraid of getting caught.

Peter heard the noise and turned towards the window.

“Probably our neighbor again, she’s always drunk on Friday nights,” Gwen commented, dismissing the noise. Peter kept his glance out the window for a second, his spidey senses signaling something to him but he could not decipher it. Also dismissing the noise, Peter turned back to Gwen and smiled at her.

Meanwhile, Y/N was sitting on the fire escape, her head under the window as she bit into her arm to keep herself from screaming. She leaned against the wall near the window, hiding in the shadow. Tears were free-falling from her eyes as she looked down at her tattoo. The radiating color it once held was slowly slipping away. Another sob almost escaped as she realized that instead of reverting back to black, her soulmate tattoo now had a faded gray color.

The pain slowly subsided, but the numbness remained. Y/N looked at the photo again.

She wondered if he had thought of her at all ever since he came back. She wondered why he never mentioned having a wife and why he would ever cheat on his partner like that. She wondered if he had felt it all like she did, or was it all one-sided and this was once again another false hope situation. Out of bitterness, Y/N ripped the photo in half and discarded it on the metal ground she was sitting on.

He made his choice, so she walked away. Her legs dragged her numb self down the stairs before sliding down a wall in the alleyway to wait for Doctor Strange. 

“Hey, kid,” Doctor Strange called out, scrunching his eyebrows softly as he saw her tear-stained face. Y/N, on the other hand, realized that she was too occupied by her mind to notice that time had passed and the man who had already portaled there.

“...Come on, let’s go home,” he spoke quietly, his voice soft and the most empathetic he could. Doctor Strange knew asking if she was okay would be stupid, and offering sentimental support was not his forte either. In fact, the doctor believed that with his lack of skill in displaying empathy, he might make things worse by accidentally saying something sarcastic and mocking. But either way, he decided to try: “There’s some ice cream at the sanctum...” he muttered, glancing away from the crying girl.

“Thank you, but...just take me home, sir,” Y/N replied, knowing that even though he offered it, the sorcerer was uncomfortable with this kind of situation. Stephen Strange nodded, conjuring a portal with the hand motion that Y/N had seen many times. He stepped through it with ease, but Y/N’s foot felt heavy as she dragged herself closer to the sparkling circle. The girl looked back up at that brightly lit window.

“You coming?” he said softly from the other side of the portal.

Despite her anger at that moment, she knew that if he decided to run after her in the future, she’d still open her arms to him. So if, by chance, it doesn’t work out with Gwen, he’ll always have a chance with Y/N and her world. With that last thought, Y/N stepped through the portal and into her world, saying goodbye to the man that had stolen her heart in less than twenty-four hours.

Granted, her wish came true. She fell in love with no indication from her mark or the concept. And it did prove to her that the concept was genuine. However, it also proved that sometimes soulmates aren’t meant to be, because hers never belonged to her since the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BONUS:

In the middle of New York, a girl entered her favorite sandwich shop. “Hi, can I get a meatball sandwich without pickles and extra cheese, please? Thanks, Richard” the girl ordered.

“No problem, Y/N. How was the shift?”

“Super busy...and depressing. I had to slip away to get my mind off today's surgeries. Everything just seems to fall apart today,” Doctor Y/N L/N answered. Surgery after surgery, the girl has worked for over 50 hours without sleeping. Not only that, but the bus accident has left many in critical conditions.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Here, a brownie on the house,”

“Thank you, Richard, I’ll see you soon.”

The girl picked up her sandwich and brownie before heading towards the door. Before she could reach it, her knee gave away. She collapsed on the ground, groaning loudly as she felt an excruciating pain on her wrist, where her soul mark was.

“What’s happening?” she looked down to see her tattoo of a spider with two shorter legs slowly vanishing. 

“Y/N?” the owner called out, coming up from behind her, trying to figure out what was wrong. The doctor, however, only had her eyes on what was happening to her wrist. There it was, a pink scar in the spot where her soulmate tattoo used to be. Without answering the man behind her, Y/N took out her phone and dialed it.

“This is the Palmer-Strange clinic for soulmate care. How may we help you?” a voice answered through the device.

“Get Doctor Christine Palmer on the phone, please.”

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

That's it for the series. Thank you for reading!!!!!!

Series Masterlist: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Happy Ending, Sad Ending.

#peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker oneshot #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x fem!reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman x y/n #spiderman imagine #spiderman x you #tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x y/n #tasm!peter parker x you #tasm!peter parker fanfiction #tasm!peter parker imagine #tasm fic #andrew garfield #nwh #nwh imagine #spiderman: no way home #marvel #no way home

[furious-rogue-stuff]

CONGRATULATIONS!!!! Your trully really deserve it!! So can I request 🗡🥺🐣please?

Sending u love and hugs🫶🏻🫶🏻

My dear friend! I'm sorry for the ridiculous wait on this, but I finally got around to this wonderful prompt. This is my first time writing Pero Tovar, so I hope I've done him justice.

Thanks, as always, to @just-here-for-the-moment for putting up with my ass and beta reading to make sure this wasn't complete trash and smutty enough.

Disclaimer: Written in 2nd person narrative, you can safely assume our heroine and love/lust interest is a Spanish woman, written by a Latina. Here's my philosophy on my writing, for further context.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word Count: 6,500+

🚨Author chooses not to include detailed warnings, but the following: Mentions of marriage, impersonating a soldier, past violence, scars and war wounds, breeding kink, graphic depictions of unprotected sex, and period-accurate tropes.

Yearn

The air outside was crisp with chill, making it all the more pressing for him to traverse the muddy road towards the small cottage. The smoke from the stone chimney signaled you’d started a fire for supper, and the twinkle of candlelight from the condensation-covered window facing outward to the road and frosty meadow beyond told him you’d intended to keep your promise from that morning.

 The gnaw of hunger had settled in from the long day of labor, but the ache behind his sternum was one of longing, one he’d been nursing since the day before, and it took precedence over any need to fill his belly. He quickly trotted the steed into the rickety barn he’d yet to get around to patching the holes in the roof of, and once the animal was stabled, he trudged determinedly up to the door of the cottage.

He entered quickly and shut the chill out behind him, dark eyes adjusting to the dim lighting once he furrowed his brow and loped towards the weathered hearth. The steps that led to the loft above, where your marital bed was housed in a snug, insulated nook, were empty, and the table was already set with bread and wine while the savory stew kept warm in the caldero tucked near the fire. Yet, no sign of you.

“…Are you aloft already, condesa?” Pero speaks firmly, so his query can be heard clearly from above. 

There is no answer, so he paces towards the steps, senses on high alert now. His instincts bellow for him to retrieve his sword from whence it’s stored, hidden in a nearby trunk, or to at least unsheathe the hidden blade he keeps on his person. He palms the handle of his dagger, tucked in its scabbard at the back of his leather belt underneath his well-worn poncho. His expression becomes stony, scar over his left eye resembling an etching, one that reveals the capacity of brutality suffered and meted out in return. 

It's the soft flutter of clothing he hears first before he sees the movement from the shadowed corner that has him pivoting and effortlessly catching you as you leapt out at him from your stealthy ambush spot – the pantry cubby you’d climbed up into and waited for the right moment to pounce. 

“Gotcha!” he growls triumphantly as he swings you around with impish delight, making you encircle your arms to hold onto his broad shoulders while you squeal mirthfully whilst your tunic skirts flutter about. “Trying to get the jump on me? Really, tigresita?!”

Not to be foiled completely, you wrap your legs around his hips and toss yourself backwards, creating a momentum that forces him to swing around until he’s able to break both your falls onto the bench you’d improvised using two bales of hay and an old tapestry draping you’d found discarded upstairs.

Pero lands with an exhaled huff, and you victoriously use his distraction to grab his thick wrists and pin his arms above his head.

“Bueno, I’ve bested the great guerrero, the most fearsome man with a blade, who said I was too noisy for my own good to ever get the drop on him, was it?” you’re gloating as you stare sultrily into his sardonic, handsome expression. “Well? Do you yield?”

“You are much too playful for me to try besting, my love, so…” Pero draws in that graveled rumble of his, musing and melodic before he suddenly bucks you off of him and rolls to pin you under him instead. “No, I do not yield.”

You scoff haughtily, arching a smug brow as you chime, “Good, because this is where I wanted to end up anyway.”

“Oh, is that right?” he husks, unable to muster the faux scowl any longer, so he smirks and croons in that bass-filled melodic murmur, one that always sets your nerve endings on fire, as he intensely stares into your eyes. “You wanted to end up on your back and underneath the tired and dirty mercenary-turned-farmhand that’s made you his wife? Well, I should hope so, mi amada.”

You smile enchantingly at him and arch your hips up into his. “It is so, mi marido,” is your silky purr as you lean up and brush your soft lips over his. 

Pero grunts approvingly and deepens the kiss, hand cupping your jaw possessively as he plunders the cup of your mouth with his voracious tongue.

Equally as possessive are your hands as they grope and cling to his thick tunic under his poncho before eagerly shoving upwards in order to tug at his undershirt in an attempt to slip beneath to touch his skin. He smells of soil, grain and leather, musky scent heightened by his salty sweat. It makes your head spin with lust, and has arousal cloying from your center. His mouth is warm, and you ache to feel his powerful and overheated body against your bare skin as he presses into you with need.

You are desperate to undress him, and he realizes how much so when you dig your heels into the back of his trousers and groan into his mouth a pleading command.

Breaking the kiss, Pero pants against your gasping mouth before grumbling, “What was that?”

“I said I want you inside me now, Pero,” you airily repeat, the tone of your demand though is softened by your excitement now that he’s pointedly ground his arousal into your tingling center. “Mmm, please—”

“Such a needy little thing, begging so,” he chuckles ruggedly, timbre hitting that octave that has desire beseechingly pulsing in the seat of your core. His dark eyes crinkle as if he can sense how aroused you are, and just as you whine for him to comply, he slips a hand between your bodies and hikes it up the front of your skirts to cup you at the haven of your thighs. “And here I thought you were simply keeping your promise to wait up for me, no matter how late my return from the merchants. But instead, you try to best me into submission so you can have me fill this warm cunt, eh?”

His fingers trace along the crest of your sex before gliding along your warm, wet seam, parting your folds just as his thumb presses into the hood of your clit. “Ah, Pero!” you whimper, hands clutching at his sides and gripping sturdy fabric as you roll your hips, seeking the plunge of his fingers into your sheath. “Please—”

He revels in how desperate you are for him, so he presses his luck by testing how far his depraved desires can muster getting you to that fine line of wanting to give into your urge to be dominated versus having dominion to ensnare him into succumbing to his own needs. 

So, he licks your plump bottom lip before grazing his teeth over it licentiously. 

At your gasp and jolt against his edging fingers where you ache for them, Pero mutters coolly, “Is that all you can say, condesa? My fierce little noblewoman-turned-warrior can’t use her words when her sweet cunt is touched?”

The way your eyes sharpen is exactly what he wanted just before he plunges two thick fingers inside you. 

You moan that glorious sound of pleasure that makes him feel like he’s touched the sun and it’s filled him with grace, and the beatific expression of rapture that comes over your lovely face has him straining in his trousers to replace his fingers with his cock. 

But, he persists in this carnal play, and coos, “Look at you, bebita. It’s almost like you’ve yearned for my touch all day—”

“Pero,” you whine when he finger-fucks you slowly while taunting you so. He chuckles at the pleading way you arch up into him, so you dig your nails into the layers until you can feel his solid torso, and hiss, “No me tortures, por favor—”

His musing hum is rich and earthy, and to your aroused senses, it’s like a warm wine hitting your bloodstream. Feeling his broad, strong frame pressed over you, and the teasing prod of his ramrod cock only heightens your need, as does the musky smell of him, the sweat that clings to his skin and the heat of his mouth grazing along your cheek now. 

Scenting your hair by nosing into the locks at your temple, Pero laconically rumbles, “I’d never torture you, sweet girl. I just want you to be mi tigresita valiente and admit you’ve been in heat for me, that you’ve been thinking unchaste thoughts all day—”

He feels your molten sheath clench around his fingers at his words, but the defiance is starting to scintillate in your eyes before you snap thinly, “And what sort of filth have you been thinking, husband?”

Pugnaciously, he smirks like a cunning tentador before husking, “Oh, this very thing. Of having my fingers in your warm cunt – making you restless and insolent, desperate to have my cock inside you instead.” 

At the indolent pump of his fingers changing to a pleasurable curl that brushes the digits against the nested pleasure point inside you, a gasped mewl falls from your mouth as you writhe up into him. 

“I thought about all the ways I’ve given you pleasure, and all the ways I still intend to give you pleasure,” he tells you in that damnable aloof way that makes you burn and melt. “Tell me one naughty little ember that’s kept you hot like this all day, esposa, and I’ll put my mouth on you until you reach bliss on my tongue.”

With a proposition like that? You are turned to clay, features heating from your blush as you confess, “I thought about you, undressed before me, and letting me worship your body with my hands and mouth before getting bare for you so you could make me yours by the fire.”

His fingers pause inside of you and he looks at you with unfettered hunger in his dark eyes. 

You expect him to shift up so he could make that fantasy a reality, but instead, he grunts – as if placated, before receding his fingers from you, crawling down your body to bunch up your skirts so he can bury his face between your thighs. 

The lascivious swipe of his tongue through your drenched folds has you gasping and hiking your knees up to make room for his broad shoulders, writhing in ecstasy as Pero devours your cunt and rubs his fingers over the hood of your pleasure point. He groans when your thighs squeeze around him, and chuckles against your mound when you bury your fingers into his hair and tug. 

The look he shoots up at you from below his brow while he nuzzles shamelessly into the heady curls above your sex makes your pulse spike with exhilaration, and when he shifts your wool-stocking-covered legs further apart for him to angle your pelvis further up to better access your honeyed cunt, you groan imploringly, “Mi amor,” and bite your trembling bottom lip.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

He is unabashed and libidinous with his mouth after he bows his head between your thighs once more, and true to his word, you’re climaxing in minutes on his tongue while you ride his rapacious appendage and grip the thick tufts of dark hair at the crown of his head with one hand whilst moaning blissfully into the back of the other.

The deliriously exquisite feeling that washes over you is divine, and you sigh softly while he laps at your climax and grunts, as if satisfied with your state of euphoria.

So, when you feel cool air between your thighs, your eyes glossily open to stare dazed up at him, confused as he looms over you and grumbles a humored, gloating hum before popping his sullied fingers into his mouth and sucking your slick orgasm off. 

He then stands from the makeshift bench and declares, “I want to eat,” before pivoting to lope unhurriedly to the wooden stool nearest the table so he can plunk down on it and scoot it closer to the fireplace to dutifully stir the stew with the ladle.

You’re flabbergasted. 

Sitting up on your elbows to gape – comically appalled – at him, you watch as he serves himself a bowl of the savory stew while trying to keep the wry grin from pulling at his full lips. He fails miserably though when he looks over at you with that droll expression on his features before he smiles behind the bowl he raises to his lips. It does little to conceal his goading amusement, and you’re glaring at him now that your wits have returned to you.

Once he’s had a few hearty sips of the flavorful meal, he gruffly drawls, “Come stay warm by the fire, mi amada.”

You decide then that two can play this game.

Straightening your tunic skirts down and squeezing your knees together, you sit on the edge of the improvised bench and start unfastening the corseted vest that keeps your tunic and smock cinched to your form.

“I am already very warm, thank you,” is your blithe lilt as you stand and shed the vest. 

Pero turns to watch you with clenched jaw as you remove the dark top tunic, leaving you now in just the green smock and a thin pale linen chemise that teases the shape and ample swell of your breasts. You can feel his eyes on you as you shimmy out of the smock next, leaving you now in just the chemise that hits just above your ankles. The glow from the fireplace hits the light linen and creates a spritely silhouette of your curvy, supple form hidden beneath, and when you hike up the hem just enough to allow you to adjust a wool stocking back up to your knee, you finally look over at him and smile.

“How is the stew?”

“…Come here.”

“Is it not to your liking, my love?”

“…Come here, mujer.”

“Do you prefer mead over wine with it?”

“…I prefer for you to cease teasing me so and come sit with me,” Pero tells you in a guttural croon as he sets his bowl aside on the table and holds his hand out to you in an assertive petition.

You feign meekness as you susurrate, “You said you wanted to eat, though. I am loath to disturb your meal—”

“Come sit on my lap and eat with me already. You’ve made your point,” he yields in a snarky huff, but the smile in his eyes is evident before they crinkle from the appeased smirk that warms his chiseled features when you slyly grin and saunter over to him. 

He swoops you into his lap before you’ve completely maneuvered around, and you scoff sassily at him as you loop your arms around his shoulders. He nuzzles into your neck and fondles his big, warm hands along your curves, making you sigh dreamily and lean into him.

“Have you eaten?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Hm. Next time, you fill your belly first. Don’t wait on my account, ternura.”

“I will, precioso,” you retort affectionately, earning the expected eye roll and dubious snicker from him. “No seas tan gallardo, y come,” is your fussy quip as you grab his bowl, maneuver nimbly in his lap to reach for the ladle and add more stew to it before handing the bowl to him so you can grab a piece of bread and tear a chunk off to add in as well. 

He smirks broadly, so much so that his boyish dimple is unearthed from his right cheek. “No seas tan porfiada y come, condesa,” is his dashing counter, putting the bowl into your hands before grabbing the other from the table to serve himself some stew. 

You eat together, and you enjoy the warmth of his body as you remain perched on his lap while he leans his back into the wall and gorges himself. He asks where you sourced the meat that’s in the stew, and is proud when you tell him about the rabbit traps you set. You’re resourceful and smart, cunning, yet tender-hearted. It makes something warm and vast expand in his chest, having you be his, and how content you are to belong to him. 

Once the ache in his belly is quieted, he licks his lips before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, eyeing you intensely as you sip from the shared cup of wine.

He belongs to you, too. It stirs blazing desire in him, and fills him with serenity, knowing he’s yours, and how fiercely you made it so.

