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netherfeildren · 9 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else.

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored.

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story!

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism.

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are.

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on.

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man.

Mandalorian.

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk.

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room.

This is the first of many lies you will tell him.

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you.

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed.

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar.

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response.

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity.

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold.

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know.

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now.

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured.

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness.

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish.

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this.

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian.

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time.

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again.

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a.

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people.

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now.

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind.

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you.

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems.

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway.

And then he’s there.

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now.

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself.

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over.

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt.

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong.

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath.

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather.

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock.

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move.

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too.

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been.

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement.

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you.

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you.

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?”

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over.

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically.

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor.

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest.

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely.

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else.

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs.

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again.

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you.

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive.

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore.

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours.

But then: a person without a soul could not cry.

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed.

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

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johnwickb1tsch · 12 days

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bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 31 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

Maybe it’s silly, but you feel as though you have a new lease on life, in the days that follow.

John is still undeniably clingy, but so very sweet. It is a much easier form of obsession to bear.

You are still a prisoner, but at least you feel loved.

Perhaps even more precious, you begin to feel safe.

Whatever possessive madness gripped him before seems to have receded for now, and maybe you’re a fool, but you dare hope in time he might make a full recovery.

Now that you’ve reached a sort of understanding, John seems bent on making up for lost time. There is no doubt that you are still his prey, but now he ambushes you with the express intention of making you cum—whether you like it or not.

Again, you find yourself begging him for reprieve, though this time through laughter rather than tears. He swallows your protests with devouring kisses, eating your cries whole as he slides his long fingers inside you and works your clit masterfully with his thumb.

When you complain of your difficulty sitting down, a gift of a hemorrhoids donut pillow appears. You think he meant it as a joke.

John likes to give gifts, you find.

When one day you walk into your studio to find a bejeweled set of headphones bedecked like a crown, you cannot help but grin like an idiot. It is ridiculous what those fucking things cost, and you’d thought you’d been clever about concealing your enchantment with them in Italy, but nothing escapes John Wick’s sharp eye.

When he finds you later wearing your new coronet, singing out of tune while you put paint down on canvas, he presses you into the worktable with his hips and his kisses, going down on his knees before you with a murmur of, “My beautiful queen.” His words make your knees weak, as does his insatiable tongue in your slit. It’s all so much, and when you beg him to take you there on the table he is all too happy to oblige, scattering your pastels in a rainbow of projectiles with a sweep of his arm before driving himself inside you. With legs wrapped around his waist in a desperate effort to hold on, you take the fury of his adoration with a cock-drunk smile.

If you learned anything in the darker times before, it is that this man is a predator to the bone, and no matter what his mood, he loves a good chase. It becomes your favorite game, and it starts one evening when you splash him while doing the dishes. The look of surprise on his face is priceless, and with a screech you run for the stairs.

You only get so far as the living room before he catches you, his arm like a band of iron around your waist hauling you from your feet entirely. It happens too fast to register, but by some form of ninja magic you are suddenly on the floor, the lean length of his body on top of you. On the plush oriental rug with his thick cock inside you, this man makes you see God.

It feels alarmingly, magnificently, terrifyingly, like truly making love.

“Has anyone ever loved you, the way I do?” he demands desperately, filling you impossibly to the brim.

“Never,” you barely manage to answer, the force of his thrust stealing your breath away.

The next question is much more vulnerable.

“Have you ever loved anyone, the way you love me?”

“Never.”

It’s true, and in the softening of his gaze you dare to hope that someday he will believe you enough.

It is surprising, how quickly the time passes. Despite the circumstances, it is not terribly hard to live with John Wick, like this. He is sweet, and loving, and he spoils you rotten. You could almost mistake your relationship for normal—if one didn’t look too hard at the locks on all the doors.

Soon summer is fading, giving way to the golden hours of early fall. You see it out the window, but since your little car ride, you still have not been allowed outside. You’re an outdoorsy girl, and frankly, it’s starting to drive you a little crazy. You find yourself clawing at the impenetrable windows with a sigh.

John’s mood has been steady, but your heart is still in your throat when you dare ask, “John, can we go out?”

He looks up from his book, the fall of his dark hair covering half his face as he cants his head in thought. They say familiarity breeds contempt, but even after all this close proximity, you still find him beautiful. You do not think that will ever change.

“Why?” he finally asks, and you detect the shadow of suspicion in his tone.

“Because I miss it.”

You used to hike every day off you had. Being indoors this long…is doing things to your brain.