The longing of before tugs at his heart now as he’s reminded of how you’d sat opposite him the evening prior, balancing the small tyke on your knee as you’d both shared dinner at the farmer’s homestead. The former soldier had settled this land years prior, married, and started a family. Winter had been fast approaching, and after a chance encounter with the man on the road, you’d both accepted the offer to board at the vacant cottage on his land, exchanging labor and help prepping for the winter for room and board. 

Pero had watched you while the farmer and his wife chattered about the foodstuffs stored earlier and the barley he’d help transport to the merchant market the following morning, how long the journey there and back would be – ‘M’afraid it’ll take up most of the day’ – all while you’d entertained the little one that had become mesmerized by your smile and the silly faces you made to amuse him. 

A heavy desire had settled in his chest, one he couldn’t place, until you’d passed the small toddler over to his mother and offered to pick up the infant that had begun to cry in its woven bassinet. Seeing you hold the wailing baby to your chest and rock it softly as you sat back down and showed the mother how to use the feeding bottle that you’d made out of an old clay pot with a spout you’d improvised in order to supplement her milk with that of the cow’s? How gentle you were once the babe was sated and you could maneuver her in your arms to make sure to burp all the gasses out of the little baby before cradling the sweet infant to sleep? 

It had suddenly awakened something in him that made him feel clumsy – out of his depth. 

He shakes the reveries off when you hum and offer the cup of wine to him. 

“Do you want more?”

His features take on that stoic look, becoming marble as he nods and takes the cup to drain it of the remaining wine. 

Thinking he’s become weary from the day now, you take the bowls to be set aside for rinsing in the makeshift dish tub you’d fabricated from an old wine barrel.

Pero watches you hesitate before setting the bowls onto the shelf near you, and then turn back towards him to ask gently, “I have clean water. Would you like me to bathe you?”

His scarred brow cocks up at you, sarcastic as he deadpans, “Would you like me to bathe? Do I smell that bad? Is my stink too odious, condesa?”

Mischievous smile lighting up your features, you feign remorse before shaking your head and chiming, “No, not at all. I happen to like your stink, anyway,” at his amused snort, you continue silkily, “I was just thinking you’d like to feel the warm water over your skin. I heated it over the fire once the stew was ready. It’s tepid now, but still nice.”

He grunts as if charmed, then nods and stands to remove the poncho from his shoulders before tossing it over with the rest of your discarded garments. You pleasantly work to maneuver the tub with the clean water across the floor closer to the hearth and end up smiling when he chivalrously comes over and picks it up for you to be set right next to the stool. 

“This is poor substitute to the bathhouse, I know—” you begin to chuckle.

“You mean the one you went into while impersonating a soldier? Or the one you snuck into to seduce me?” he counters roguishly as he removes his belt, knife, and tunic next.

“No, travieso. I was meaning the one with the eucalyptus leaves and lovely oils that they put in the bath water – from the place we stopped at in the merchant’s quarter?” you deride playfully as you soak a rag in the tepid water before wringing it out. At his sardonic grunt, you stand and turn to bossily grab the waist of his trousers before yanking at the fastening. “Now, be good, husband, and let me undress you.”

His cock has been filled out since he collapsed onto the bench with you, but at your sultry tone, it throbs in response as it stands ready, arousal outlined prominently against the inseam of his trousers. 

You take your time removing the remaining layers of clothes from his torso, then kneel at his feet in order to remove his dirt-caked boots before you finally resume stripping him of his pants.

The glow of the firelight illuminates his tan skin and the myriad of scars that map his body across contours of muscle and vast expanses of flesh. Some are old and worn smooth by time, others are silvery pale and etched, others are a darker olive and raised. He’d once been self-conscious about your gentle, appraising touches – of the doting caresses over the jagged reminders of brutality and pain that had been carved into him by steel blade, arrowhead or iron-made punctures. But now, he yearns for your touch, relishes how you brush your lips over a scar along the curve of his ribcage, and burns with pride at the reverent way you glide the wet rag to scrub the dirt and sweat from his skin. 

He's not even bashful about standing in the nude before you while you remain in your chemise.

No, instead his timidness is palliated by the new fixation crossing his mind’s eye. One that’s conjured you in a kaleidoscope fantasy, where you’re standing before him in the same chemise, but instead it is clinging to a rounded little belly while your beautiful smile broadens as you look upon him. How you would look nude and with child, the way you’d react to his erotic touch – one hand between your thighs, with the other caressing your soft womb.

Before he could get carried away with the curiosities – would she taste sweeter between her thighs, would her scent be more ripened on her warmer skin, how sensitive would she be to being touched and kissed – Pero cleared his throat and his mind as best he could in order to guardedly watch you tend to him.

“So, this is what you’d fantasized about?” he murmurs warmly as you lean back on your haunches after crouching down to rinse the rag in the tub and wring it out once more. 

The chill is warded away mostly by the fire in the hearth, but truthfully he’s so aroused by you that he’s become even more of a furnace than he is normally. You’re glad for it, loving the extra excuse to touch him and revel in his masculine scent.

“The bathing is a windfall, but yes,” you quip as you stand now so you can scrub up into his underarm and whisper conspiratorially, “Another thing I thought of? Was how gorgeous you look when your face is flushed after I suck your cock until you spill in my mouth—”

“Misericordia, mujer,” Pero exhales in a floored scoff as he pauses your scrubbing and cups his hand at your jaw in order to tilt your brazen smile up to him. “You cannot say such depraved filth to me and remain clothed,” is his raspy taunt as he crowds you against the edge of the table. Your titillated stare has him smirking as he tugs at the neckline of your chemise and orders, “Take this off. Now.”

You plop the rag down into the tub and do as you’re told, undressing before him. 

He watches you with his dark, intense eyes, shadow cast by the fireplace shrouding half of his features as you discard the chemise, then your boots, leaving you in only the wool stockings. 

You’re about to ruck one down when Pero surprises you by kneeling and doing it for you. 

“So, how was your day, aside from the erotic daydreaming?” he’s asking in that melodic baritone as he chucks the stocking over his shoulder before moving to the next one, as if his face isn’t an inch from your womanhood and his gloating stare can’t see the debauched effect he’s having on you.

“It-It was fine. I spent most of it in their root cellar, helping stock the things from the barn,” you stutter as he hums to indicate he’s listening while he tosses the other stocking aside and starts fondling his hands up your supple thighs. “With the little ones clinging at her apron, she needed help milking the cow and feeding the chickens—”

“How were the little piglets today?” he jokes, wry glance up at you clear indication he’s referring to the children rather than the actual piglets from the sow in the barn.

You playfully pinch his shoulder. “Que malo,” is your sardonic giggle before answering, “The baby was needy for milk. But she’s practically tapped after the little one has his fill, so I tried to get him to eat some porridge—”

Pero grunts musingly and brushes a sloppy, open-mouth kiss over your womb. “The little glutton is old enough to eat. La pobrecita will be malnourished if she doesn’t get enough milk,” is his aloof grumble, kissing a path up your body as he slowly stands. 

Arousal swoops into your stomach and curls tantalized tingles into your thrumming core. 

“I-I know,” is all you can breathe out as he boxes you between him and the table at your back before looming at his full height to stare hungrily at you. “H-Hopefully they can wean him s-soon—”

“You wanted me to fuck you by the fire?”

Your clench hard at that, nipples studding and desire making you wet with anticipation while his broad frame stands so close, yet so far still. You know he’s being cheeky, trying to put you off-kilter to his whims, but you’re tickled more than anything that he’d try. 

“I said I wanted you to make me yours by the fire,” you retort with a spritely look in your eyes.

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?” he says in a contrarian drawl, lips pouting at your snickered response. “Well? How is it not?”

“Because! You can fuck anyone, but you can’t make just anyone yours,” you declare with a logical air, hands gliding up his chest now to loop around his neck so you can slink up against him and his warm, bare body.

“Hmm…makes sense, I suppose,” he judiciously replies before confidently hoisting you up.

You giggle effervescently as he carries you over to the makeshift bench, makes short work of shoving it to be closer to the hearth before laying you onto it and hitching himself between your welcoming thighs. 

Pero’s kisses are greedy as he ruts his ramrod shaft between your dripping folds, eager to slicken it in order to spear it into you and make it feel divine for you both. Your hands cling to his muscular back, mouth seeking the warmth of his own for a luscious interlude before you feel him notch the head of his cock at your dimpled entrance. 

He’s content to let you pillage his mouth with your tongue before twirling his own against it, desire a stoked fire in his center that he intends to nurture for as long and as many times he can bring you to climax before he’s overcome with his own release. 

“Por favor, mi amor, dámelo,” you supplicate in a honey-sweet tone, eyes pleading as your body clings to his strong frame. 

He can’t deny you any longer. 

His thrust has you arching, pelvis angling up and knees clutching at his sides as he fucks into you to the hilt while you moan his name and he swears in awe at how sensational this feels every time. 

“Cristo amado,” he groans as he thrusts into you again, passion boiling over in him at the way you mewl against his jaw approvingly. “Wanted this. Needed it—”

“Oh, Pero,” you exhale as he sets a pounding pace and holds you to him like you are liquid, and in danger of coming apart in his arms. “Want you all the time—”

“Yeah?” he groans, nuzzling your neck to suckle a possessive kiss into your delicate skin before he grits, “Need you, amada—”

“Tell me, husband. Mmm, tell me what you need,” you stammer out as he keeps rocking into you in that toe-curling way that has his cock grinding into the ruinous parts inside your fluttering sheath.

Ardently, he growls, “Need you—need to fill you up, keep you full of me. Want you to be mine—” 

You moan in that glorious way again, and it almost drives him over the edge, so he adjusts to loom over you so he can concentrate on your pleasure. To make you reach bliss before he lets his baser, primal desires carry him off. 

He keeps pounding into your squelching cunt as he begins suckling on your nipple while he presses the pad of his thumb over the hood of your bundled pleasure point. 

It sets you alight, and you wail in overawed pleasure as he plucks you so with his cock, fingers and mouth. “Ah, D-Dios mío—” you cry out when he sucks hard on your pebbled flesh and grinds his wanton pleasure to ignite a scintillating climax to burst free. 

You moan as your sheath squeezes around his cock and floods him with your warm orgasm, carried off by the throes of ecstasy he’s unleashed in you.

Punch-drunk from the achievement, Pero moans before he licks a path to the other nipple to toy the tip of his tongue along it until you shiver and whimper from overstimulation when he purses his lips around it. 

“Pero,” you whine airily, eyes heavy-lidded as he frees your nipple and leans up to gaze rapaciously at you. He tenderly pets your sweaty hair from your face and traces his thumb along the apple of your cheek before you sigh, “You didn’t do it.”

He frowns, trailing his thumb to your mouth, intending to caress it over your plush lips before you kiss it dotingly. “Didn’t do what?”

You exhale girlishly before cupping your hand to his cheek. “You didn’t fill me,” is your silly reply, eyes warm with mirth and smile affectionate when he grunts and scowls. “And you held back. There was something you wanted to say—”

“There was, but it…” he pauses before shaking his head and scoffing, “I’m still inside you, amada. Let’s forget it—”

“Pero Tovar, are you timid, so suddenly?” you can’t help but razz, smiling slyly at him when he gives you his intimidating glower. “Oh no, that will not work with me, marido. Your nostrils flaring crossly are cute—”

“You are a maddening woman,” he huffs in that gravelly tone, but the amusement is clear in the creasing of his eyes. “I…I have been thinking things I haven’t before. At least that I haven’t ever considered, and, they are clumsy thoughts. I—I’m unused to being unsure, ternura…”

“Unsure about…what?” you ask and lean up to lovingly gaze into his tense stare. When he hesitates, you can’t help jump to conclusions for him, knowing how reticent he is about discussing his feelings. “If it’s about things here? We could always take William up on his offer – go north to visit him in the spring? Or if you’re not content with, well, this,” you gesture to the shabby interior of the cottage, “we could ask to stay in the hut next to the barn? It’s dryer and closer to the work—”

“It’s none of that. Although I haven’t done well enough of a job in that, I know. Not found us much of a life out here…” Pero grouses, but at your frown, he amends, “This is not the life of nobleza. It’s beneath your stature—”

“Fuck my stature,” you scoff and sit up to roll your positions so you can straddle his lap while he gapes up at you. “I’ve told you plenty of times now that my station in life is for me to decide, and I’ve chosen to be happy and free, with you. Now, mi guerrero obstinado, tell me what you’re unsure of, and I shall tell you if you have cause to be unsure.”

He’s still inside you, and the way his cock throbs in your still tingling sheath while he gives you a penetrating look with those dark brown eyes tells you this is something very primordial. 

“I want to fill you up, make you full of my seed until your belly is soft and round with my child.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, but your hands caress his chest in a soothing, encouraging way that has Pero shutting his eyes and letting out the breath he’d been holding. 

“Our life is not suited for such a…we travel, and such a life would mean settling down,” he tells you firmly before opening his eyes.

He’s disarmed by the fond, radiant look softening your countenance. 

“Well, sure, we would need to settle down, but only for a brief time. Until the little one can come along with us on our travels,” you tell him as you idly undulate your pelvis, grinding his pulsing cock along your silken walls before squeezing your sheath around it for good measure while your breasts bounce from how vigorously you begin fucking yourself onto him. 

The wind begins to howl outside and seep through certain cracks in the door and window, but neither of you seem to care enough to notice as you sensually grind down on him, hair swaying with the way you lean forward to passionately kiss Pero when he groans and clutches your waist tightly, powerful fingers dimpling your flesh as he starts guiding you to ride him harder.

His breath is ragged as everything starts to spin up between you, his lust and adoration tangling around the incredulous realization that you’re in tune with the clumsy thoughts he confessed. 

Still, it scorches something feral and covetous to singe through him as he husks, “You w-want that…? You truly want to be mine—to be with child?” 

You moan and plant your palms to his warm, flexing pectorals as you ride him with desperate vigor now, expression beaming with delight. 

“There’s nothing I want more,” you declare with genuine enamored satisfaction, albeit pantingly so as you ride him and mewl in pleasure.

Pero is torn asunder by your words as much as by how exquisitely you’re riding him, and he’s so propelled to the precipice of climax and primal need to triumph in it that he effortlessly sits up and manhandles you to flip positions so he can fuck you with passionate zeal and get you there with him just as his cock swells and twitches in imminent release. 

“Mi alma, I’ll fuck my seed deep—make it so nothing spills free from you—have you filled full with it, and rejoice once a child is in your womb,” he’s professing against your jaw as he hammers his cock into your fluttering sheath while your heels dig into his lower back and your fingers knead below his shoulder blades, rapturous pleasure engulfing you with every ferally growled word, until he flings you into a blistering orgasm by moaning, “Will keep making you mine even then. Give you everything—keep you pregnant, protect you and our sweet ones—keep you forever—”

You cry out and arch up under him, rapturous sob catching in your throat as you reach a zenith of bliss that has you clinging in enthralled desperation to him, which snaps the tether of control loose from him and spurs his own fierce orgasm.

Pero moans hoarsely against your neck as he spills his climax deep, cock buried to the hilt inside you as he holds you possessively to him and hums soothingly at your loving nuzzles and whispered words of, “Te amo, precioso.”

Huskily, he rumbles, “Te amo y te adoro con todo que tengo, mi alma.”

You sigh wistfully at his words and melt further under him, reveling in the decadent bloom of warmth that diffuses through you. 

The crackling of the fire is the only other sound of consequence over the ragged, shallow breaths you’re both trying to steady into calm once more while you come down from the soul-shattering lovemaking. 

“Pero...?”

“Hm?”

“Would you still love me if I became plump and had little ones constantly hanging on my skirts?” you whisper meekly, hands languidly caressing along his sweaty back. “And if I even became shit at fighting?”

“That’s impossible, tigresita,” he laconically rumbles against your neck. At your fretful hum, he props himself up in order to loom over you and give you his steely, no-nonsense stare. “I started to love you when I thought you were an awkward, short soldadito, my love. I think it’s safe to say I’ll love every version of you to come,” is his bass-filled retort, sincere affection not dulled by the humor of his tone. 

You press your forehead to his, appeased.

He pulls out of your now tender cunt, and avidly watches his seed begin to drip in his wake, so he scoops his fingers to prevent it from spilling further, and pushes the pearly essence back into you. 

You shiver and sigh, resting a hand over your womb while you caress his shoulder with the other as you shut your eyes in the moment of blissful tranquility, post-coitus.

“I just hope I make a worthy enough father.”

You don’t mean to snort, but you do. “You will, mi amor. The real concern is whether we’ll be able to muster the stamina to work on the farm chores and fuck like this until you put a baby in me,” is your vivacious chuckle as you hook your arm around his shoulders to guide him back down to lie on top of you while he scoffs irreverently at you. 

“I have plenty of stamina, always,” he purrs against your mouth before brushing his lips against it.

“Good. I yearn to be ravished by you daily, after all, so you’ll need it,” is your alluring coo before kissing him amorously. 

You only break the kiss to bat your lashes at him before susurrating, “I want you to make me yours again and again, until dawn comes, and then all over again, precioso.” 

He chuckles that deep, gravelly laugh before crooning melodically, “As you wish, mi amada.”