You watch as his nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling as he considers this request. You can tell he doesn’t like the thought at all, but you force yourself to stand your ground. He won’t punish you for this, surely? Just for asking?

Of course, he might punish you for what you’ll do later, if the answer is no.

In the end he nods, though more to himself than to you. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it fast? The weather will be turning soon.”

The look he pays you then is less kind, his eyes sharp as glittering obsidian. “I said. I’ll think about it.”

You sigh, assuming the answer is no, and retreat to sulk in your studio. You are painting the view from your favorite outlook on the mountain trail nearby from memory when you start to hear an odd, rhythmic toque…toque sound, over and over.

You go downstairs, searching for the source. No dice in the living room or the kitchen. You follow your ears to the bank of windows off the living room. There’s another door (locked, of course) that leads to a patio. You see John outside…chopping wood? Watching the pine rounds explode under the sharp blade of an axe in his hands shouldn’t be this fascinating, but you find yourself pressed to the window, transfixed. The definition in the muscles of his forearms as he swings down are a sight to behold.

You’re not sure he can see you, the way the glass is mirrored on the outside, but you knock on the widow anyway. He looks up at you with narrowed eyes at first. Then, a small smile. It feels like a little gift, just for you, and it quickens your heart. Watching him do everyday things moves you, and you acknowledge to yourself uneasily for the umpteenth time that you’re in so deep.

As it turns out, the wood was for a little pit fire, which you sit together and watch with a glass of wine that evening out on the patio. The tall trees loom all around you, pitch black outside the ring of your little campfire. It feels so good to be out of the house, but it’s not quite what you wanted. As though he senses that you’re not exactly satisfied with his offering, John tries to distract you with his kisses, laying you down on the outdoor couch to wreck you with his mouth. You make love with your skin bared to the great outdoors, but no one to really see you in your seclusion. Later you snuggle under a soft blanket together.

Sated, you let it go, for now.

-But John doesn’t forget, and one morning he wakes you early with kisses on your ear. “If you want to hike, we have to go now,” he tells you. You have become spoiled in your captivity, no longer at the mercy of coffee house hours, now used to sleeping through the morning after John keeps you up late with his kisses and his beautiful cock, but the offer of getting to really go outdoors has you up and at ‘em in minutes.

You find your old pair of broken-in Merrel hikers in the walk-in closet, and realize John must have accessed your possessions from your previous life at some point. It’s so strange to see them—you realize in the suspended reality of your current situation, you’ve almost written off everything that came before.

There is a distinct mental separation in your personal timeline—BW, and AW; Before Wick, and After Wick.

You have a quick breakfast and coffee before stepping outside, the sun just peeking over the horizon.

You can hardly describe the elation you feel, at last being allowed to walk out that front door like you are almost normal. You are so happy just to feel the morning air on your skin. You stand in the driveway like a simpleton, your face lifted to the sky, soaking in the sun. There is a cool breeze that smells of pine, and it is the sweetest thing you have inhaled in a long time.

John watches your reaction intensely, and you do not think you invent it, when you see a glimmer of guilt in his expressive mocha eyes. Intent on assuring him, you stand on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his bearded chin with your front flush to his.

“Thank you,” you say, and he relaxes slightly against you, resting his forehead against yours.

You are practically skipping as you hit the trail in his woods that connects to the bigger loop. You cannot help but think about that day in the snow, when you met him, alone, on that very path. How easily he could have had you then. It is another clue that tells you he hadn’t decided yet—or he had not yet cracked.

This early, in the middle of the week, it isn’t likely you’ll meet anyone in the woods. You feel a trill of nervousness, as you wonder what would happen if you did. You have been kept to yourself for so long, the thought of contact with other people out in the world feels strange, a little frightening, even.

As you walk an exuberance overtakes you, fills you head to toe. It almost feels like you’re…free. The only contradiction to that is the tall man in black walking by your side. He has let you have free reign, not insisting on holding on to you. He doesn’t have to, you know. He could just run you down with those delectably long legs of his any time he wanted, surely.

That doesn’t mean the thought of it isn’t titillating, even if you absolutely know you would be destined to lose. Perhaps he truly has broken you at last, but you have come to love the game of chase too. It is your most exciting distraction in your world that is limited to the confines of the Wick cabin.

You are going to be sore the next day, you know. It’s been…forever, since you’ve been able to walk like this. The most exercise you’ve really gotten has been engaging in your sexcapades with John—as much of a workout as that is—it’s a different group of muscles.

Perhaps he does not insist on holding you, but it doesn’t stop you from reaching for him. You squeeze John’s hand in thank you.

Despite everything…it feels like a perfect day.

“Maybe this is far enough for today,” he says as you approach the junction with the main trail, the line of his private property and the park that adjoins it.

Disappointment spears through you. You are not ready to go back into your prison. It’s turning into a beautiful day, and you have so much energy to burn.

You make a pouty face, playing cute while you are flirting with rebellion inside.

“But the overlook is so pretty this time of year,” you insist, batting your lashes. Lately, that’s been enough to get your way on little things in the house. Today you feel like you can’t lose. Everything is too good.

He narrows his eyes down at you, as though he senses your internal mutiny, but in all your elation you feel strangely impervious. You realize you feel high, the kind of mood lift usually people have to ingest pills to get.

“Y/n…” He reaches for you, and without thinking you step just out of reach. You’ve played this game a dozen times now in the house. A game you’ve never, to this day, won, but you’ve found it’s the thrill of a lifetime, to be chased down by this man, trusting he won’t really hurt you. It always leads to mind-blowing sex, and maybe you are thinking a bit too much with a lust-addled brain alongside your elation for the great outdoors.

There is a very pregnant moment between you, and you smile when his intense eyes meet yours, your lips curling in what you know is a shit-eating little grin. What happens next is pure reflex; an extension of a thing you’ve done repeatedly together, with a dash of that age-old ingrained instinct of prey in the presence of a predator. But now you’re outside, and your jubilation is magnified times a hundred.

You run.

“Y/n!”

He lunges for you, his fingertips just brushing your arm, but in the end he’s–amazingly–too slow.

You are a human missile, rocketing down the hill, fueled by gravity and the knowledge of how to move in this environment you’ve trained for since you were just a child. You may as well be a wood sprite, for this is your element. This is your mountain, and no matter how many wealthy interlopers buy it up and carve it into parcels and drive up the price of everything so that locals like you can barely live—this will always be your home.

It feels so good to run.

Your feet fly over the needle-strewn forest floor, jumping over rocks and dodging trees. You laugh like a madwoman, the sweet sweet mountain air filling your lungs. You run like a wild thing of the woods, the way you used to when you were a child, before your parents decided to break the oath they'd made to each other and split your happy world to pieces. While your parents fought you would flee to the trees to be free, and you feel that desperate euphoria again. That feeling like you can fly, jumping over rocks and launching from boulders.

You sense more than hear John behind you, your own ears filled with the rushing of your blood and your racing heartbeat. His fingertips brush your back before you juke him around a tree. You hear him curse and you laugh—you do sound mad.

“Have to do better than that, old man!” you crow.

You realize with another rush that you are far more agile than John is. The trees are your friend, the way you dart around them and power yourself down a new line of retreat. You hear him curse after grazing one, and you realize you might break the poor man’s neck, making him pursue you like this.

In a pine-needle carpeted clearing you make yourself slow down, and you are so high on adrenaline it doesn’t even hurt when he finally tackles you to the ground, your grin like a baring of teeth, giddy from the chase. He pins your hands above your head, sharp pebbles digging into your skin as you laugh.

“What the fuck—” You interrupt him mid tirade with your mouth on his, a hungry kiss that swallows his fury, but does not quench it. Already anticipating the passion of your (and his) reward with his delicious weight pressed down into you, your legs are wrapped around his waist, pulling him close.

“You think you’re cute?” he snarls above you when at last you separate.

“I am very cute,” you assert, still giggling to yourself. “Don’t be mad. You love this game.”,

“Maybe I’d love to spank that cute ass of yours raw?”

“Nuh-uh. No hitting.”

You’d made a deal, after all.

He narrows his eyes down at you, and this is when you finally start to sense that maybe he is not half as amused as you are. Your blood runs cold, and before you can blink he has you flipped over on your belly, your pants down around your thighs.

“No—”

You try to squirm away, but his inexorable hand is in your hair—it makes for a damn good handle, the bastard. His big hand digging into the globe of your ass makes you quiver under his fingers.

Your heart plummets into freefall, as you realize he’s serious. And you can tell he’s not talking about the playful little smacks he sometimes gifts you in the middle of riding his cock to completion. He means to punish you, and the knowledge takes you from the highest high to the blackest despair. You can barely hear past the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, the familiar fear and uncertainty from before creeping in. Not again. Life was so good. Please don’t go back to this shit again. You can’t go back to the way things were. You can’t live like that again.