_____________________________

Spanish-English Glossary:

Caldero = Cauldron, for cooking over a hot flame

Condesa = Countess; a woman of nobility

Tigresita = Tiger Lilly; little tigress

Bueno = So; also ‘Good’ or ‘Well’

Guerrero = Warrior (male)

Mi amada = My beloved (female)

Mi marido = My husband

Bebita = Little baby (female)

No me tortures, por favor = Don’t torture me, please

Mi tigresita valiente = My valient little tigress

Tentador = Tempter (male)

Esposa = Wife

Mi amor = My love

Mujer = Woman

Ternura = Tenderness; akin to saying ‘sweetheart’

Precioso = Precious (male); gorgeous one

No seas tan gallardo, y come = Don’t be so gallant and eat

No seas tan porfiada y come, condesa = Don’t be so stubborn and eat, countess

Travieso = Naughty/Mischievous boy

Misericordia, mujer - Mercy, woman

Que malo = So bad (male)

La pobrecita = The poor little thing; poor little girl

Por favor, mi amor, dámelo = Please, my love, give it to me

Cristo amado = Christ beloved

Amada = Beloved

Ah, D-Dios mío = Oh, my God

Nobleza = Nobility

Mi guerrero obstinado = My obstinate warrior 

Mi alma = My soul; passionate term of endearment that eludes to the profound love someone feels, aka to the soul

Te amo, precioso = I love you, precious boy

Te amo y te adoro con todo que tengo, mi alma = I love and I adore you with all I have, my soul

Soldadito = Little soldier (male)

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#Pero Tovar #The Great Wall #Pero Tovar x Condesa #Pero Tovar x OFC #roguefury's 400 follower drabble prompts #roguefury's 400 followers drabble prompts #400 followers #400 followers drabble prompt #Pedro Pascal characters

[eorzeashan]

Minder, Minder

“Ensign, why don’t you go run a systems check– I need a minute with the agent.”

Raina turns to leave. “I’ll chisel the ice off the pilot’s seat for you,” She says, good-natured and obedient. Eight watches her form disappear up the ramp of the shuttle. She’s young, sweet, and terribly fresh: green in a way he hasn’t known since his Academy days. He’s not sure how she survived in the frigid wastes so long with such a chipper attitude.

Hunter seems to share his sentiments, judging by the slight disapproval in the fold of his arms and the impatience rooting his back foot to the ice floor. He’s at a crossroads for a decision, and Eight zeroes in on the words hanging off the thick of his lips. 

“Ardun Kothe’ll be happy,” He starts, his commander’s opinion relayed first, and Eight patiently waits for the relevant information that comes after the but. 

“But the girl…” There it was. “We agree that she needs to die, right?” Hm. Brutal as ever.

Not that he was complaining. They did agree on that. It was standard procedure; saw too much, heard too much, not useful enough to me, a liability– all judgements that usually ended with new blood buried somewhere deep underground. He knew it by experience and the intimate familiarity of being one such liability in a long age past. You’re a weakness, his mentor had said to him without an ounce of warmth in her voice, looking down on him wheezing for breath on the cutting board floor, unless you become a knife in my belt, I’ll leave you with all the rest.

She’d then extended a blue finger to the misshapen trash bags piled up along the wall, where the remains of her ex-lovers sat in neat little pieces, stinking of chemicals that stripped the hairs from one's nose.

He learned his lesson quickly.

People weren’t people to agents. They were loose ends. Trash to be discarded. Tools to be used. Mouths that talked too much, and eyes that watched too closely. It went the other way around, too.

Which was why Raina Temple could not suffer to live– yet against the voice of Nosta that lived eternally in the cracks of his soul, Eight found that he did not want to sink her body beneath the ice floes with rocks in her gutted stomach, a meal for the fish below.

“She’s not a threat,” He decided, not a retort, his words paced and even.

Hunter doesn’t look convinced. His fingers tighten on his forearm. There’s an unamused twitch in his second eyelid, and his shoulders are set square– relaxed from the outside, bordering on tense from within. Ready to act, while trying to play off that he is. More words stand to crawl from his throat, just above the bulbish shape that is a feature in his species. They called it an apple, like the fruit. Eight lingers over how much force he’d need to break the skin when biting it.

“She’s Imperial, she knows about the Starbreeze, she’s seen me, she’s seen you…” Hunter trails off, and Eight can see the metrics ticking in that wound brain. Eight wouldn’t call it nervousness, but Hunter…is cautious. Too cautious in all the ways he is not. Hunter skims just past paranoia and into the territory of bad faith; good for a classical agent, but too much fear begets no rewards– and jumping at shadows opens just as much room for mistakes as excessive trust.

“If she becomes a problem, I’ll take care of it,” Eight answers with a quirk of his brow, as if the danger she poses hardly warrants a second thought. To him, it doesn’t. She’d never last against him. No reason to send her back to Saganu in a body bag, and he suspects the Aristocra would be less than pleased if he did. 

Hunter’s eyes dance over his face, searching for the source of his confidence with pinpricks of wariness in the minute twitches of his face before he visibly relaxes, taut muscles released from their focus. Like a sigh, his readiness dissipates…but Eight is staring at the intent rolling up from his throat’s apple to his chin, resting on the bottom of his lower lip, weighed with purpose and a bit of that high that all with even a hint of power relish in before the utterance. Something animal in him rises to its hackles. It smells of the leash, the gentle tug before the pull. The freedom with which cruelty is spoken and the safety his prey finds in it. 

Eight has waited long enough.

“Just to be sure, though,

I’m putting a command in your brain. 

O n o-"

Eight lunges forward. The hut is small. The distance is laughable.

"M a"

He sees the shock bleed into Hunter’s eyes as he automatically falls backwards at his sudden advance. His back hits the wall, Eight’s hand fisting his collar.

"T o-"

He slams him against the slope of the hut. The impact rattles Hunter’s skull to an explosion of dancing stars, interrupting his verbage–it happened in the blink of an eye, and before he can so much as get another sound out, the Cipher’s moving again. A bit of spittle escapes Hunter’s mouth, mixed with blood. Too fast. Far too fast. What the hell?!

He’s not going to make it. No room to reach his blaster. Nowhere to get distance. The word, idiot! He tries again, fury welling up in his chest for being played a fool. 

Hunter blinks. Eight’s lips are on his, hotter than a molten star, softer than synth-silk.

His brain shuts off. He feels the other’s tongue slip through, wet, mixing with his saliva.

It takes him a second to register it probing the walls of his mouth, his senses overloaded with fever. He’s struggling to catch up, but he does, and a fierce hunger overtakes him as he claws at the Cipher agent’s back and pulls him closer into his space, their mouths battling for dominance, searching for just the right way to lock together as he eats him alive for more, more, more. His fingers trail down his nape as he bites his lower lip, tastes the wetness there and Eight moans into his mouth– the sound shooting straight down to his hidden pistol. Filthy like a whore.

Yeah. That’s more like it, Cipher. 

Just as he’s in the throes of kissing him senseless, the small part of his brain that has been screaming warnings at him breaks through the haze of his desire and he’s hit with remembering exactly what he’s here for.

The keyword! 

Hunter’s glazed eyes shoot open, the cold shock of recollection assaulting him like water dumped over his head. He shoves the agent away from him– did he really think he could seduce him out of a command? Cheap trick. He sneers.

…Only to find that the agent wasn’t budging.

Eight’s formerly closed eyes are wide open and staring straight at him. From here, he can see the wild glint in his eyes, light reflecting off the obsidian edge of his irises, dizzy with carnivorous desire and a gut-plunging intensity that makes Hunter think he’s been stabbed. Those dark eyes are the black rocks dotting the bay above a sea cliff, and he feels their pull keenly, the call of their void. 

It takes Hunter a moment to find out why.

A white-hot pain overtakes him. He tries to scream, but it doesn’t make a sound besides bouncing uselessly around in his throat. Iron, wet and heavy, gushes forth inside his mouth. The knee jerk reaction of pulling away from Eight sparks even more of that terrible pinch, the stretch of ruined flesh and his tongue alight with the kerosene of suffering– 

You bitch!

Eight’s cheeks are flushed now, and he can see the shy grin that extends from both sides of his face, painted with driblets of red.

He lets go after what feels like an eternity, taking one step back to admire his handiwork. Hunter falls to his knees, gagging and choking, blood leaking out of his ruined mouth. His tongue lolls, swelling with the inflicted bite mark of the other agent, flopping uselessly to the side as he tries to hurl swears at Eight but can only mush malformed invectives together that feel as mutated as his damaged digit.

His eyes spell of murder.

Eight wipes the runoff from his lips with the side of his hand, smearing it with red.

Amidst his rage, he hates himself for the arousal that emerges seeing him so bloodstained. The pool of want settles within the acid of his stomach.

He wants to kill him. He wants to kill the girl in front of him. He wants to have him choke on air for a week. He’s never wanted so badly to drag someone to a closet and lock them in there with him until they beg to do anything but know his touch. He still can’t say the word, and he wants to yell and scream for being in this position. 

Eight’s expression is orgasmic. 

“Mind your tongue,” Eight purrs with as much satisfaction as an overly-fed vine cat, “Minder Seventeen.”

—--------

Kothe confronts him about it later.

“Did you do that to Hunter?” It’s an innocent question, posed with that no-nonsense tone of a father trying to parse who took a cookie out of the jar. I’m not mad, just disappointed, says the stern set of his jaw. Eight doesn’t turn around to look at him from where he’s sitting crosslegged atop an empty weapons crate that Saber emptied. The spymaster waits for his answer.

He slurps a mouthful of instant MRE. Chews the noodles a little. “Dogs will bite if you pull the leash too many times.” He explains, in between a cascade of pasta falling from his mouth. Sluuuurp.

Ardun sighs. “I don’t understand why you boys are fighting, but I trusted Hunter with the codeword for a reason. If there’s a problem, I want you to tell me, Legate.” He says firmly, with a tired air to his stance. “We’re a team. We don’t hurt each other.”

“Already told’ya.”

Another sigh. “Because Hunter hasn’t talked to me either, I’ll let it go– but only this once." Ardun's tone is deadly serious. "I won’t tolerate dissension or hurting the other members of this cell. Time’s short and there’s too much at stake for in-fighting... I hoped you'd understand that. We’ll discuss this again another time.” Eight feels the air waft off the swish of Ardun’s cape as he exits the room, left alone with his lukewarm noodles.

Hm. He sips the broth thoughtfully. He didn’t use onomatophobia this time either. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he spies something orange around the corner. He felt it before, staring at his lips. Eight smiles and wipes a stray bead of liquid from his mouth, smearing it across the back of his hand for his secret voyeur. 

The visitor quickly disappears. It’s fine, though.

He always comes back. 

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #swtor hunter x imperial agent #me seeing hunter stuff lately: wow! I wanna do that too! #me after writing this: ah. #tw dubcon #tw blood #oc: orradiz #admin writes #suggestive #hoth funtimes with dude who read too much theory of consumption #*family feud voice* YES! KILL! #little bit of nosta cameo in there too plus raina somewhere not knowing what is happening on this gay earth. #also ive had this idea since xmas but forgot about it until now #swtor hunter

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Begged & Borrowed Time (xvi, ao3)

(Chapter sixteen: The Inner Circle visit the Court of Nightmares to get the Veritas Orb, and Cassian sets Mor straight.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

“I should go.”

Her voice was a whisper softened with sleep, achingly gentle in the grey light before dawn— yet it broke through the hush like a knife, and it didn’t matter how long Cassian had lain awake and anticipated those words, didn’t matter that he'd always known this was a moment destined to break, to shatter with the sunrise. None of it mattered, because he still wasn’t prepared for those words as they left Nesta’s lips.

He scowled.

Watching a pink sunrise creep across the horizon, bleeding into the twilight blue, he lifted a hand and brushed the hair back from Nesta’s face, tucking it behind her ear as he tried desperately to grasp at these last few minutes, to pretend that he could keep her here, with her knees pressed to his thighs and her hand flattened over his heart.

Mother knew he couldn’t.

But— he couldn’t help the way his other arm went to her waist, the way he pulled her more fully against him.

“Cass,” she breathed, and it was the softest kind of admonishment he had ever received— the kind that said she didn’t want to leave any more than he did. Her fingers curled against his chest and rather than pulling away, she let him draw her nearer. As his hand rounded her middle, with his palm settling at her waist, Nesta sighed.

“I should go,” she said once more.

“I heard you the first time,” Cassian grumbled. “And I didn’t like it then, either.”

Nesta rolled her eyes— those glorious eyes that looked so much like a breaking storm, all blue and grey, a shade that made him weak. She huffed, batting at his chest and good gods— he wanted to hold onto this for just a little bit longer, didn’t want to remember what it felt like to be without her.

“I can’t stay,” she whispered, pushing up onto her palms as her golden-brown hair fell in a sleek curtain past her shoulders, brushing the skin of his chest. Cassian twisted a strand of it around his index finger, tangling himself in her even as she tried to remember how to pull away.

“You know I can’t,” she continued. “In an hour or so, Tomas will be waking up and his father will be heading in here to—“

“I know,” Cassian said with a disaffected sigh, still twining her hair around his finger. She was right— he knew she was right, and he hated it. She did too— she braced her hand on his chest, but dipped her head until her brow almost kissed his, until her lips were almost close enough for him to claim. She let out a gentle breath, softening in his arms as his hand fell from her hair and found the small of her back instead.

Only for him— only for him would she melt, that icy exterior discarded as his fingers splayed across her spine. He didn’t think he was above begging her for five more minutes, wasn’t too proud to plead with her for one more kiss, but before he could draw her back down, before he could change her mind, Nesta slid from his grasp, easing out from beneath his wing.

Cassian groaned in her absence, rolling onto his back and pinning his wings beneath him.

It earned him another roll of tempest-blue eyes and a raised eyebrow that made something in him feel breathless, untethered. Her lips pressed tight together to suppress a small smile, and as she rose from that pallet and straightened her nightgown, Cassian felt a warmth flooding his chest, thrumming along the bond until he was almost overwhelmed by an affection so deep he didn’t think he’d ever hit bottom.

She was beautiful— even with her hair in a tangle around her shoulders, even in a thin cotton nightgown. Especially in a thin cotton nightgown. It made him positively stupid, and as the light from the small window filtered through the early morning dim, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget the sight of her, limned by the grey light glancing across her skin.

Shameless, he watched as she ran her fingers through her hair, and gods— he was so utterly, utterly fucked. There wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t belong to her entirely, and as Nesta carded her fingers through her tangled hair, she watched him too. Her eyes tracked a path over his bare chest and down, down, until she reached the waistband of the leather pants he’d slept in. He couldn’t pretend that some part of him didn’t grow cocky, didn’t flourish beneath her wandering gaze. It was a piece of him that was entirely fae, entirely primal— a piece that grew bold when he felt his mate’s eyes on his bare skin.

As she followed the curve of his tattoos, Cassian brought one arm up to rest behind his head, crossing his ankles and reclining easily, and if it meant that his muscles suddenly looked more defined, that his chest looked even more sculpted… well.

A wicked, devious grin split across his lips, and the hint of a blush stole over Nesta’s cheeks.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, his voice kicking low and sultry through the dim. To his absolute delight, her blush deepened.

He fucking loved it when she blushed.

“I’d enjoy it even more if it were clothed,” Nesta retorted curtly, her hands dropping from her hair. In one smooth movement, she retrieved his shirt from where he’d left it the night before, plucking it up from the floor with elegant fingers and balling it up. She hurled it at his chest, her expression turning haughty— like she hadn’t just been dragging her eyes over his muscles like a woman starved.

Cassian smirked.

“Liar,” he chided, watching as she turned her attention back to her hair, working out a particularly stubborn tangle with her fingertips. Damn near smug, Cassian was fairly sure he’d been responsible for that tangle, his hands having dived into her unbound hair so many times last night he’d lost count.

She didn’t deign to reply, but that blush still lingered— an almost delicate sweep of colour that brought out the blue in her eyes and made the scowl she gave him far less threatening than he was sure she’d intended. For a moment he lost himself in that blush, in that scowl. He let his grin spread unfettered, let himself forget that their parting was still a foregone conclusion.

But even he had to admit defeat sooner or later. Nesta turned to the window, her attention fixed on the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, and as Cassian pulled the shirt over his head, he followed her eyes and saw the house standing like a shadow against the lightening sky.

All teasing suddenly fell away— crumbled.

As he watched, Nesta… changed. Cassian could feel her retreating into herself, icy exterior back and walls built high, and when he caught a glimpse of the scar on her thumb, he was reminded viscerally of the way she’d crumbled in his arms last night. He knew, in that moment, that whatever bitterness he found in leaving, Nesta found it too. His heart strained behind his ribs, cracking as he rose from that pallet and reached for her, his fingers brushing her arm. It kicked, the bond stretching, and only when his hand slipped down to twine with hers did it settle.

“I’m going,” he whispered, even though it was the last thing in the world he wanted. He shook his head and tried again, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m— going.”

Silently, Nesta nodded.

But still his hand was woven with hers, their fingers linked. She didn’t move, and nor did he, like neither could find the strength to pull away.

He didn’t drop her hand, not even when he leaned to kiss her just one more time before he really did need to leave. His lips brushed hers, but it was a kiss that was almost melancholy, almost mournful as something inside him shattered. Still, he didn’t drop her hand— but he didn’t reach up to cradle her face between his palms either. He only kissed her lightly, letting it speak for him because he wasn’t sure he had it in him to say goodbye.

Nesta broke away first, taking some small piece of his soul with her, and even though they had parted before, this felt different somehow. This felt harder. Part of him longed to lurch forward and wrap her in his arms, to promise never to let her go— even though it was a promise they both knew he couldn’t keep. He couldn’t stay, and neither could she, and even though he’d despised the words when she’d uttered them earlier… he couldn’t deny their truth.

He needed to leave.

And so, putting one foot in front of the other, Cassian turned from his mate and forced himself to head for the door before his resolve evaporated. It was hanging by a thread already. So, so perilously close to snapping— so he didn’t look back as his hand curled around the iron latch, didn’t speak as he wrenched it open. One foot in front of the other— until he was outside, looking up at a bruised sky, fading grey clouds and a sunrise stained pink.

Cassian couldn’t help but remember Nesta’s face last night, how the moonlight had glanced off tears unshed and turned her grey eyes silver. He thought of the scars she’d been left with, the bruises she’d been given by those that were supposed to love her, and something like grief tugged hard on his heart, something like sorrow.

It stopped him dead barely three steps from that heavy stable door.

He couldn’t leave.

Not yet, not like that. Not with a last kiss that didn’t match the clamouring need he had for her, without one more moment of holding her in his arms— the way she should have been held all along. Suddenly, Cassian was turning and rushing back, throwing open the stable door with a palm flat against the aged wood. The horse at the other end of the stable startled, whickering in the quiet, but Cassian barely noticed.