A revelation settles over you with irrefutable clarity. You accept it as truth with every cell of your being, and you know there will be no going back after this.

“If you hit me we’re done.”

There’s no hint of playfulness in your tone either now. Just…resolve. You mean what you say, to the very marrow of your bones.

“I think I must have confused you, y/n. You are not in charge here.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll tell you this. If you hit me, I’ll fight you to my dying breath. I mean it.”

Like watching yourself from the outside, you almost find it interesting that this is the true limit of your generosity with him. This is the cliff’s edge. The point of no return. Your resolve is unmoving, even if it fills you with absolute misery. You could lose him now, today, this very minute. This man who keeps you prisoner, yet with whom you have lived happily the past months. This complicated, broken man, who you love with all your heart.

In this insane moment you realize with soul-shaking clarity…you don’t want to leave him. What would you do with your life? Go back to your stupid little existence at the coffee shop, working your fingers to the bone, doodling on the chalkboard, waiting? You’ve spent most of your life just fucking waiting. Waiting to travel. Waiting for something good to happen. Waiting…for this man to come through the door, so you could pester him for five minutes, knowing it would be the highlight of your day.

Could you possibly go back to looking up at the mountain, knowing your Beast in his castle resides there? That a man who loved you like no other is there pining for you?

But if he crosses this line—you will have to leave, somehow. Or die trying. That is your heartfelt resolution. That is the promise you make to yourself. You’ve made too many compromises as of late, and this is a battle for your very soul.

You feel him like a malevolent storm cloud behind you, trembling in his fury, but for once, torn as to what to do. You realize this is the only time you’ve seen him doubt himself, when he’s contemplating teaching you a lesson.

You dare to try to talk him down, your voice calmer, or perhaps more distant. You don’t know how you muster the courage; perhaps only in the knowledge that this could truly be it for the two of you. No more we’ll see how it goes or maybe it will be better tomorrow. There is only now.

“This thing we’ve somehow built together, despite everything…” You shake your head, trembling as much out of fear as despair. “It will be destroyed, and you’re the one who will have broken it.”

“You’re the one who ran from me!”

You can tell from the hushed fury in his voice that he is hanging on by a thread. You realize now, what a stupid thing that had been to do. That despite the games you’ve been playing in the house, out here, he just couldn’t handle it. Even just the slightest possibility of you leaving is enough to drive this man off the edge.

“I let you catch me.” You will him to believe you. You even half believe it yourself.

“The hell you did.”

“It’s true. I know these woods better than you. I’m smaller. I’m faster. I let you.”

“Bullshit.”

Before you can hardly think about what to do you lower your face to the dirt, offering your ass in the air. You know he can see your puffy slit, your glistening opening just begging for him. This is how he has warped you; or maybe you were a twisted little thing all along, just waiting for him to show you the way to your ruin. Either way—you want him, and you will him to see it for himself.

“I let you catch me,” you insist again. “So give me my reward.”

You feel the tremor run through him, from his fingertips to his core.

You realize that he wants to believe you. That maybe punishing you was never really the fun for him at all, in this deadly game you’ve been playing.

You feel him shift his position behind you, his merciless hold moving to your hip. When his long fingers slide into your wet folds you mewl like a cat; half relieved, and half just needing him. He makes you buck by circling your bud, before delving inside your weeping channel with two of his fingers. It makes you moan, and if someone walks up the trail my god will they get an eyeful, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Does that feel like someone who’s afraid of you?” you bluff. Because wanting this man has never really stopped you from fearing him. Fearing what, exactly, has shifted over time. In the end though, maybe just that he would be the absolute ruin of you.

He only grunts in answer, spreading your juices around your aching pussy. When his fingers withdraw you whine in protest, but you hear him rifle with his clothing, the zzzip of his fly jerked downwards. When his thick tip kisses your entrance you could weep, offering your ass even higher in the air.

“You are a very bad girl,” he tells you as he slides home, making you writhe with a mixture of pleasure and pain.

“I’m your bad girl,” you correct him, and he growls behind you, thrusting again. He’s not treating you with the usual care he pays this position, but you take it anyway. Gladly, if this will mend the thing between you, you’ll take it all.

“I would have found you, you know,” he pants as he thrusts, his hand weaving in your hair. “Even if you made it down the mountain…there’s nowhere in the world you can hide from me.”

You absolutely believe him.

“I know,” you tell him, your face in the dirt, yet somehow still loving the feeling of him behind you, filling you absolutely and completely. “You don’t–have to–lock me up, John,” you pant, interrupted by the violence of his thrusts. “Because I know I can’t escape you.”