Nesta was still in the same spot he’d left her in, tracing her lips with her finger as if trying to hold the memory of that last kiss. Her eyes snapped to his, widened, but Cassian was crossing the distance between them in quick, determined strides before she could say more than a single word.

“What—” she began, but didn’t get chance to finish.

Cassian kissed her.

Kissed her properly, and this time it wasn’t soft, wasn’t gentle. It was rough and grasping, his palms at her cheeks, his fingers spreading across her jaw, beneath her ears and into her hair. Cassian tilted her head up, giving him the access he wanted— needed, holding her tightly against him. Nesta responded in kind, winding an arm around his neck and pushing herself closer, his kiss turning harried, growing wild.

It was almost his undoing, the way she sank into him— the way he sank into her, all hands and lips and teeth and warmth, her nails against his skin the most beautiful kind of pain, the sharpest kind of bliss. She let out a soft sound against his mouth, practically a whimper, and Cassian couldn’t bear it, a groan slipping from his lips and sliding between hers, dancing along her tongue as he pressed every inch of her against every inch of him, and fucking hell—

Fucked.

He was fucked.

And he never would have pulled away, would have kissed her until the world fell apart, but his chest was burning from lack of air, and all those things that made him leave in the first place still rang true. He still needed to leave, she still needed to be back inside that house before her husband woke, and all the things keeping them apart still lingered, still loomed.

But it was worth it, when he drew back at last and took her in— her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips, her tangled hair. It was the goodbye kiss he should have given her in the first place, the only note he could ever have left on. It gave him strength, igniting a small fire inside him that would burn until he saw her next, a burgeoning light he knew would carry him through.

Nesta looked up, one hand rising to her chest in an attempt to settle the heart he could hear pounding behind her ribs. She lifted an eyebrow too, tilting her head in a question she was far too breathless to ask aloud.

“For luck,” Cassian said simply, giving her a crooked smile as he took a single step back. She let out a soft laugh, one that was light and beautiful and more priceless to him than any of the jewels in Rhys’ vaults.

“For who?” she asked dryly, her breathing laboured. “You or me?”

Cassian shrugged, running a hand through his hair. He turned to leave once more, but this time he paused before pulling open that old wooden door. He glanced over his shoulder, a wry smile on his face as something like devotion, like adoration, swelled in his chest. He ran his eyes over her, over that fucking blush on her cheeks that was certain to be the death of him one of these days. His smile grew soft, and the bond thrummed in his chest, warming him all the way through.

At last he answered, “Both.”

***

Elain’s wedding couldn’t come quick enough.

The sun was just breaking above the mountains that cradled Velaris, crowning them with gold, when Cassian landed on the cool stone of the House balcony. Beneath him the city was beginning to stir, and as he breathed it in, tracing the winding curves of the river through meandering streets, he yearned only for the day when he could wake up in this city with his mate by his side— when there was no more distance between them, no more kisses given in parting.

No more goodbyes.

The minute the ring is on Elain’s finger— Cassian held onto it, grasped at it like a lifeline.

It was a fantasy he could almost drown in, the thought of Nesta in Velaris— the life she would have here, the life he would share with her. It tugged at the bond in his chest, made him so fucking soft it was almost ludicrous. He thought of Rhys, how he’d fallen so completely at Feyre’s feet, and wondered if that was the point of mating bonds— to make even the hardiest men tremble. Looking down at the city, recalling the feel of Nesta’s lips on his, thinking of how she trusted him enough to let her walls come down… Gods, he might have lingered there forever, with the breeze kissing his cheeks and the sun warming his wings.

But something flickered in the corner, a whisper of movement by the glass doors.

A shadow.

Dragged back to reality, Cassian swore softly under his breath and it was absolutely no surprise to find Azriel waiting when he stepped inside. The spymaster was seated at the dining table, tilting his head as the shadow that had lurked on the balcony came slinking back, drifting past Cassian’s ankles to rejoin its master.

“I thought you were going to spend all morning out there,” Az said dryly. With one hand, he gestured to the table. “Breakfast is getting cold.”

At that, Cassian practically groaned in relief. Suddenly, he was ravenous— like leaving Nesta behind had sapped him of all his energy and he was empty now, hollow. His stomach grumbled in appreciation as he sank gratefully into a chair.

“You’re up early,” he commented idly, reaching for a plate and piling it high with eggs and bacon, tomatoes and toast.

Azriel waved a hand. “Mor was just here— delivering some news.”

Cassian polished off a slice of toast, barely pausing as he lifted his fork to his mouth. With his mouth full he asked, “What news?”

“It can wait,” Azriel said easily. “Eat first.” Then— the spymaster tilted his head, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “You smell like horse,” he added flatly.

Glancing up, Cassian merely grinned, watching as Az’s lip curled in distaste at the smell of hay and stone that clung to Cassian like a second skin. He winked, and even though Az looked at him expectantly - waiting for an answer - Cassian didn’t relent, merely let his grin shift into a satisfied, almost smug, kind of smirk.

“Are you going to tell me why you smell like you spent the night in a stable?”

“Maybe,” Cassian said mildly. When Az huffed, Cassian give him another wink, another daring smirk. “Maybe not.”

With that, Azriel snorted. “Then I won’t wait to give you the bad news.”

Cassian stilled. “I thought you said it could wait.”

Azriel shrugged, nonchalant. “We’re going to the Hewn City tomorrow.”

That was about as welcome as a knife to the gut. In answer Cassian dropped his fork, letting it clatter loudly against his plate. His expression hardening, he leaned roughly against the back of his chair.

“And what happened to having a few days off?”

“Rhys changed his mind,” Az said, blue siphons glinting as a bland expression flickered across his face. He shrugged. “Starfall is the day after tomorrow.”

Cassian groaned.

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “And I half thought we might be able to enjoy one fucking holiday without having to visit the Court of fucking Nightmares.”

He huffed sharply, his gaze turning hard as Azriel raised an eyebrow.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of Nesta’s bed this morning?”

“Fuck off,” Cassian grumbled.

Az waved a hand, shadows twining around his fingers. “The day after Starfall, you’re going to Windhaven— Rhys, Mor, Feyre and you. He wants you stationed there until the queens set a date for the meeting.” He shrugged again. “So we need the orb tomorrow.”

His tone was simple, detached, but Cassian knew that Azriel was about as happy about this visit as he was. He let out a huff of a breath and sat up straighter in his chair, putting aside his bitterness and stepping, instead, into his role as General. Rubbing his temples, Cassian nodded briskly and Azriel continued to speak, relaying the message that Mor had delivered barely an hour ago. But when he’d finished, there was only one question Cassian had on his mind— the same he’d asked last night, before Az had winnowed him to the wall.

“Does Feyre know?” he asked warily. “What Rhys is like there?”

He wasn’t sure why it mattered— why he cared so much. Rhys had ignored the question entirely last night, with a crease between his brows and a downward tilt to his mouth. But Cassian had to wonder how prepared Feyre was— how prepared Rhys was. From the way the silence stretched, Azriel had wondered the same.

“Well,” Az said after a long pause, voice grim. “We’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we?”

***

Tomorrow, Cassian thought, came all too fucking quickly.

The rest of the day was spent going over the plan for the Hewn City, talking it through with a Rhys that was more anxious than he’d admit, more concerned than he’d let on. At length, Mor had described the chamber where the Veritas Orb was kept and Azriel had catalogued it all, sitting at the town house table with tented fingers, eyes dark with concentration.

Cassian had scowled then— and he scowled now, standing in the darkened stone antechamber buried deep within the mountain, watching Feyre and Mor walk in ahead. He didn’t have to feign the dark and vaguely threatening look that settled across his features, the one that promised violence.

He fucking hated this place.

Azriel bore a similar expression, his shadows sticking close to him as if they, too, despised every moment spent within these walls. Apparently, even darkness incarnate couldn’t stand Rhys’ shadow court.

By his side, the High Lord’s face was stony, and Cassian cast him a sidelong glance as he rolled his shoulders.

“Alright?” he asked.

Rhys watched the doors close behind Feyre and Mor with a forbidding kind of thud. He blinked, violet eyes dark and cold.

“Of course,” he answered easily, but Cassian didn’t need to look hard to see the lie beneath. Rhys had thrust his hands into his pockets, but given the tightness in his shoulders and his forearms, Cassian was willing to bet he had his hands curled into fists. The High Lord was dressed immaculately, and yet his eyes held a kind of wildness that Cassian hadn’t seen before, a kind of apprehension that had nothing at all to do with the Hewn City and everything to do with the girl in the black dress that had just disappeared behind those stone doors.

“As soon as Az has the orb we get out of here,” Cassian muttered, glancing up at the expanse of stone above that stretched and stretched and disappeared into darkness. Archly he added, “The sooner the better.”

Rhys made a low sound of agreement, something caught halfway between a hum and a grumble. Azriel was silent.

And then, before Cassian could double-check the five blades he’d come armed with, the stone doors were opening once more, sliding silent across the worn grey stone. Azriel nodded, his hand resting almost idly on Truth-teller’s hilt, and then Cassian was stepping forwards, his gait even and smooth as he crossed the stone floor, well-trodden and worn smooth from centuries of footsteps. Into the great hall his feet carried him, the ceiling a high vault that melted into the darkness. Sparsely lit lamps made shadows on the rock, gruesome caricatures as the light bent around stone carvings of beasts and monsters, great serpents slithering motionless, never touched by the sun. Had Cassian not seen them a hundred times before, he’d probably shudder. Probably feel a chill crawl down his spine.

Yet as the denizens of the Hewn City drew apart, forming a corridor leading to the great onyx throne seated at the other end of the cavernous hall, Cassian didn’t so much as blink.

He’d done this dance a thousand times.

Mor and Feyre stood by the side of that throne, waiting, but Cassian kept his pace leisurely, almost lazy as he crossed the distance between the stone pillars. Wearing full Illyrian armour, with a rueful curve to his lips, he was naught but Rhys’ bloodthirsty general— the Lord of Bloodshed, crafted from violence, forged by brutality. Behind him, he felt Rhys’ power grow, stretching enough to fill that great space— almost enough to cleave the mountain in two.

And as Mor stepped lithely off the dais and sank to her knees, Cassian kept his eyes on Feyre— on the expression on her face that was neither horrified nor terrified but something else entirely, something warmer. She kneeled too, looking beyond Cassian and over his shoulder to Rhys.

Cassian reached the foot of the dais, came to a halt besides Mor. Without hesitation, he sank too. One knee raised and one palm flat on the floor, he kneeled. The other hand he curled into a fist and placed over his heart, a show of deference he had performed oh, so many times over the centuries. One that the rest of the court followed, dropping too as Rhys hummed, the sound dark and predatory and entirely unforgiving. His steps echoed on the stone, resounding through the rock, and as Cassian looked up from beneath his lashes, he watched as his High Lord reached that dais.

Not his brother.

In this place, behind these walls, Rhys was not his brother.

Rhys curled a finger beneath Feyre’s chin, lifting her to her feet and leading her up the steps of the dais. Still, Cassian watched as Rhys spread himself over his throne, draping Feyre over his lap like she was just as flimsy, just as diaphanous, as the fabric of her dress. Colour rose to her cheeks as Rhys placed a hand on her thigh, a touch he dragged higher, and higher, and as Cassian remained on his knees, he didn’t miss the whistle of breath slip from between the clenched teeth of Mor’s father, also standing by the bottom of that dais.

Rhys’ eyes were dark, his fingers still trailing across Feyre’s skin, and gods, Cassian really, really did fucking hate this place.

This was what he’d left Nesta behind for.

This.

Miles and miles of dark stone never touched by sunlight. Stale air and a bitter, acrid taste that worked its way through his mouth and down his throat.

“Rise,” Rhys said at last, his tone laden with an arrogance so absolute it was staggering. His subjects obeyed as he flicked his fingers, a casual and indolent gesture. And then— Rhys looked at Azriel, his cold eyes flat. “Go play.”

The rest of Rhys’ court scattered, music striking up from some shadowed corner, but the instruction was all Azriel needed to leave in search of the orb. With a blank expression and shadows wreathed around him like a second set of armour, Azriel took a step back. Then two, then three, until he had all but melted into the darkness.

Through an archway, Azriel disappeared and Cassian watched him go, a flicker of unease running through him even as he kept his face empty, disinterested.

By his side, Mor cleared her throat.

Dressed in a crimson that seemed almost obscenely bright in this place, her eyes were fixed on that pitch throne and the man that stood before it. Her father had ascended the steps and was speaking to Rhys, and even though they were looking at Keir’s back, Cassian could tell by the stiffness in his shoulders and the way his arms were pressed tight against his sides that the Steward of the Hewn City was trying very determinedly not to look at what Rhys was doing with his hands.

Had it been any other day, any other time, Cassian might have found it amusing. Might have revelled in the way Rhys all but made Keir crawl, but… next to him, Mor cleared her throat again.

Cassian’s eyes slid to her. “You alright?”

Gently, she hummed— but her painted lips were pursed when she spared him a brief glance. When she spoke, her tone was idle, casual, but her words were clipped, sharp.

“You weren’t at the House yesterday,” she said. Cassian’s fingers twitched at his side, but he said nothing and in his silence, Mor seemed to find an invitation to continue. “I came up to the House before breakfast to tell Az about Rhys changing his mind. You weren’t there.”

Cassian turned his gaze back to the obsidian throne, to Rhys and his hand trailing up Feyre’s thigh. A blush spread down the Cursebreaker’s neck and over her chest, and Cassian had to look away, shifting his gaze to Keir to stop himself thinking of another blush creeping over another Archeron’s neck.

“And?” he asked.

Mor shrugged again, and it was the most transparent gesture Cassian had ever seen. He could practically taste the disapproval coming from her in waves.

“I wondered where you were. Azriel wouldn’t tell me.” Mor paused, interlacing her fingers in a grip so tight he thought it was a wonder she didn’t break her knuckles. Gold rings glimmered on her fingers, bracelets clinking gently around her wrists. On the surface at least, she was a perfect picture of serenity— and then, she sniffed, her hands tightening. “Were you with her?”

Cassian raised a brow. “Would it matter if I was?”

Mor blinked, her eyes fixed forward even as tension gathered in her jaw. “I just think you should be careful.”

Silence— Cassian responded with silence, and as it filled the space between them Mor huffed, setting the gold at her wrists singing.

“She’d fit in here,” she added dryly. “What with the way she faced those queens without an ounce of respect—”

“Respect,” Cassian interrupted, his voice little more than a darkened hiss. He whirled to face her, his jaw clamping shut as he watched her eyes widen, blinking in surprise as she lifted a hand.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she said airily, waving him off with an idle flick of her wrist.

“No,” he answered flatly, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes narrowed, as he tilted his head and studied her, the woman he’d once thought he loved— the woman he had come to see as a sister. “I don’t. Enlighten me.”

Mor rolled her eyes. “She’s got a sharp tongue, Cassian. Like a damned viper. She wouldn’t exactly be trampled in a place like this.”

Her eyes went to the expanse of cold stone and dim light, her lips tugging downwards as she nodded to the hall she’d once called home. The home she had escaped, the home that had almost fucking killed her— and now Cassian felt his siphons start to burn, a hollow kind of fury spreading through his chest, coursing through his veins and igniting the bond that was wound there, tight around his heart. Something deep and dark and cavernous was set alight, something merciless and unforgiving, some feral urge to protect.

Mor wanted Nesta to… what?

Bow and scrape to women who would have left her for dead?

He remembered her in that kitchen after the queens’ visit, disheartened and despondent. Quietly, he snarled.

“You judge her,” he said with a deadly kind of softness, a lethal tilt to his voice as he studied Mor, her face so familiar yet almost unknown to him now as her lip twisted. “For what? For defending her people? Pointing out injustice when she saw it?”

Mor huffed. “She—”

“—Has a name,” Cassian interrupted. “She has a name. At least use it when you’re condemning her, for fucks sake.”

“I’m not condemning her, Cass,” Mor answered with a scowl, painted lips pressed tight together as she looked ahead to her father once more. Her golden hair was the brightest thing in this damned place, her crimson dress stark in an ocean of dark colours, and Cassian scowled, too.

You have no idea, he thought— ached to say aloud. No idea what she’s like, what she’s done.

Mor had suffered at the hands of her family too— but Rhys had gotten her out. Nobody had fucking bothered to get Nesta out, had they? Cassian rolled his shoulders, clenched his jaw, and heard Mor’s voice anew, sharp and acidic and entirely devoid of kindness.

She’d fit in here.

Like fuck she would.

“They never should have had to bear the burden,” Cassian said after a moment, glaring into the darkness as a thick, bitter taste worked its way up his throat. He glanced at the throne, at Rhys and Feyre, who had brought all this to Nesta’s door. “Neither Nesta nor Elain.”

Mor turned to fix him with a flat stare. “What other choice was there?”

“I don’t know,” Cassian said tersely, thinking of Nesta in that fucking kitchen, despair carved into the planes of her face. It’s not your burden to bear, he’d said, and Nesta had looked at him with wide eyes, edged with anger. But it is— my sister made it so. Your lord made it so. Through gritted teeth, Cassian exhaled. “It’s not like anybody spent much time searching for another solution. Rhys can magic letters out of thin air, and yet we have to use Feyre’s sisters as a go-between for the queens?”

“His magic could never have stretched to the continent and you know it.”

“I’m just saying,” Cassian insisted. “Perhaps using Elain and Nesta wasn’t our only option. Perhaps we should have left them out of this.”

Mor scoffed. “You’d put her comfort before the safety of us all?”

Cassian didn’t even blink.

“Yes,” he answered easily, definitively. “In a fucking heartbeat.”

Mor was silent beside him, but her ruby lips parted as a frown creased her forehead. Her bracelets clinked again as she shifted, the fabric of her dress whispering against the stone floor, a soft hush that seemed to resound somehow. She blinked and opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she’d been about to say was lost as Azriel slipped back through that archway, giving them both a nod as he did.

He had the orb.