This makes him growl again, that primal, possessive sound that touches the darkest recesses of your cavewoman brain. It is as though there is no part of you, inside or out, that this man cannot touch. He drapes his long body over yours, engulfing you in the shelter of his warmth. Even now, you cannot stop yourself from leaning back into him, pressing your smooth cheek to his soft beard. His tone is pure gravel, but you know him well enough now to sense the vulnerability in his words too. “But do you want to escape now?” he asks.

“No,” you tell him, and you know in your heart this isn’t manipulation, or vying for a better chance to run somewhere down the line. It’s just the truth, and you even surprise yourself as you say, “No, I don’t want to leave you.”

He goes still behind you as he evaluates this heartfelt confession, his harsh breathing and the pulsing of his cock buried inside you his only movement.

“I want to believe you.” You only enjoy a moment of relief, before he rears again behind you, driving himself into you to the hilt. “But I can’t.”

Your heart plummets as you realize he still cannot bring himself to trust your word, to have the faith to walk out into thin air, the way normal people do when they dare to fall in love. He cannot leave anything to chance with you, and now you are not sure he ever will.

He really might keep you locked up forever.

You feel the earth beneath you, hyper aware of the pine needles in your clenched hands, the wonderful smell of the dirt and ancient rocks below. The cool breeze on your bared skin, and the dappled light filtering through the pines. What if this really is the last time you are ever allowed outside?

There was always a glimmer of hope on the distant horizon for you, that little light of optimism that never quite managed to extinguish, despite everything he put you through. But now you feel it leave you, stealing the integrity from your very bones. You go limp beneath him, only his iron-grip on your hips holding your ass in the air as he uses you. When he reaches down to find your slippery bud you are no longer in the mood, and perhaps foolishly, you try to shake him off.

“Just get it over with.”

You already know it’s the absolute worst thing you can say, but now you don’t care.

“But I thought my darling wanted to enjoy the great outdoors?” He doesn’t sound half as angry as you expected him to, but there is still something sharp in his tone that puts you on edge. Like glimpsing a dorsal fin parting still waters, you know something dangerous swims underneath.

He slows his thrusts behind you, so that his magnificent length stretches you just right without hurting you. He uses his now expert knowledge against you, weaponizing the hours you’ve spent in bed together making up for lost time. You can’t stop yourself from arching into him, canting your hips to intensify the sensation, and now you bow your head so you don’t have to see his smug smile. “Goddamn you.”

He huffs with laughter, though there’s no real humor in it. “You’re too late, I’m sure.”

This time when he touches you, you are desperate for it, your aching walls squeezing him in search of release. It tears a groan from deep in his throat, a sound you know so well by now, and you realize you can use your own knowledge of this man against him too. You squeeze him again, almost in challenge, and it becomes a contest between you, who can bring the other to pieces first. You have to admit that his blunt fingers on your clit are heaven, and your heart pounds too fast in your chest, your head light as you very nearly forget to breathe in your concentration. He tries to hold himself off as you move to take him deeper. He cannot control your body as well as he would like, like this, with his fingers buried in your slit, and you almost smile at his grunt of frustration at you.

In the end you both lose.

You cum so hard on his cock you see stars, a ringing in your ears as a merciless pleasure breaks and explodes through you. He fares no better, filling you with ropes of hot seed as he moans, loud enough to echo across the mountains.

Maybe you do feel a little better, panting in the soft leaf litter with his body draped over yours again, his heavy breathing and soft lips upon your neck. As usual, you feel bereft when he withdraws, wishing you could hold him inside you longer. You didn’t bring anything to clean up with, and you anticipate a soggy walk home back up the hill.

In fact, after sprinting, then fucking like animals on the ground, you’re not even sure you can walk.

It’s John who rises first, groaning with the effort. He glares down at you, as though daring you to make another old man jab. For the moment, however, you are out of quips, out of jokes, and out of clever repartee. Even though you know it shouldn’t be so easy for him to tame you, you snuggle under his chin anyway, kissing the swell of his Adam’s apple. For a moment he sags against you, savoring this sweetness, before brusquely leading you back up the trail.

He is not cruel, or strangely, even outwardly angry now, but somehow you just know you are in so much fucking trouble.