Cassian let out a breath of relief, stepping forward as Azriel glanced at him curiously, dark eyes flicking between he and Mor, as if sensing the tension between them. Cassian ignored it, ignored all of it, only clapped the shadowsinger on the shoulder.

“Tell Rhys you have the orb,” he said darkly. “I want to go home.”

***

But home was not, as Mor and Azriel had assumed, Velaris.

Cassian wasn’t even certain that home was Illyria either, but nevertheless, he found himself flying away from the House of Wind within moments of Azriel and Mor winnowing them back. Rhys and Feyre had winnowed separately, and Cassian hadn’t wanted to question where they were going. Judging by the tension in Rhys’ shoulders and the colour on Feyre’s cheeks, he half thought Rhys would punch him if he asked.

So they had arrived at the House of Wind, a terse silence between Cassian and Mor that Azriel clearly didn’t know what to do with. And Cassian didn’t want to wait for Rhys and Feyre to return. Didn’t want to go and fill Amren in on what happened, and certainly didn’t want to go to the town house and stare at the orb with his thoughts clouded with the prospect of war.

He wanted… He wanted to go home.

But home lay hundreds of miles away, on the other side of the wall. Not a place, but a person.

So he’d taken a moment to retrieve the book Nesta had given back to him from his room, her letter pressed between the pages. He couldn’t see her— there wasn’t time to fly down to the wall now, and he wasn’t fool enough to think they could have two nights in a row in that stable without being caught. It was tempting fate, inviting trouble. So he resolved to do the next best thing— to do as she’d asked, all those days ago.

Is it only Rhysand you play messenger pigeon for?

He snorted as he took to the skies, desperately embracing the feel of the air on his cheeks, in his hair.

He was going to get Nesta a new book.

***

Dusk was falling across the Illyrian mountains when Cassian pushed the door open, the little bronze bell piercing through the evening silence with a bright, melodic peal.

Emerie looked up from where she was stocking the shelves along one wall, her surprise evident in her widened eyes, her slackened fingers as she let a pair of training leathers slip from her hands and land in a pile.

“General,” she said. “We were just about to close.”

Cassian pulled out the book from inside his jacket. “It’s alright. I just came to return this.”

“So late in the day?” she asked mildly, glancing past him to the windows, to the sky outside that had turned into a swathe of dark grey. Across the street, an oil lamp had been lit outside the single tavern Windhaven could boast.

Cassian shrugged in answer, strolling further into the shop until he could lean on the counter, forearms braced against the wood. He set her book down and let it rest between them, the corner of Nesta’s letter peeking out from the pages.

“Not so much as a single bent page,” he declared. “As promised.”

Emerie snorted, abandoning her stock. Checking over her shoulder, looking to the back room as if making sure her father wasn’t about to come barrelling through the back door, she joined him at the counter, taking up the book and inspecting the spine.

“And what’s this?” she asked, sliding Nesta’s note from between the pages.

“She wanted to say thank you,” he said simply.

Emerie blinked, a soft sort of smile pulling at her lips. She let out a soft huff of amusement, of surprise, before taking the note in hand and unfolding it. It wasn’t sealed, and Cassian hadn’t read it, but he found himself looking at the reverse of that little scrap of paper as Emerie scanned it. He could see the imprint of Nesta’s letters on the underside of the page, the marks she had scored with her pen. Even from here, even in reverse, he could see that she crossed her Os and gave her Ys elaborate, curving tails.

And he couldn’t explain why, but it made that chasm in his chest deepen— made that well of affection suddenly feel like it was overflowing.

When Emerie finished, she laid Nesta’s letter down flat on the counter.

“You never told me her name,” she said tartly, raising an eyebrow and folding her arms over her chest. The wings behind her spread a little, adjusting as she leaned back, her scars stark in the evening light.

Cassian let out a soft breath.

“Nesta. Her name is Nesta.”

“Well, I know that now,” Emerie answered with a roll of her dark eyes, dropping her arms briefly to tap a finger against Nesta’s note. There was a pause, light and easy, before Emerie hummed, refolded her arms and asked, “What’s she like?”

Cassian blinked, tilting his head as he looked at Emerie’s expectant expression. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know how to begin, so he merely looked around, casting a glance at the empty shop.

“Come now, Emerie. How would the men ever respect me if they heard about how I’d been talking about a mortal woman with stars in my eyes?”

Emerie shrugged. “They wouldn’t hear it from me.” She gave him a pointed look. “If they were to find out, it would be from the look on your own face, General. I’ve never seen a man so lovesick.”

“Lovesick.”

Emerie hummed. “You said it yourself. You have stars in your eyes.”

“I wasn’t being serious.”

“Well,” she tittered. “You do.”

Cassian shook his head wryly, running a hand through his wind-snarled hair as he dipped his chin to mask the smile that threatened to take him over. Fucking hell— he really was lovesick.

“She’s brave,” he said at last, his voice quiet. All the things he wanted to say in the Hewn City, all the things he wanted to say to Mor and couldn’t— all of those things found voice, now. “And kinder than she wants anybody to know. She’s the most formidable person I’ve ever met, and she…” He trailed off, words falling short. Silenced, he shook his head, unable to find the words.

With that, Emerie smiled softly too. Her eyes dropped back to the note as she unfolded her arms at last, resting her palms on the worn wooden surface of the counter.

“Come back tomorrow,” she said firmly, lifting her gaze to meet his.

Cassian frowned. “What for?”

Emerie rolled her eyes as if it were obvious.

“So you can pick up my reply,” she answered, nodding to the letter. “And another book.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

[indorset]

Reader insert #2

Prompt: None. Inspired by this scene in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Summary: An explanation to the gif above. Unknowingly (I didn’t plan on it when I started writing) set in the same verse as “visiting Hogwarts”.  Can be read as a stand alone.

Words count: 801.

Rating: G

Warning: none. Though if anything comes up to you, do let me know. 

A/N: I couldn’t resist the forehead touch (again). It’s so soft, just like Newt Scamander. 

You casted a drying spell as you discarded the broken brolly aside; London’s weather was as rainy and gloomy as ever. A pile of papers and envelopes on the floor caught your attention. Casting a quick Reparo at the brolly, you picked up the mails. The flat was dark and quiet.

“Newt, I’m home!” You called out. 

Our home, you smiled at the thought. You have been living together for two weeks now, and it still felt like a dream. There were some adjustments to be made, small arguments over who stole the blanket at night, but you wouldn’t trade anything in the world for this domesticity that you two shared. 

You were sorting through the mail– Muggles, while blessed for their invention of electricity and the sewage system, had managed to send all sorts of bills to be paid– when you heard a muffled clang toward the bedroom’s direction. 

Probably inside his suitcase, you thought, since the bedroom remained dark. You put the sorted mail on the mantelpiece and discarded the rest with a flick of your wand, then quickly made your way to the source of the noise. 

The suitcase sat open on the bed. As you approached, you caught sight of a picture of Newt and you by the bedside table, illuminated by the faint glow of streetlight. You drew the drapes and whispered Lumos, electricity bills be damned. Your face broke into a big smile as you picked up the picture. Newt kept many photographs around the flat: of you, of the two of you together, portraits and sketches of his and your beloved creatures. Your favorite of the two of you had ended by his side of the bed. Your finger traced his face as he softly gazed up at you. Even in a photograph, you could still see his freckles, dotting like stars. 

“Merlin’s beard!” The shout from inside the suitcase startled you. Putting the picture down, you hurriedly took the steps descending down to the wonderland that is Newt’s suitcase.

“Newt! Is everything alright?” You found him hunched over by his desk, cradling his arm close to his person, his great blue coat laid abandoned nearby. 

“Y/N! You’re back!” Newt’s bright, sunny smile immediately abated your worries. You couldn’t help but grin back at him. But that didn’t last long. 

“Stars! What happened?!” You gasped– there, where his skin was visible, were teeth marks in shades of reds. Newt’s white shirt was soaked with sweat. You started to examine him profusely. Those looked like–

“Murtlap’s bites?” You ran your fingers gingerly over a mark by Newt’s collarbone. His shirt was unbuttoned down the first three, leaving his chest half exposed. You felt Newt’s breath hitched as your fingers brushed against the angry red of his skin. 

“Yes. I have been… observing different reactions one might get when bitten by a murtlap. So far, it has been quite harmless. The only thing was that… flmns…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” You looked up at him as he averted his gaze, cheeks pink. You didn’t realize your face was so close to him. You could see his constellations of freckles so clearly from here. 

“The only serious reaction was… flame out of the anus.” He mumbled the last bit. Your lips thinned as you tried to hide a fond smile at your magizoologist. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was published right before you moved in together. Only Newt Scamander would work on a revision so soon after the book’s premier. His compassion and dedication would never cease to amaze you. He did it not for recognition nor fame, but purely out of his compassion and dedication to the magical creatures.

“Let’s treat these bites, then you can go and update your manuscript, yes?” You brushed the sweaty hair out of his face and pressed a kiss on his freckles, his cheeks warm under your lips. You started to pull away, only to find his lips on yours. You leaned into the kiss as one of Newt’s hands caressed your face, the other a comforting warmth at your waist. 

You reluctantly pulled apart and rested your forehead against his. “Exactly how much flame out of the anus are we talking about?” You said cheekily.

Newt’s face is a whole other shade of red that you had never seen before. “I would say it depends on the diet one consumes.”

Your laughter rang through the space. If this was how it’s like with Newt, you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your life with him. But that would be for another day. While the future was exciting and full of possibilities, you were content and happy at this moment in time, surrounded by the fantastic beasts and the love of your life. 

#newt scamander #newt scamander x reader #fantastic beasts and where to find them #murtlap #magical creature #care of magical creatures #reader insert #eddie redmayne #fluffy short

[fourmula1]

kinktober day 3: singapore gp

(previous days)

“I struggled already, a lot, there, with bottoming.” - a real quote actually said by Max Verstappen, post race, Singapore 2022.

max/daniel. 1117 words. established relationship 'verse. nsfw. dedicated to @blamemma .

-

It’s been a little while since the tables were reversed like this.

Daniel, celebratory, happy, excited. Max, dejected, moody, disappointed.

Max has been so good to him over the season, after each race. Daniel’s going to return the favour.

“Maxy-max,” he says as he comes into the bedroom from the en-suite, showered, still kinda wet, naked. He climbs up onto the bed where Max is sat, naked and showered too, against the headboard on his phone, straddles Max’s lap and grins down at him. Max’s phone is set aside easily, hands coming to slide up Daniel’s bare thighs.

“Good shower?” He asks, and Daniel can tell Max is hiding his true disappointment well. It’s okay. He’s going to take Max out of it.

“Five years, huh?” Daniel says with a smile, slides his hands up Max’s chest and over his shoulders. They’d not mentioned it much this weekend – too focused on the brutal race weekend and conditions they’d need to endure. But Singapore is over now and it’s their anniversary weekend and Daniel is going to make the most of this night.

“It could have been six years if you were not so stubborn,” Max tells him, smile cracking on his face finally as Daniel laughs. Max is right, he knows. “It is of course okay anyhow because we are together now forever,” Max continues, hands squeezing Daniel’s thighs and Daniel feels his heart swoop in his chest at that comment.

Max is right, of course. Daniel’s been sure this is for life for a long time now.

“Yeah yeah,” he tells Max, unable to be too serious as he leans in for a quick kiss before letting his hands trail down Max’s bare chest, lower, lower, fingertips skirting just near enough Max’s dick to tease him. “I heard what you said in the pen tonight,” Daniel tells him, mischievous smirk on his lips as he kisses his way down Max’s jaw and to his neck. Max’s hands curl tighter around Daniel’s hips, head tilts a bit to give Daniel more space to kiss across his skin.

“What did I say?” Max asks, little soft moan in Daniel’s ears.

“That you,” Daniel continues, shifts down a little to continue his kisses across Max’s chest, down, down, down. “Struggled with bottoming,” Daniel finishes, unable to help the bright laugh as he shimmies between Max’s legs and pushes them open.

Above him, Max laughs too. Finally. Max’s smile is bright and open and happy and Daniel can’t help but to giggle a little as he curls his hand around Max’s dick, looks up at Max as he strokes him slowly, gently.

“You know what I meant!” Max laughs, shifting a bit to slump down a little in the bed, sighs at Daniel’s touch on his dick.

“I’ve never seen you struggle with bottoming once,” Daniel says, all cheek and mirth as he flicks his tongue out against the head of Max’s dick. “Even the first time. You loved it right from the start,” he says, just to see Max blush.

Blush, he does. Cheeks and chest blooming pink as Max squirms.

It’s the truth though. Max had been a bit nervous their first time – Max’s first time ever – and Daniel had marveled at the way Max took him so well, so readily, so happily. Sex had been good before, but sex with Max was another level. Call it chemistry, but Daniel had never been with someone so perfectly matched to him and it only got better, year after year.

“Don’t tease,” Max whines, shifts his hips up onto Daniel’s hand, pouts down at him.

“Not teasing,” Daniel says as he reaches with his free hand for the lube discarded on the bedside table. “It’s just facts. You love bottoming. You love my dick inside you,” He continues, pops the lube open and squeezes some out onto his fingers once he’s let go of Max.

“Daniel!” Max cries, and Daniel knows he’s embarrassed. Not in a bad way. Max isn’t shy about what he likes in bed but he squirms under Daniel’s teasing, flushes red, hides his face with his hand. It’s so fucking endearing.

Daniel spreads his lube-slick fingers around Max’s hole, warms it up before easing a finger inside of him. Max relaxes into it – easy, ready, wanting. Always. Daniel’s fucked a lot of men in his life, had great sex with many of them, but never anything like sex with Max. Max is always so eager, so easy, so made for this.

“It’s good, Maxy,” Daniel tells Max as he works up to another finger, twists his wrist and spreads his fingers to open him up. “It’s so fucking hot, the way you love it,” he continues, grinning as he watches Max’s dick twitch in front of his face.

When he’s sure Max is good and ready – Max would lie anyway if he wasn’t, so eager to feel Daniel inside – Daniel sits back up on his knees and gets the lube again, slicks himself up and looks down at Max from between his spread thighs.

“Let’s see how much you struggle,” Daniel teases, loving the way Max is laughing as Daniel presses inside him – easy, slow, deep.

“Shut up,” Max says, smiling through a pleased gasp and arching his back a little as Daniel fills him. “I hate you,” Max whines, but he’s still laughing, and Daniel grins as he leans forward to brace on his arms, kisses Max as he rolls his hips back and thrusts inside again.

It’s perfect every time. Like they were made to fit together. Daniel’s got a big dick, he knows. He’s slept with both men and women who couldn’t take all of him. Never Max. Pressing deep inside Max, hips grinding up against one another, is like coming home. Max’s body so tight and warm and perfect for Daniel.

“Gonna come,” Daniel says, more breathless pants than words, against Max’s lips. Beneath him, Max nods, head dropped back in a moan as his hand curls around his dick to jerk himself off. Daniel watches the way Max touches himself, makes himself feel good, watches Max come between their bodies before he lets himself go.

He presses himself down against Max – sweaty chests, heavy breaths, pounding hearts – and drags his lips over Max’s jaw and to his mouth for a kiss. When he finally pulls out, Daniel settles next to Max on the bed, head on Max’s chest and arm draped over his body.

“Mmph,” he sighs out, closing his eyes. “No struggles, just as I suspected,” Daniel says; yelps when Max smacks his back and kicks at him.

Today’s been fucking awesome.

#maxiel #kinktober 2022 #established relationship snapshots #singapore gp 2022 #my ficlet

[drabbles-mc]

Jackpot

Nestor Oceteva x F!Reader

Request by Anon: I don't know if you've ever seen or heard of the movie "what happens in Vegas" but the basic premise is as follows: "After a wild night in Vegas, Jack and Joy end up getting married. To make matters worse, they win a jackpot of three million dollars that makes it impossible for them to get out of their marriage." I was wondering if you'd take a request for a drabble featuring Nestor based on the plot above?

Warnings: 18+, language, alcohol, Bitter Boy Nestor

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: I have been thinking about this request every day since it landed in my inbox. I still have not seen the film “What Happens In Vegas” so hopefully this still turned out alright. I know that I want to add more to this, I just don’t know what that’s going to look like. Either way, I hope you enjoy! xo

Mayans Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @thesandbeneathmytoes @paintballkid711 @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @queenbeered @kelpies-shed @sesamepancakes @yourwonkywriter @chibsytelford @gemini0410 @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead @plentyoffandoms @georgiaaintnopeach @twistnet @garbinge @themoonandthewicked @bucky-iss-bae @encounterthepast @bport76 @rosieposie0624 @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo @mijop @xladymacbethx @blessedboo @holl2712 @lakamaa12 @masterlistforimagines @lilah1903 @toni9 @shadow-of-wonder @crowfootwrites @redpoodlern @punkgoddess-98 @black-repunzel99​ @lexondeck​ @fanfic-n-tabulous​ @lovebishoplosamiguelgalindos​ @amorestevens​ @angelreyesisdaddy04​ @mijagif​ @frattsparty​ @winchestershiresauce​ @bellisperennis0​ @beardburnsupersoldiers​ @mveggieburger​ @thanossexual​ @xeniarocks​ @choochoo284​ @littlekittymeow​ @beardsanddetectives​ @bruxasolta​ @i-love-scott-mccall​ @slut-bitch-brat​ @withmyteeth​ @flacalatke​ @passionatewrites​ (If you want to be added to my taglist, please let me know!)

You had no control over the groan that came out of you as you started to wake up. Your eyes weren’t even open yet and your head was already throbbing. Turning over and curling up, pressing your palm against your forehead in an attempt to relieve the pain, you let out another sound of discomfort.

Even if you had been trying to, you wouldn’t have been able to remember much of the night before. There was a lot of music, a lot of dancing, and a lot of drinking. The last part certainly explained why your head felt like it was about to implode.

You were settling back into the mattress, melting underneath the fluffy comforter that was draped over you, when you heard someone snore beside you. Your eyes popped open, body shooting upright despite the fact that it only intensified the pulsating sensation in your skull.

None of that seemed to disturb the man next to you from his sleep at all, though. He was sprawled out on his stomach beside you, arms tucked underneath his pillow. You remembered meeting him, sort of, anyway. You were both playing craps and somehow ended up on a winning streak. Which, for you personally, was the first thing that had gone right in a very long time. You were pretty sure the two of you had a good time from what you could remember—it couldn’t have been terrible if he ended up in your bed next to you.

The longer you stared at him, the harder you worked to try and remember his name. He definitely told you at some point, but it was all such a blur, so many sections of the night blacked out from the alcohol. Shutting your eyes tight, you pressed your thumbs into your temples like that was going to magically make his name come back to you.

“Fuck,” you whispered as you shook your head, partially from the pain of your hangover, and partially because you honestly couldn’t remember the name of the man lying next to you.

You needed water, and aspirin. You peeled the blanket off of yourself, trying to do so without disturbing the man next to you. You didn’t want him to wake up at least until you remembered his name. Once your feet hit the carpeted floor, you bent down and swiped up your discarded shorts from the night before, shimmying into them as you made your way to the bathroom.

After splashing some water on your face, you grabbed your bottle of aspirin, dumping a few of the pills into your hand and tossing them back. Cupping your hands under the stream of water coming from the faucet, you washed them down before heading back into the main expanse of your hotel room.

Walking back over to the bed, you spotted the man’s wallet resting on the nightstand. You bit down on your bottom lip as you contemplated looking through it—not for his money, but just to see his ID so you could know his name. You watched the way his shoulders rose and fell slowly with each sleepy breath he took, and you figured that it would be a longshot that it would wake him up.

Flipping open the wallet, his driver’s license was the first thing that you saw. What caught your attention before his name, was his ID photo. Clearly he hadn’t gotten it updated in a long time—his hair was short in the photo, and he had gauges, too. It was definitely him, though, you could tell by the neck tattoo.

“Nestor,” you mumbled it to yourself, and the name seemed to unlock a few memories of the night that you’d previously forgotten. You remembered people at the club buying the two of you rounds and rounds of drinks, but you didn’t know why. Maybe because you had been doing so well at craps? It was anyone’s guess. Maybe he’d remember when he woke up, but you weren’t going to hold your breath on that.

You also noticed that he was from California too. Not from the same area as you at all, but still, what were the chances that out of all the people tearing through Las Vegas any given weekend that the two of you stumbled upon each other? Shaking your head, you set the wallet back down and walked back over to your side of the bed.

Slipping back underneath the covers, you grabbed your phone off the nightstand, catching up on any missed texts from the night before. It was mostly just your friends checking in to make sure that you were alive, because your solo impromptu trip to Vegas had definitely caught everyone off-guard. Was it part of a young-life crisis because everything back home had started ripping apart at the seams? Maybe. But blowing off steam in Vegas for a few days seemed like a much better and less long-term outlet than buying a sports car of moving across the country with no plan. By the end of the night you’d be flying home and leaving all this behind and none would be the wiser, except maybe Nestor.

He started to stir beside you, a low groan coming out of him that sounded a lot like the one you’d let out not too long before. Looking over, you waited to see if he was actually waking up, or if he was going to drift completely back to sleep. He rolled over onto his back, slowly dragging his hands down his face.

“Fuck,” his eyes were shut tight as he sat up.

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of you, “That’s what I said.”

He opened his eyes, looking over at you. Confusion flashed across his face for a moment, but he recovered quickly as the memories from the night before started to come back to him in jumbled snippets.

“Hey,” he sounded as tired and hungover as you felt.

“Hey,” you watched him as he leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closing again. You took the time to get a better look at him, the tattoos that covered his chest and arms, the long braids that draped over both of his shoulders. You wished you had a better recollection of the night before because you had the feeling that it was a very good time. He reached up, rubbing the sleep from the corners of his eyes, and that’s when your heart dropped into your stomach. “Oh shit,” the words came out before you could try to filter them.

He looked over at you, “What?”

“You’re married?” you must’ve been extremely far-gone last night if you hooked up with a man who was married. Now you knew for sure that none of these stories were coming back home with you.

“No,” he shook his head, clearly confused, “I’m not.”

“That lie would be a lot more convincing if you weren’t still wearing your ring,” you nodded towards his hand.

“My ri—” he brought his hand away from his face, expression immediately contorting when he laid eyes on the gold band wrapped around his ring finger, “What the fuck?” he shook his head, “I’m not…” his voice trailed off as more memories from the night before began to clear up inside his mind.

His eyes widened. Leaning over, his fingertips ghosted over your neck and you instinctively pulled away, “What the hell?”

“Stop,” there was a knowing and determined look in his eye, and despite the fact that you didn’t want to, you held still.

His fingers dipped beneath the collar of the oversized t-shirt you were wearing and pulled out the chain that was around your neck. The necklace wasn’t new, in fact you never took it off. What was new, however, was the gold ring that rested on the chain alongside the original pendant. Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull as he held it between his fingertips. Both of you were frozen in place, not sure what to say or do. There was no script to follow for that kind of situation.

“That’s not good,” you finally broke the silence.

His eyes locked onto yours for a moment, trying to gauge just how sarcastic you were being, “No, it’s not,” he let go, the necklace lightly hitting against your chest once he dropped it.

“Okay. So, we’ve established that this isn’t good,” your brain still wasn’t operating at full capacity and trying to think through this absolutely ridiculous situation was proving to be difficult, “So what now? We can’t…we can’t just stay married.”

“Obviously,” he dropped his head into his hands with a heavy sigh.

“Okay. That means we gotta, what, get a divorce, right? Or…what’s it called…an annulment?” you nodded to yourself, “Yea, an annulment. But I gotta be honest with you, Nestor, I don’t really know the difference between the two.”

He lifted his head from his hands and looked over at you, “An annulment makes it so it was like you were never married in the first place.”

“Perfect. How long does that take? When can we get that taken care of?”

He winced, his head not feeling any better than yours had been when you woke up, and now he was being bombarded by a reality he didn’t want any part of, “I need ten minutes to not be dealing with this,” he lifted the covers off and got up, making his way to the bathroom without another word.

“Yea,” the sarcasm was dripping from every word, “I don’t think this would’ve worked out with us anyway,” you rolled your eyes when the bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

Once you heard the sound of the shower running, you let out a breath that you’d been holding for far too long. All the jokes and sarcastic comments aside, you had no idea what the next few steps of this was going to look like, how your life was going to be affected by it all. You’d only known this man for less than twenty-four hours and now you were married. Not for much longer, but still, how the hell did you become this person?

You couldn’t just sit and do nothing, so you quickly got changed and when you sat back down on the bed, you started looking up what it takes to get a marriage annulled. It seemed painfully simple and in your mind that meant that something was bound to complicate it.

When Nestor came back out of the bathroom, you couldn’t keep a neutral expression. The braids were gone and never in a million years would you have pictured his hair looking quite like that, but you weren’t upset about it in the slightest. Drunk you had good taste in looks, for sure, even if so far his personality was less than stellar.

He pushed his hair back out of his face, “When do you leave?”

“Tonight. You?”

He nodded, “Tonight.”

“I mean, I’ve never had to get a marriage annulled before, but I’m pretty sure that it takes more than twelve hours to get it done.”

He shook his head, “I have a good lawyer back home. Let me get your number, and I can get this all taken care of.”

You rolled your eyes, “That simple, huh? Your lawyer is that good?”

“Yea,” he pulled his phone out of his pocket, “he is,” he handed it over to you, “So give me your number so we can start getting this over with.”

“Are you this grumpy towards women who aren’t your wife?” you asked as you typed your name and phone number into his contacts.

“Yes,” he took the phone back from you and slid it into his pocket, “I gotta go get my shit from my room. Then we can check out and try to make some sort of plan.”

You shrugged, not really knowing what the alternative would be for the entire situation, “Alright.”

You slid your room key across the counter of the checkout desk, “Checking out? Room 514.”

The young woman on the other side of the desk was cheerier than anyone should be on a Sunday morning in Las Vegas, but you supposed that that was part of the gig. You also knew that you were a little extra jaded given your circumstances and your persisting hangover.

Still, the woman beamed at you, “Right! Well, I hope the two of you are taking the rest of your day to figure out what kind of honeymoon you want to go on, especially with everything that happened last night.”

“Everything that happened?” you asked, and you saw the curious look on Nestor’s face too. The two of you got married, but somehow there was still more?

“Yea, everyone was talking about all the good luck. You…you don’t remember?” her expression faltered slightly.

“It was a long night,” you offered up with a nervous laugh.

“Right,” she recovered, “Well. The two of you came back here to celebrate, and from what I heard you hit it big on the slots.”

You looked over your shoulder at Nestor for confirmation. Nothing seemed impossible at this point. Judging by the furrow in his brow, you had to assume that the receptionist was right, and that it wasn’t some other couple who happened to get married and hit the jackpot all in one night last night.

The woman finished checking the both of you out of your rooms, sending you off with a very warm and seemingly heartfelt congratulations not only on your marriage but also on your honeymoon fund. The two of you were walking out side by side, and you couldn’t help but to notice that Nestor was still wearing the wedding band. In fairness, yours was still hanging on your necklace. You’d sell it or something when you got home, you supposed, and you wondered if he was just going to do the same thing.

“Your lawyer gonna be good enough to get this annulled quick even with a few million in the balance now?” you asked as you both stepped onto the sidewalk.

“We’ll see.”

You chuckled, trying to find amusement in the situation because there wasn’t much else to do, “Guess we should’ve signed a prenup, huh?”

He looked over at you, “Does any of this bother you at all?”

“Yea, but bitching about it isn’t going to make it go away quicker,” you cringed as a jolt of pain went through your skull, “I need coffee. There a Starbucks or something near here?”

“Starbucks?” the look on his face made it seem like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“What? Not like we’re going to be using that money for a honeymoon—the least you could do is buy me a coffee with it,” you looked up the nearest place on your phone, “Besides, with that man-bun, you’ll fit right in,” you paused, “You have a car with you?”

“You don’t?”

“I’ve been walking or Ubering everywhere. Vegas is expensive enough without renting a car.”

He sighed, annoyance clearly growing with each exchange between you, “I’ll drive.”

“You know,” you buckled yourself into the passenger seat of his car, “Drunk You must be so much more fun, because there is no way I would’ve gotten married to Sober You.”

“We don’t have to talk.”

You laughed, “Wow. Maybe we should take this to divorce court instead, just for the drama of it all.”

He didn’t say anything in response, instead he reached over and turned the radio up. You chuckled to yourself before looking back out the window, content to spend the rest of the short drive in silence.

“So,” you sat down across from him at the small table in the coffeehouse, “you got a girlfriend back home or something that’s going to be mad when you come home married?”

Much to your surprise, he actually answered the question before taking a sip of his coffee, “No.”

“Well that’s good at least. One less thing to worry about.”

You were waiting for another exasperated and snarky remark from him when his phone started going off. He looked down at the name on the screen and didn’t hesitate to answer it. It could’ve been anyone for all you knew, it wasn’t like you knew anything about him, but something in your gut told you his eagerness was because it was the man who was going to make Nestor a free man once more.

You scrolled on your phone just so you wouldn’t be staring at him the entire time he was on the call. You couldn’t deny that you were listening in, though. It was impossible to hear the other half of the conversation, but from Nestor’s clipped responses and the look on his face, you had a feeling that you were right in thinking that it wasn’t going to be a simple escape from your impromptu marriage.

Even when he hung up the phone, you didn’t say anything. Keeping your eyes glued to the screen in front of you, you casually sipped on your coffee. If there was something to be said, you were sure that he would say it.

“He can’t do it,” he said after an excruciatingly long minute of silence.

“What?” you looked up from your phone.

“He can’t do it.”

You laughed, not because it was funny, but because you didn’t know what else to do, “So…we just…stay married forever?”

“No,” his response was immediate as he shook his head. He could see it on your face that you wanted to make a joke of some kind so he kept talking before you could, “He can’t annul it. We’ll just have to get a divorce. It’s just going to take longer.”

“Told you,” you sipped on your coffee, “We should’ve gotten a prenup. Make all of this so much easier.”

“Did you hear any of what I just said?”

“Yes, I did. We’re getting divorced. Either way, I’ll be out of your hair sooner rather than later. As long as we’re splitting that jackpot fifty-fifty at the end of it all, I’ll be fine.”

For as annoyed as he was, he couldn’t deny that it was difficult for him to wrap his head around how calm you seemed about it all. It didn’t seem like a façade, either, you seemed pretty genuinely unbothered by the ludicrous situation you both had landed in. While the jokes were tiresome for him, your acceptance piqued his curiosity.

“You’re really not worried about any of it,” it was more of a statement than a question.

You shrugged, fussing with the straw in your drink, “With the way things have been going for me? This might as well happen,” you saw the look in his eyes at the weight of what you’d just said, so you paved it over with a tiny laugh and a sarcastic comment, “I’ll start worrying when I have to stay married to you forever.”

“When?” it was the closest thing to a smirk or a smile that you’d seen on him all morning, “Not if?”

Your laugh was a little more genuine this time, “Eventually my luck has to run completely out, right?”

Finally, a laugh, “Right.”

“The coffee is coming out of your fifty percent, though,” you took another sip, smiling as he shook his head at you.

#mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #mayans mc imagine #nestor #nestor oceteva #nestor oceteva x reader #nestor oceteva x you #nestor oceteva imagine #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

[st0rmyskies]

Omegaverse has me thinking... I don't like classical a/b/o dynamics, so what if ruts aren't just a sexual thing for breeding but trigger an emotional response for alphas to care for their partner? I hc that Wars is the sweetest alpha, actually. Yes, he is prickly by default (tm), but I think once he hits his rut, he becomes this giant puppy. Instead of bite and spite, he is all cuddles, wanting Twi close and making sure he is pampered and feeling loved. He'd probably be a MASTER in aftercare too

Anon I not only love this to pieces, I am way ahead of you. Scene below is Time/Sky though. I decided not to edit for length.

Wild knocked softly before the wooden door creaked open. “Hello, it’s just us…”

They both waited on the doorstep, ears perked. No one stirred inside. 

“Time? Sky?” Hyrule poked his head through the door. “Can we come in?”

Hyrule squinted into the dark interior, his eyes having trouble adjusting at first. Something floated down right in front of his face and he lifted his hand to catch it: a tiny white down feather.

When no one answered, Wild nudged Hyrule and nodded toward the entrance. Hyrule gave Wild a wide-eyed look, gesturing with a tilt of his head. The two of them shot one another a look before coming to the same conclusion, taking a deep breath before they slipped through the tiny crack in the door together, shutting it quietly behind them. 

It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust. The only light in the room came from the waning sunset through the windows. Bits of dust and small feathers glinted pink and gold as they floated lazily through shafts of sunlight. They settled on the floor, on every flat surface, they gathered in corners like drifts of snow. *They were everywhere.* 

“What’s all this?” Wild kicked heaps of feathers as he shuffled forward into the house. There was an answering rustle in the loft above, and Hyrule caught Wild by the arm. 

“Wait,” the smaller hero whispered. “This is… This is odd.” 

“You’re telling me,” Wild snapped, his voice low but his tone unmistakably annoyed. “If they destroyed the bedding we’re going to owe thousands of rupees to replace—”

Hyrule squeezed Wild’s arm, his eyes wide in the dark, his voice barely a whisper. “Wild, I think they’re roosting.”

Wild stared at him blankly. “Come again?”

Hyrule pressed his lips into a thin line as he craned his neck, trying to catch sight of where the bonded pair were hiding among the mess. “I’ve heard of it before in passing, I don’t know much about it. Alphas don’t make nests when they’re in rut, right?”

“No,” Wild agreed, tiptoeing further into the house, “in my era they usually like to travel in rut so they can screw as many omegas as they can.” 

Hyrule frowned at Wild’s choice of words. “Well, I’ve heard that sometimes alphas will make their own kind of ‘nest’, usually much bigger than an omega’s nest and much more secure.”

“And more destructive,” Wild griped, plucking a shredded cotton pillowcase from the floor and tossing it aside.

“But I’ve never seen something like it, even among the bonded alphas in my era.” Hyrule picked up a shred of discarded cloth — Sky’s outer tunic, by the looks of it — and he brushed feathers from the little kitchen table to fold it neatly.

Wild headed for the stairs, his footfalls just loud enough to announce his presence. “Any idea why he’d go to all the trouble?”

As Wild approached the loft, they could hear the partners stirring. They were huddled together in the darkest corner, sunken in among the remains of the sumptuous nest the omegas had so thoughtfully put together for their leader. But a long, low sound — one that neither of the omegas had ever heard before — stopped both of them in their tracks. It was so low and guttural that Wild could feel it in his chest, and it made the fine hairs on Hyrule’s arms stand on end. 

Hyrule scurried up the stairs, ducking behind Wild and gripping his tunic with both hands. Wild stood positively frozen, every instinct in him telling him don’t move, stay put, if you’re lucky you’ll survive this.

A bulky shadow rose in the nest, its back arched like a cat’s and its white eyes bright and searing like a wolf’s. The omegas realized at the same time that it was a growl they heard -- or rather felt in the soles of their feet as it rumbled low in the shadow’s chest. Its movements were slow and deliberate, and it paused as the omegas stood still, sizing them up with a wild sort of focus.

But it was those fierce eyes that kept Wild and Hyrule pinned to the spot, their fight and flight having given way to freeze.

“Guys?”

The soft question silenced the rumbling storm. Bright eyes turned away from the omegas, and in the dark they could barely make out the hand that turned the beast’s face away from them. In answer, the massive shadow made a sound somewhat softer — like a purr, if a big cat was capable of such a thing. Wild and Hyrule took a wary step back together as something in the nest shifted. When it was Sky’s soft face that moved into the light, they both released a breath they didn’t know they’d held. 

But their relief was short-lived. Once Sky had soothed the shadow in the strange language that only he and Time shared, he turned to share a nervous glance with the others. It set them both on edge again immediately. 