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick fic #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

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nanamimizz · 1 year

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tags:18+minors dni, established relationship, overstimulation, creampie, fem reader, doggy style, mentions of bruising

synopsis: barou can’t help himself - spoiling you is a sense of pride

Barou just can’t help himself - the room smells of lavender and of your cunt. He can’t help himself, your back arches and you bury your head into the pillow because when everything feels too good you can’t help but cry a little. This is the second, no it’s the third time he’s made you cum only this time it’s on the shaft of his cock, and the veins along his uncut cock throb as you squeeze the life out of him. He just can’t help himself - he groans as pride makes the heat in his spine dance into a flame that fuels how he keeps moving his hips despite how tight you’ve gotten from cumming for him for the third time in a row.

“Quit runnin’ from it - tryin, tryin’ to make you feel good.” He barks, and he feels some sort of guilt from speaking to you so harshly but you keep tilting your hips away from his. He thinks he has spoiled you and gave you so much pleasure like honey you are turning the other way. Silly girl, there is no running from the lion when he has you in his jaw. Barou can't help but grip you tighter -his hands that are so big and so wide dig into the fat of your hips and he knows that in the morning you will ache. That can be saved for then, in the light of the dawn he’ll spoil you in a different way for now under the cover of night Barou finds that he will break you until you are whole again.

“Ah, ah, ah - Shoei!” Girlish little noises are all that leave you as more and more slick leaks down your thighs - it’s not him, it’s all you. You are so weak, so lax with each thrust of his after having your head being pushed face first into the sea of pleasure that Barou is determined to keep you from getting any air or reprieve from. One hand leaves your hips only to let one too big thumb rub at the flushed pearl of your clit in time with the way his cock fucks itself into you deeper and deeper. Shifting on the balls of his feet, Barou follows the flow of gravity and bends the harsh lines of his stomach over your back, hiking your hips with one hand and keeping you there. Pinned beneath the weight of the man who you love, you are helpless just like before to whatever he gives you.

And just like before you cum with a withering wail that he can tell if it’s supposed to be his name or not. How are you supposed to withstand this pleasure, that pulses like molten magma in your veins? That makes you weep and moan like a cat in heat, panting soft and useless things as you are ravaged by a man who’s ego pushes him further than you can reach? How is he supposed to last in your clutches? Barou comes for the first time that night with a bark of a shout - it’s your name followed by a curse and he rasps as you whine at the feeling of his spent filling you from the inside. You are trembling, shaking like newborn prey under him and you can only blink away the tears when you see one massive hand come over yours. He holds you like that, and you sigh when you feel a proud nose go through the tresses of your hair to kiss the back of your head.

“Don’t get lazy just yet - I still want more to devour.” You whine weakly and all you recieve is another kiss to your head.

#lamb.writes #barou smut #barou x reader #blue lock smut #bllk smut

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pythoria · 7 months

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something about bg3 i find fascinating is just How Many characters are good and compelling. Usually with most media, be it games or tv shows or movies you have one or 2 characters you get attached to, but with baldur's gate i love almost every single character in their own way.

Astarion is instantly charming and witty, he's the sassy vampire who most people find themselves drawn to, but he's not the only compelling character by far. Gale takes some time to grow on you, but after you actually see how his story unfolds and maybe even romance him, you start understanding that he's just as hurt and sad as any of the other characters, groomed from a young age and misunderstood because of it. Astarion sees himself as just a body to be used, but Gale also thinks he's worthless deep down, especially after losing the bulk of his magic. He's passively suicidal and thinks his abuser is worth sacrificing everything for, and needs the whole camp to yell at him for being stupid to realise he might deserve to live and even, get this, find happiness.

Shadowheart's story and ending isn't talked about a lot, but it is HEARTBREAKING, and both endings for her are the only ones that actually brought tears to my eyes. In a similar way to other characters, her bad ending gives away a lot about her character, almost more than her good ending, and without spoiling it, i'll just say: it's impossible to make her character evil. she will always be governed by a sense of good and justice, and the only thing that goes wrong for her is being misguided and unable to turn back. Whatever she does, she does it because she thinks it's good and just.

I can't go in depth about every character, although they are all incredible, but honourable mentions for me are literally all the villains. Gortash is instantly compelling, and how could he not be with a voice actor like That. Him and Orin are also incredibly visually interesting, as well as their personalities being so magnetic. Ketheric is deeply tragic in his own way, act 2 is practically dedicated to his shattered family and it's so fascinating to see the shards of a broken man scattered across a broken, cursed land.