“So, little complication,” Sky spoke with forced calm, reaching up to cradle the side of Time’s face as he firmly nestled into the crook of Sky’s shoulder to scent him, “he thinks we’re pregnant.”

#stormy writes #o!sky #omega!sky #stormy asks #preg mention

[kidelune]

TW: Mature themes, death, violence, blood, all that jazz. Read at your own discretion.

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

It is said death with the tongue is useful, but I find words too soft an instrument to smash a man’s skull. And tongues useless.

featuring @chenosias

[August 29, 2023, location: confidential]

The basement is a fleeting nightmare you enter with your conscience and cognition far detached from yourself. And as you ascend to the surface again, everything you've seen and heard below, unless significant in any way above, stays behind on the backdoor's threshold. These were the rules for as long as Kijun could remember, an onslaught of repeated relays to you in the car on the way; and really, of such importance they were that everyone who dared come and go here were adamant on the notion of colouring within the lines of this rule. At least if you wanted to keep your head.

Valuing his sleep and sanity, Kijun never dared bring even a toe overline and nevertheless, he couldn't ever truly get accustomed with the unseeing nor the forgetting. But coming here had sometimes been a necessary part of his job as a mediator, and given how seriously he took mediating, he'd eventually taught himself brute force and found enjoyment within the process of tricking his mind with the pleasure of pulling teeth. Thus forcing himself apart from lesser men that cowered, while mitigating some the guilt that often came with memories and dreams.

This they called bravery or balls, and said that if you did it enough times a numb void would become of your heart, as his did—a silence that he could never return noise to again. It grew like a tumor, held his heart hostage and made his work easy, much like a basement in and of itself, for many years of reflex. But for how long could the heart remain obscured and content in the dark?

Car tires come to a screeching stop in front of a plain-looking duplex residence, unobtrusively sitting between two others alike and in an alley so narrow it can only fit one car at a time. Behind the veil of tinted windows, it appears as some sort of anomalous, jagged figure bled into reality by helter-skelter shadows and the sun. Off it wafts the unease of staring into a void you can sense is bottomless. Yet that's all it takes—one glance as a flicker of the switch inside Kijun's heart. It retreats into the darkness with one final warning from the driver, before the car door unlocks for his emptied ribcage.

Expectedly, Yunho is the first to greet him on the way in through the backdoor, which extends to a naturally lit alcove preceding one of the empty living areas. As it is outside, the abode's pale bowels are cold and barren as a wasteland; made in plain sight that this was, after all, not a home made for living. After all these years, eerily, it hasn't changed.

"Glad you decided to show up, kid, even though you're recovering. Didn't sound like you would over the phone back then."

"Sure. Is it just us?" Asks Kijun blandly, as he tightens his signature leather jacket around himself and discards the memory of his initial hesitance. And drawing the blade tucked against his ribcage that much more within reach.

Yunho, perpetually amused and properly clad in his formal suit, extends an arm within the general direction of the basement's entrance somewhere down the right hall. "Everyone else's downstairs."

Lead by his stare alone, Kijun follows.

Two men are on standby on each side of the doorframe, and the two bow with a fleeting stiffness when they approach, their neat black suits creasing and dimpling through the motion. Used to gang formalities, Kijun keeps his head up and his scowl tightly chained across his features, his guard so high it heats his blood and draws pinpricks up to the back of his neck. Neither of them return the favour on the way in.

Soon to be discoverd below is what Yunho meant by everyone, being just the two of them and the other men that belonged here in the undigestible stiffness of the basement, rendered to inconsequential heaps by lack of light—at least for now. There are precisely two of them as well, suspended upside down on thick ropes and stagnant time by their ankles, tied wrists reaching for the floor. Like slaughter hung up to dry.

When Yunho flickers on the basement lights, irrefutable proof of days spent without a meal or much water lay palpable between concave abdomens and protruding ribs. Bruises and dried blood tell tales of long and painful beatings on either side.

The one on the far left is slightly larger, his fingers seeming to have grown swollen and purple with shatter and then neglect. Kijun, who's completely unphased by the tableau in front of him, wonders if the broken bones were a just punishment administered after an attempt at escaping. Remembers how often it had to be done before—how many times he'd partaken in the beatings himself.

After all, if given the chance, dogs on tight leashes often bite their way to freedom.

Noticing Kijun's fixed stare, Yunho chimes in from the side, "That one on the left'd almost killed you last week," He says, "But this one's your guy. Caught him sneakin' around the club on Sunday and apparently, he knows plenty. Here—"

A bucket of water Kijun knows is ice-cold immediately follows the smooth voice pouring over his shoulder, which is almost caught amidst the sudden deluge were it not for his reflexes. The water splashes as intended onto the target body hanging on the room's right, resurrecting him from a deathly stillness with some seconds of vigorous floundering. He's alive.

This is Kim Woosik, Yunho had informed Kijun on the phone earlier in the week, while extending his invitation to this questioning. Woosik'd been working undercover as a messenger for the Green Gang leader for a while, recovering and buying information from accomplices working in the club. Their job this morning was to find out just how much he knew, and who, exactly, it was that told. If there was one thing Kijun was good at, it was carving out rats with only his tongue. Then his knife.

"Kim Woosik," Kijun calls out as he finally tunes into his other self, merciless and unforgiving if he'd ever seen it. The heavy bass in his tone passes and reverberates across the damp walls and limbs with a commandeering urgency, Woosik immediately stopping his squirming to listen as he no doubt hears nearing footsteps in the echoes, then feels Kijun's presence when he crouches down by his head.

In this moment, everything happening outside the two of them ceases to exist, Yunho's lighthearted warning not to break him too soon falling upon deafened ears. This place was made for breaking, and breaking alone.

Kijun rips the soaked sack off Woosik's head to begin, and—briefly freezes. Met with two eyes he instantly recognizes, all bloodshot and reflecting shock and the vivid memory of mourning staring back up at him, Kijun feels icy blood and dread rushing up to the back of his skull. Has to quickly war confusion off his brows by aggressively ripping the piece of duct tape off Woosik's mouth. The latter screams as his dry lips split red, alive. He should be dead. I saw you die.

"Who the fuck are you?" Demands Kijun from the ghost turned rat, overtaken by a surge fury so profound it tears and shreds through him thoroughly enough to quickly become all he can feel.

But nonetheless, Woosik smiles a dangerous smile, like he knew all along that this day would come. Spits blood and teeth at Kijun and earns himself a square punch in the face—the sheer force of that singular blow so hard it cracks and skews Woosik's nose completely. It also throws him off balance, erratically swaying on the rope as the walls reflect broken moans and convulsions that can't be muffled by hands. Neither should they exist today, to begin with.

Kijun figures he'd question Yunho later in favour of satisfying his current rage instead. Grips onto Woosik's hair hard enough to sting the scalp bloody, too, and spits, "You fuckin' traitor."

"You fuckin' idiots. Yeah, it's me." Woosik chokes on every syllable he can't grind out without hurting himself, tongue too large in his mouth in this position and agony. But his eyes—oh, how the fire never falters. "Y'thought I'd ac'ually go and die for that greedy fuckin' bastard y'call a boss? Fuck 'ou— I'd rather be a traitor than a fuckin' dead on this turf."

A violent silence ensues at this, lasting only a few laboured breaths from the hanging men, but enough for everyone to feel it's onslaught ten times over. Kijun stands with it, shoving the head in his grip away from him with harsh dismissal. Takes a few extra moments thereafter to produce a smoke from his pocket and light it up, then another, for him to gather some manner of composure back into his voice, in spite of the fires that are laying waste to his insides. Blood, fresh from his split lip soaks into the circumference of the cigarette.

He stars over, while effortless, long strides bring him around this Woosik far too quickly for the other to keep up with, "So, that's why you decided to fake your own death to get out? Just so you could go die for another greedy fuckin' bastard? S'that it, Jung Hyungmin?"

The name tastes filthy and bitter on his tongue; not because he cared that much about Hyungmin's loyalty. Until this day, Jung Hyungmin was supposed to be simply a good friend from the past; someone Kijun had known well since they were seventeen and nineteen. And most importantly of all, he was supposed to be dead. Yet no matter how hard Kijun tried and tried again, life then knocked on his door and proved itself a force he could only bend when it came to his own death.

He had wondered what Yunho meant when he'd said on call, nowadays, we can't even trust death to do it's job. Now he knows; the explanation being a bloodied nose, ugly stabbing scars Kijun recalls stitching openly stretching across the length of his spine and abdomen, and a snake tattoo etched into his inner bicep. Green Gang.

"Yes, Kijun. Y'd be surprised t'know how many have done the same shit. People get sick of bein' manipulated to fuckin' hell, from bein' lied to practically all the time and worked literally to death for personal gain. I didn't choose this life t'be someone's fuckin' toy, and neither did you."

Kijun sneers, though he's merely playing along now after having detached himself from the past, "You know nothing about me. And I ain't surprised at all. Found that informant of yours at the club—works as one of my boys. He told me as much." He crouches next to Woosik again, this time bringing with him a confident lie and the blade he had sheathed under his jacket. Before Woosik can find the strength to surge forth, Kijun brings the tip of the knife up to the base of his throat. Smiles the smile of someone who knows.

"That's before I cut his fuckin' tongue out'ta his mouth, 'course. Future proof problem solved."

Maybe it's because he's wet, starved, desperate and upside down, because the lie connects immediately. Woosik is suddenly reduced to an eerie stillness again, his toes so white it must feel like death slowly encroaching into his skull. His mouth becomes a thin line, his eyes a thousand slices through Kijun's flesh. The latter doesn't mind.

"There it is, Yunho hyung. The truth." Lifting off again, this time off the air off success, the blade follows Kijun's generous height all the way up to Woosik's abdomen. Aimed precisely where Kijun knows his vitals are. "He knows it."

"Yes, and we only need a name."

"Fuck—y'selfish fuckin' bastards. Cut out my tongue. 'm not givin' y'all jackshi—" But Yunho shoves the water bucket under his head before he can finish disagreeing, the implication of it becoming all the more horrific when Kijun brings the sharp end of his blade back to the tender flesh at his throat. Tuning his stare downwards, he recalls how Hyungmin had been many things, but a hero had never one of them. "Wait, wait, wait, okay, okay I'll fuckin' tell you! Jus' don't—"

If anything, he was always just another traitorous coward.

"Then spit it out, bitch."

"K—Kim Namseong. He knows everything."

/

[September 2, 2023, location: confidential. / ft @chenosias]

"Now, let us pray."

Two ancient hands raise skyward in avid calling of the holy spirit. Summoned along with them are long, white robes of cotton, suspended properly by gleaming, silver cuffs, and at opposite end, presumably God in the action of thousands of feet stomping upright in the pews, hands joining. Kijun checks his watch and notes that it's been about an hour since the church hall had become fully occupied, with both him and Osias included in the mix, at whichever God's mercy. The prayer drawls on without his own participation, though wholly embraced by his searching gaze.

The pastor remained as he always remembered him; an old, hunch-backed mausoleum of sin and holy nightmares. And perpetually equipped with a frown that always haunted his face, provoking unease at rest. To the others around them, he may be a devout zealot and Messiah, drawing garbs of cotton, modest silver and a large crucifix around his neck, blessed directly by the God they pray so heartfully to. But all Kijun sees is a crook in a suit and tie, well tucked beneath a hard mask like a second skin. He was a cartel knave at heart and he was good at being so. As was Kijun, though.

In the pew next to him sits Osias, dark, brushstroke brows shifting and settling repeatedly to and fro on his face. He carries curiosity on his sleeve; catching details in the crowd ahead no average joe would ever see, then releases them with the occasional stray nudge or remark into Kijun's shoulder. Watching and listening to him quickly becomes half of Kijun's mind, counting freckles like stars whenever the hall erupts into drab musical bumps and leaves him only with long, black coils and a perfectly smooth, tan cheekbones.

The moment Osias finds the truth in backhanded preachings from the pulpit, though, by way those eyes skew dark brown and stare sidelong with did he just fuckin' say what I thought he just said? on the tip of his tongue, Kijun figures he'd done well by rejecting Yunho's company and bringing Osias instead. The growing glint in them susses out philosophy and cartel poetry he's probably heard many times before, both in Korea and America, the realization doing something most glorious to his handsome features that Kijun, satisfied and amused beyond imagination, would never forget.

Never trust the preachings of a gangster priest. Presses his elbow to the one beside him and murmurs blasphemy through repeated worship, all to be occasionally shushed by the grandmas sitting behind them.

But they steadily lose interest as the service itself ultimately has no place in their itinerary tonight. The person they're actually here for stands five pews ahead with his fingers crossed and eyes closed. In worn hoodie and jeans he appeared as benign as it got, far from the clandestine chamber of secrets he actually was. What would a man like that pray for, wonders Kijun.

It's ironic how society has always taught the next about how and when it's important to fear God, rather than fearing the immediate violence of being alive instead. After all, the only hurdle between man and the God they bend the knees at night for are themselves.

A prayer can only save you if you are alive.

"In the name of the father, son and the holy spirit, Amen."

That's their signal and purely by design, as well as everyone else's. Unhurried and careful to keep small and out of sight, Kijun raises from his seat as the crowd surges and begins to drift towards the exit doors, wordlessly nudging Osias behind him for that extra overlay of obscurity. Five pews behind them now, Kim Namseong, none the wiser, claps his bible shut and thinks of his successful attendance as a telltale sign of safety within the same breath he fails to register the head full of luscious coils sprouting ahead of him, as the only sign of yonder bloodshed.

They tail him out, that blissful ignorance lasting him four whole blocks and a brief convenience store trip to home though at his front door, it becomes a carelessness that would be taxed at the cost of a tongue.

A risky operation soon ensues within strict Green Gang turfs, and is executed by just two men and their trusty blades.

It begins and ends in a back alley apartment block just two preceding buildings shy off the main road, the residence itself a narrow and unkempt street-level hall that reminds Kijun of his days spent in Gyeonggi prison. The thought even tickles a bitter chuckle out of him given the recollection that were this to go completely wrong, he would end up either dead or in prison yet again. Osias hears him in the silence, of course, sounds self-assured enough for the both of them as he echoes off a smug grin a sentiment off the side, just his boyish excitement and encouragement pulling Kijun's shoulders back with an immediacy that arrests him into resolution.

So it goes, the Green bastards, grim reaper and pigs all be damned. Blood can only be paid back with blood.

"Go on, then." Speaks Kijun only around the last corner up to their destination, encouragement returned in kind with a firm clap on Osias' rear.

Their plan was a simple one for the sake of avoiding too many complications and potential injuries: After Namseong gets home from his usual church service schedule, Osias will knock on his front door a couple minutes later and make conversation about anything random. Which, if he's not immediately recognized, would in turn allow Kijun just enough time to sneak up to the scene once Osias gives the clear, and pounce on Namseong. Palm muffling the screaming and an arm locked beneath his jaw, they'll have to knock him unconscious as soon as time and the ferocity of Nameseong's squirming will allow. And then that'll be that.

The only thing that manages to slip past them is a stray punch in the jaw behind him, which later in the night at their own hideout, Kijun will spend nursing with a half-frozen can of Terra beer, Osias already drunk and going off about something in English.

For now, they work in silence, speed and efficiency of it's use within their tandem paramount to their success. This was neither of their turfs after all, so a throbbing jaw would have to wait until their fates are once again only theirs to determine. While Kijun strips and ties up the unconscious body by the joints, Osias searches the room for anything that might alert the Greens of their meddling, smashing Namseong's phone and watch for good measure. Then he's hauled into the only armchair in the neglectful goshiwon space and gagged. His head silently hangs as though shame plagues him hushed and visionless, his neck bruising purple from their recent struggle. Kijun almost allows a pang of guilt grip his heart, except he can't seem to find it anywhere himself.

"A'ight, we shouldn't wait." Scarcely speaking, Osias murmurs as he pulls off his hat, then mimics Kijun by sinking into a relaxed crouch. "Gotta get what you need and get the fuck out posthaste. Surely they'll know somethin's wrong after an hour or two."

"Did'ya find anythin' in his stuff? Just to be sure. Still don't think we should kill him, 'least this— ain't the right place for that..."

"Yeah, yeah whatever y'say. Found these, though."

From Osias' jacket pocket to the center of a palm, then the next, appear a pocket knife and a burner phone. Kijun has to refrain from rolling his eyes and laughing too loud, but the approval is there, resonating in thick contorting eyebrows, his snickering and the soft popping of his knees as he stands again and casually cracks a slap across Namseong's right cheek, so unforgiving even the walls reflect the sound.

Kim Namseong jolts violently awake in the chair, his eyes falling wide as the moon upon a living nightmare he's probably had before. Once his gaze at last crosses Kijun, the air in his fury shifts to an alternative avenue; icy and tart with a fear he can't expunge quickly enough off his smooth face. The same reoccurring snake tattoo peeks at him from an inner left bicep, thus defining the other's ultimate stance. And that twists some ugly, raging, swelling thing inside Kijun as it clearly spells a dreaded mistake out for him: a massive oversight on his part, that'd almost costed him his life.

After laying out all the warnings and going through necessary intimidations, the captive emerges with dense pulps all over his body and two deep black eyes, sponsored by Osias' uncontrollable fists and Kijun's unrelenting refusal of wanting his partner to halt the pummeling. Until Namseong is choking on blood and air and begging through tears.

"Tell me what exactly you know now about the Green Gang's intentions with the ring and we'll leave it at this. Simple." Kijun attempts with a firm clap on Namseong's shoulder, "Why did you fuckin' traitors attack us?"

The next few minutes stretch for what feels like eons and naught, every second spent stalling another sentence of death upon the two who didn't at all belong in this space. Kim Namseong was a stubborn opponent, the type of gangster that rarely fought with his fists. He was slightly older and thus a handful wiser; better informed than most, and Kijun could tell. But Kijun has also learned over the years that to win against the odds, you must first take away their greatest asset. And we gotta do it quickly.