Raphael has the best theme song by far, he's overflowing with charisma, he speaks in riddles and verse, he's the perfect devil. He draws you in, you almost start to like him, and then you arrive at the House of Hope and the illusion both shatters and builds even further, because his lair is by far the best map in the entire game. You find out he only ever wants to sleep with himself, but that he's terrible in bed according to his succubus. You see people's lost souls pop in and out of existence, and you can only watch them beg for reprieve, but cannot interact. You see debtors crawling around rabidly on all fours, or worshipping his toilet, or sitting in front of his budoir, endlessly bound to watch him and his succubus through the peep hole but never allowed to join. And then there's the final fight, with its incredible song that everyone should experience for the first time in game.

So many compelling characters and i could write an essay about each one. i've barely scratched the surface, and i haven't even mentioned all the origin characters. it's just insane to me how detailed every story is, how they all have their own individual arcs and motivations and they're all fully fleshed out, and feel so god damn REAL. Yeah, bg3 should get GOTY, but honestly that's not even enough. The voice actors need oscars, the composer needs a grammy, and so on and so forth. what a game.

#pythoria.txt #bg3 #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 spoilers

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novafire-is-thinking · 1 year

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A Future in the Stars

First and foremost, Orion was motivated by his internal vision of what he wanted the future to look like/how he thought it should look—both for himself and the rest of Cybertronian kind.

To me, the following passage from The Covenant gives the clearest snapshot of who Optimus was at spark and what he valued most at the beginning:

“He’d tried hard to concentrate on his duties in the archive for the entire week before the bridges were due to be opened, but he couldn’t. Every few cycles his mind would quietly detach itself from considering the records of events on Cybertron and how to index them for future reference, and would sneak off into little reveries about what might be found at the other end of the bridge. Given that the Quintessons had already proved there was other life, albeit dangerous life, he couldn’t help his imagination running riot and seeing endless vistas opening, one after another, into all kinds of strange, new worlds filled with peculiar, wonderful creatures, all waiting right now to be discovered.... And it would be this week! This week they would see, they would hear, they would know things about these other worlds and nothing would ever be the same again.

He woke up suddenly from a dream of a place made entirely of colored mineral rocks glittering like frost, in which beautiful winged things like insecticons, but much more delicate, floated and clinked, singing to one another-and found himself face-to-face with Alpha Trion, the chief archivist and councilor, and his boss.

“... I said,” Alpha Trion was apparently repeating. “I received your notice requesting the day off to see the bridge opening.”

“Yes!” Orion Pax said quickly. “I know it can be seen from here, but I wanted to be able to get closer than that. I mean, it’s a historic moment and ...”

“You may go,” Alpha Trion said, in the tones of a conditional reprieve, “if you promise to stop logging Sharkticon footage under ‘Scary Monsters’ and stop listing entries about Shockwave as Soundwave. I know they are similar, but Soundwave is a councilor, and Shockwave is, at best, a rogue with some very disreputable decisions in his past, who lives outside the law. We file for accuracy, not by ear.”

Orion Pax nodded, feeling alarmed that his daydreaming had caused such silly errors. He apologized and didn’t notice Alpha Trion’s smile.

“Do you wish you were going?”

The question caught him unawares, though he wondered if the answer showed on his face. “Yes, I would. To be the first to set foot on alien ground! It would be amazing....” He remembered the long years of struggle, surviving under the terror of the Predacons, before there was anything resembling civilization. He remembered the effort to stay useful, to stay occupied with interesting activities, as all around him fights broke out over territories, powers, and rivalries. He had kept his head down all this while, small and insignificant and attempting nothing more glamorous than merely living. It was as if all that had been leading to this time, when someone like him could dream dreams that were actually possible, when his notions of all that could be would be, and it wasn’t just to pass the time before some other bot came and spoiled things with their rage and their violence, forcing him to move on and leave whatever small organization and peace he had behind him.

“You see a future in the stars?” Alpha Trion asked him quietly.

Orion Pax thought, feeling self-conscious, because he wasn’t used to such attention. Although Alpha Trion didn’t overwhelm him, he felt a certain strange reverence for him, partly for his scholarship and his command over the Covenant, that odd book that he kept, with its peculiar properties, and partly because Alpha Trion was the oldest bot he knew, and whenever you asked him a question about something, he nearly always had the answer or a view or an angle on it that you’d never have thought of before.

“The stars look endless to me,” he said eventually. “Out there, you could just go and go, and there’d be enough space for everyone, and things to do and see that go on forever.” He risked a look at Alpha Trion’s face and was surprised to see quiet thoughtfulness there. “You must think I’m naive. Everyone says I’m a dreamer.” He waited for the other to agree.