The idea emerges through the heat and pleasures of the moment like a fish out of water,and Kijun finds himself impulsively knocking Namseong out cold, for this final stretch. His fist flares bright red and purple with a fresh pair of reaped blotches, when he says, all wide-eyed and feral, "Hold his head back f'r me, O."

"What? The fuck're you doin'?"

"...Makin' sure he'll never snitch again."

Totally contrary to the wild, searing numbness overtaking his hands, the knife feels light and icy in Kijun's fist as he lifts his sweater and unsheathes it. So light it is that he feels he could toss it upwards and it would somersault on and on until it skewers the sun. But he grips it with a surgeon's precision, and sees only red.

"May God bless you."

The tongue is a soft collection of muscles and nerves that yield with mind-boggling ease to the blade. Such is the enormity of the cruelty behind survival.

#kk.written #chenosias #tw: graphic content

[harboretum]

“I don’t want to deal with this.”

#artists on tumblr #D&D #digital #dungeons and dragons #dnd cleric #dnd theros #dnd oc #popsicles of glossion #for context popsicles was accidentally created by his goddess (Thassa from the Theros sourcebook) and promptly flung into the ocean #and the first words he ever heard were the above right before he was discarded #which was funny when he was still a joke character but now it's like hm. that's rough buddy #anyway I have been working on this on and off for the last eight months #so I truly cannot estimate how long it took considering the gaps between working on it were like weeks at a time #a while I think

[mandoalorian]

Sinner [Dark!Din Djarin x F!Reader] *SMUT*

Summary: The Mandalorian has been attending confession for weeks now, with the sole intensive purpose to see you. 

Rating: 18+ smut

Warnings: Dark!Din, implied age difference, religion kink (don’t come for me...), sex in a place of worship, smut: loss of virginity, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, degradation, unprotected p in v, cunningless, death mention, alcohol mention, brothel mention. 

Word Count: 4000+

Masterlist

REBLOGS APPRECIATED!<3

He’d been coming to confess for about a year now. He’d gone off the rails when he lost the kid. You’d heard rumours about the Mandalorian — strong, fierce, brave... a warrior. You certainly wouldn’t have pinned him for a man of faith. You’d seen him a few times when you were shadowing your father in church. He was tall, broad shouldered, and only came during the dead of night, when the abbey was completely isolated.

“Hello,” you greeted him, your soft voice echoing throughout the chambers. Your crimson red heels clicked against the marble floor beneath you as you approached the masked figure. Curtseying politely and removing your hood, you couldn’t help but bat your eyelashes in the direction the Mandalorian. “It’s quite late. I was just closing for the night.” you admitted, biting down on your lower lip in hope that he’d understand.

“I thought places of worship aren’t supposed to close?” He countered quizzically, an air of amusement in his voice. 

“You’re right, technically,” you hummed, picking at your nails as a wash of nerves flooded over you. “But my father is out of town and... I need to sleep.”

That’s where he recognised you from— you were the daughter of the Grand Bishop. He’d seen you before, doting around the abbey in your signature black gown and red robes. You were hard to miss, your beauty being beyond standards of measure. Yes, he knew you. He had noticed you watching him from the pillars above, when you thought nobody was looking. He noticed the way you’d deliberately brush past his body... desperate for just the slightest touch. He recognised your scent too; it was sweet like honey. And your ruby coloured lips. He’d dreamt of them plenty of times. It was really you.

“Where is he?” The Mandalorian asked after a beat of prolonged silence.

“He was requested by Senator Berenko to present evening mass on Naboo, for the Festival of Lights.” you explained, probably offering a little too much information.

“When will he be back?”

“Next week.”

“Well, I’ll be back then.” 

No, you couldn’t just let him leave. You couldn’t just let him walk away from you. This was your chance. In a fluster, you extended your arm and pawed at his bicep. He froze under your touch, and you hoped that you hadn’t overstepped. 

“Are— you’re here to confess. Aren’t you?” you asked him with a nervous gulp. Maker, why were you so nervous? The Mandalorian didn’t say anything, so you heeded to continue. “I’ve seen you come by before. I know you speak to my father usually but— I can do it. The confession, I mean. I’ve been shadowing my father for the past few months— training with him. I can do it. If... if you’d like me to.”

The Mandalorian took a moment to process your words. Maker; you were a sight to behold. Your eyes were starry and reflective of the galaxy he’d spent so long venturing. Your skin was soft and delicate. You were pure— untouched— holy. He was afraid the discussion of his sins might be a bit too much for you to handle. 

Or maybe there was something more.

Maybe he was afraid that once he’d start opening up to you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He wouldn’t be able to resist you.

“Aren’t you a little young?” The Mandalorian scoffed incredulously, bringing his leather gloved hand to his helmet, his thumb grazing the cloth between his chin and his neck. His rude manner didn’t surprise you at all, but yet, you kept a strong posture and held your head high.

“I’m old enough.” you declared, not ripping your gaze from him once. Even through the dark tinted visor of his helmet, it felt like you were looking into his eyes, staring deep into his soul. 

So, he agreed. You told him to wait in the confession box by the altar. “I won’t be long, I just have to lock up and turn out the lights.”

As you walked down the aisle, you lit a match and ignited some candles. They were tall and made from beeswax, and the flicking amber flames provided barely enough light. But it had to be enough. It had to do. The wax dripped down the sculptures and chambersticks, pooling into swirls of hardening ivory. 

The Mandalorian waited for you in the confession box, having already discarded the plates of his beskar armour. It was hard to wear, and heavy on his back, but he felt safe… here, with you. He had no reason to be still wearing it. No more fighting tonight, he hoped.

The image of you couldn’t escape his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Dirty thoughts — it was wrong of him. You were the Grand Bishop’s daughter for Heaven’s sake.

When you entered your side of the confession box, your full intention was to follow the ordinary strict protocol. There was no reason for distraction.

“State your name for the records,” you requested, shuffling around as you worked on getting comfortable in your chair.

“Din Djarin.”

Din Djarin. It was a beautiful name. Your mind immediately went to pairing his last name with your first name, and then you cursed yourself for the inappropriate thought. 

“Din,” his name left your lips like the sweetest tasting honey. “Why are you here today? What would you like to confess?”

“I went to Corellia over the weekend,” he announced, his voice cold through the modulator. “The bad part— well, it’s all bad over there,” he corrected himself before continuing. “Got into some trouble gambling at Lady Proxima’s casino and a bunch of white worms surrounded me. So I killed them, all of them. I didn’t have to. But I did. I murdered them in cold blood.”

It was in that moment you learned how dangerous of a man The Mandalorian was. His beskar armour was just as cold as his heart.

“Wh— why did you kill them?” you asked timidly, almost afraid to know the answer.

“For the release. The adrenaline. The feeling of power. I can’t escape it. Have you ever killed?”

“N—no.”

Din scoffed incredulously. “Of course you haven’t.”

“What do you do after you kill?” you inquired, hoping to change the subject.

“Corellia has the best brothels… cheap too. I sought them out and look for a quick fuck.”

“Out of wedlock?” you pondered with a queasy frown.

Din laughed. “You’re asking if I’m married?”

He was right, it was a foolish question. 

“Do you enjoy your time at the brothel? Or do you regret it soon after?” you wondered.

Another laugh— and Maker, he made you feel terrible. Were you really that bad at this? 

“Yes, I enjoy myself. The girls there are pretty little things. Needy. Desperate. But— it’s not special, you know? It’s not… not exactly what I crave.”

“What do you crave?”

“To touch someone untouched. Pure. Holy…” the Mandalorian trailed off. “So, when I fuck the girls at the brothel, I tend to think of the Grand Bishop’s daughter.” He revealed, feeling his cock harden in the confines of his pants at the memory. You swallowed, a wave of heat immediately washing over you. You. He was thinking about you.

This was ridiculous. Was he messing with you? He had to have been messing with you. Sure, he’d seen you around before but neither of you had even held a conversation, prior to today. And he’d been thinking about you while he was sleeping with other women? You had to suck it up and remain professional, no matter how much it irked you. He was here to confess and you couldn’t let this become personal.

But it was so hard. Maker, why was it this hard? Was it because you’d thought about him too? Because you’d imagined his cock in place of your fingers, at night when everyone else is sleeping? You yearned to know more. You ached to know the details. Surely that was fair. He was speaking about you, after all.

You could already feel your panties begin to dampen with arousal. How could one man have such an effect on you? In your place of worship too. You wanted to punch him, kick him, take out all your anger on him. But most importantly, you wanted him. His touch. His hands on your body and his cock splitting you open. That’s what you wanted the most.

“What did— what did you think of?” You swallowed, anticipating the details. You were glad he couldn’t see how flustered and hot you were right now. It certainly wasn’t in the code for you to ask about details such as this but… surely one question would do no harm.

You could just about hear Din chuckle, from the other side of the wall, and it made your slick wet cunt clench around absolutely nothing. He was driving you feral. “I’d think about her ruby red lips and how they’d look wrapped around my cock. I’d imagine fucking her mouth, making her gag— wanting her to cry. I’d want to see the tears stream down her cheeks as I give her my all. And finally, I’d imagine her letting me cum down her throat.”

There was something about him talking about you, to you, in third person. Like you weren’t supposed to be there, listening. Like this information was not made for your ears.

Your panties were soaked at the thought. You couldn’t believe it. All this time, all these sessions of confession with your father, and it had only stirred him on more. He’d been going to confess, only to see you. 

“Tell me, princess. How does that make you feel?”

Shit. He could not be serious right now. You placed your palm flat against the wall and took a deep breath. “Mando, you’re here to confess. Not me.”

You tried to shut out his words, but your body ached for him. Ached to feel him… touch him. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you — but it would be wrong. It would be so wrong.

Another chuckle. You hated when he did that. As if all of this was some kind of joke to him. Did he even know what he was doing to you? It was like torture. 

“See, the Grand Bishop’s daughter… oh wow. She’s a vision. She dotes crimson red lips and she walks around as if she owns the place, her stiletto heels clicking against the floor. She’s bad, like the devil in disguise, and yet, I know her. She’s young and untouched. Her father will probably marry her off to some other minister in the outer-rim, ship her away for good. And she’ll be forced to deal with very mediocre sex for the rest of her life. Which is a shame, really, because she deserves better. You deserve better.”

“You have no idea who I am.” you spat out, feeling your cheeks burn with rage. How dare he make these assumptions about you and your family. This crude, older man with a tongue that could kill. How dare he. 

You wanted to be mad at him so bad. He couldn’t possibly get away with this. But he was going to. Because what exactly could you do? 

“She’ll never know how it feels to be stretched open by a real cock,” Din gritted out, dismissing your comment completely. “F—fuck.”

Din was palming himself through his pants, desperate for some kind of release. His sleuth, dirty words set a fire blazing in your core. You wanted it too. You wanted it so bad. You contemplated all the things you could do, all the actions and their consequences. You and the Mandalorian, both in the confession box. You couldn’t even see one another… the prolonged silence on your end prompted Din to get up and leave when he heard your honey velvet voice speak once more.

You had to say something.

“When the lights are out and everyone is asleep, I think about you,” you confessed, hating the way the croaky admission left your lips. You’d done it now. Din’s head snapped upwards to face the wall and oh how he wished he could see you right now. You were squirming around in your chair and when you heard the zipper of his pants become undone, you knew it was your queue to continue. “I touch myself. It’s hard to keep quiet… thinking about you. I imagine you touching me… running your gloved hands all over my body,” you bring your hand to your breast and give it a little squeeze. “I figure.. maybe you don’t take the gloves off. You praise me when you feel how wet I am, and I tell you that it’s all for you. I’m all yours. To use however you like. I want you to ruin me. Spoil me for any other man. Fuck me until I cant walk. Bite me, give me marks I have to hide during tomorrow’s mass.”

Din made a fist around his cock and began to pump as he listened to the dirty words that left your holy lips. His grunts and groans echoed throughout the box and went straight to your core. Oh how you wished you could see him right now. Peeling up the hem of your robe, you slid your fingers under the waistband of your panties and began to rub tight circles into your clit. 

“You’re a virgin?” he asked, although it came out more so like a statement. Like he already knew the answer. 

“Ye-yeah,” you whimpered, quickening your pace.

He was achingly stiff now, beads of milky white precum already dripping down his shaft.

“You want this?” He quizzed. “You want my cock right now? Think you deserve it?”

And in that moment, you made your decision.

Maybe this life that your father had given you, just wasn’t for you.

“Y-yes, oh God yes. I deserve it.”

A low and dark chuckle left Din’s lips. “You’ve been a child of God your whole life. But you want this, yes? You’ve been waiting for this?”

He was right. You had been waiting for this. 

“P-please Din, please. Wreck me. Ruin me.”

“In the chapel too?” he laughed, rising to his feet. “You really are desperate. C’mon then.”

In a fluster, you practically fell out of your side of the confession box.

The Mandalorian stalked towards you with his cock in his hand, jerking himself off as he got nearer and nearer. His eyes didn’t leave you once and although you couldn’t see his face, you could only imagine the predatory glint in his eye. Maker he was huge, and thick, and you wondered how you’d ever be able to take him.

You weren’t used to this— Maker, you’d never done anything like this before. There was no way your fingers would ever be able to compare to the size of the Mandalorian. 

“Are you sure you want this?” he grunted, releasing his cock and grabbing your throat, giving it an experimental squeeze. You nodded your head desperately and subconsciously licked your lower lip. “I must know. If I start, I won’t be able to stop. Do you want me to claim you?”

Just like Hades claimed Persephone? You shut the absent thought out of your mind and agreed to his proposition.

“I do.”

If it was so wrong, why did it feel so right? You had dreamt of this moment. How could you ever deny him? 

He pinned you against the altar and tapped at your thigh, gesturing for you to open your legs up. His eyes dropped straight to your dripping core and he had to hold back a guttural moan.

Din wasted no time and rubbed his cock along your slick wet folds. For a second you were afraid he’d knock over the many burning candles that you had lit earlier in the evening, before your little confession session had begun. But, to no surprise of your own, the Mandalorian had extremely good coordination. 

“Oh f-fuck, such a pretty little thing. So warm, bet— bet you feel so fucking good.” Din mumbled utterances of praise, his grip tightening around your wrists as he propped you up. 

Every now and again the bulbous tip of his cock rubbed over your clit and the sensation practically sent you into orbit. You were touch starved, having never experienced intimacy like this with anyone before. “Do you want me to fuck you now, huh? Want me to fuck that pretty little cunt of yours?”

You whimpered a small ‘yes’ and Din chuckled darkly, tapping his cock against your cunt before sliding into you with one swift movement.

You let out a squeal, your fingernails digging into the muscles of his back as he seated deep inside you. Underneath his helmet, his perfect lips were parted into an ‘O’ shape as your fluttering walls clenched around him and made him feel like he was home.

“Fuck— so tight, so fucking tight. Just like I’d imagined.” He murmured, feeling like he was already seeing stars. 

Din thrust upwards into you, the curve of his cock stretching you open and pulsating inside of you. His movements were rough and bruising, as his fingers dug into the soft flesh at your hips as he held onto you for support. Just like you’d requested, he was completely and utterly using you. 

“How’s that?” his gasp rolled into an achingly long groan as his balls slapped against your cunt, creating the most obscene wet sounds.

It was uncomfortable at first. He wasn’t soft or gentle by any means, but you’d anticipated that. After just a few thrusts, the intrusive pain turned into bolts of pleasure that coursed through your veins. It clouded your vision like white noise— like what the red berry wine you’d drink during Sunday mass would do to your mind. Din grabbed at the thin cloth that covered your chest, and ripped it off, exposing your bare breasts to him. A sheen of glistening sweat glazed your skin like the most beautiful honey dew. The Mandalorian was tall and broad, and as he towered over you, he coated you in his dark shadow.

His large hands palmed at your breasts and you moaned at the sudden, unexpected contact. He continued thrusting, fucking you mercilessly. With every movement, he hit that sweet spot inside of you, and you knew he’d been doing this for a long time. He was definitely experienced.

He dropped his hand for your chest and lowered it to your clit, expertly moving his two fingers across your bundle of nerves. That feeling, combined with his thick cock, was enough to send you over the edge. 

“Oh yes, yes, yes,” you chanted his name like it was a prayer— and he felt powerful.

The Mandalorian grinned wolfishly under his helmet as he increased his speed. You were seeing stars and it felt like your whole body was trapped under a spell. His spell.

“I ca- oh I can’t, I’m close, I’m close,” you cried as he continued to rock his hips into yours.

You hugged his body into yours, wishing the pleasure would never end. With every twitch of his cock he watched you intently. He watched the way your body reacted to him, revelling in the way your face screwed up in heated pleasure. Din adored the way your brow knitted together and your mouth parted as the most angelic noises omitted from your plush lips. 

“Have you ever felt so alive than you do right now, with me inside of you?” Din queried with a grunt.

“No,” you answered, shaking your head profusely. “Please don’t stop.”

Your orgasm ripped through you like a tornado and without warning, The Mandalorian split his seed deep inside of you, his salty cum roping your perfect walls as they gripped down around his cock. Now he had marked you for life.

Din returned to confession a week later when your father had returned from the Festival of Lights. There was no reason for you to see The Mandalorian anymore. 

“Forgive me, Grand Bishop, for I have sinned yet again.” Din announced, his voice clear as daylight after discarding his beskar helmet. He ran a gloved hand over his face.

“Another kill?” your father inquired, but from the other side of the wall, Din could only smirk.

“I’ve met a woman. A holy woman. And she has consumed my every thought. When I think about her I feel more inclined to sin, over and over again.” 

It was true. Your ruby red lips, high heels, thin robes… Din had become completely enraptured with you. 

Your father spent a moment contemplating the Mandalorian’s words, finding that he was speaking a lot differently than ever before. Not as ruthless or dangerous— but almost genuine.

“Would you give your body to this holy woman, if she requested you do so?” The Grand Bishop asked, not realising he was speaking about you, his own daughter.

“I already have,” Din confessed, subconsciously licking a stripe over his lower lip, at the memory of your taste. “And I would do it again.”

-—-—-—♡—-—-—-

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