But Alpha Trion shook his head. “Dreamers are in too-short supply on this world,” he said. “And so far there wasn’t so much to dream about, but the times are coming when we will need more visionaries, of one kind or another. Do I think it is naive to feel idealistic about the unknown? No. If we didn’t feel that way we’d be nothing more than Predacon fodder, and rightly so. Instead we’ve taken their place at the top of things, and now we’re adventuring abroad. There’ll be time enough for reality later.”

Orion was calmed by Alpha Trion’s acceptance, and elevated. For the first time, he considered himself as something potentially worthwhile, a bot who had something to offer the world instead of one who awkwardly negotiated with it. The idea scared him a little, but he held on to it, experimentally, and for the rest of that day, at least, managed to correct his mistakes and apply himself without creating many more.”

The Stars Remember

This is where it all began for Optimus. Not when he first heard Megatron’s words over Cybertron’s Communications Grid. Not when he decided to step away from his post and meet Megatron for the first time. Not even when he gave his impromptu speech before the Council.

But here, at his humble workstation in the Hall of Records.

Reading this part of CoP and then looking at Optimus in TFP…does things to me. It’s not hard to guess what happened to The Dreamer. Where young Orion Pax had seen hope of life and potential for discovery, Optimus came face-to-face with death and loss and grief. I can only guess how much Optimus had to lay to rest within himself in order to survive the pain of millions of years of war. The same heavens he had looked upon so fondly as Orion became the grave of many of those under his command. Not just literally, but figuratively as well.

But I don’t think The Dreamer ever died completely. How else would Optimus have kept going?

✧ ✧ ✧

series master post

#transformers prime #maccadam #tfp #tfp optimus prime #tfp orion pax #tfp alpha trion #tfp character analysis #tfp meta #aligned continuity #tf aligned novels #the covenant of primus #the one and only op ❤️💙#who is TFP Optimus? series #long post #nova’s nerding out again

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honeycomb-fics · 1 year

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“I’m back!” You said cheerfully as you could as you unlocked your boyfriend's apartment door. Reigen and you had agreed not to do anything special for Valentine’s Day this year and you were doing your best not to seem too put out by it.

“Wait! Don’t come in yet!” Your boyfriend frantically called from somewhere inside the apartment. He ran to the door and quickly ushered you back onto the landing.

You rolled your eyes at him playfully, “Taka, it’s freezing out here, whatever it is I’m sure we can clean it up together.”

He waved a hand through the crack in the door, “No, no I’ll be done in a sec, I promise. Be right back!!” and he slammed the door.

You huffed and leaned against the railing while you waiting for him to finish up inside. Through the door, you could hear rustling and the sound of his cabinets closing. You had assured Reigen that he didn’t have to go through the fuss of cleaning his apartment thoroughly every single time you came over, yet he usually was haphazardly cleaning as the two of you walked through the door trying to make everything perfect for you.

The door swung open dramatically revealing Reigen wearing new sweater, god he looked good in sweaters, and in his hands was a bouquet of gorgeous flowers. He was smiling brightly at you, knowing that he had caught you completely by surprise. You couldn’t help but return his smile, knowing that he had put forth a tremendous amount of effort to surprise you for Valentine’s Day. You knew that your boyfriend was a secret hopeless romantic at heart despite how much he tried to hide it. The stacks of romantic comedy DVDs in his house did little to disguise his softer side.

“For you, my love,” He extended the bouquet of yellow roses to you, which you gratefully accepted. You were overjoyed to receive a heartfelt gift and seeing his genuine happiness plastered across your face made your stomach fill with slight butterflies.

A puff of air escaped your lips in amazement as you entered his apartment and you glanced around. Reigen had decorated most of the apartment: he had hung hearts on his kitchen cabinets, draped a pink table cloth over his coffee table with candles surrounding a few dishes of home cooked food. Reigen had a habit of eating a lot of convenience food because of time but he was actually a pretty good cook, which you had complimented him on more than a few times. You felt overwhelmed at the fact that he went through all of this effort and time just for you.

“Wow, you really outdid yourself, Arataka. What happened to nothing special?” You had finally kicked off your shoes and hung up your coat, and started to walk around his apartment trying to take in every single little surprise he had laid out for you. Your eyes stopped on his bed, he had covered it with rose petals. You pursed your lips together for a moment as your shoulders started to shake with the laugh that was threatening to escape your body when you felt his arms wrap around your waist pulling you against his chest.

“Is.. is it too much?” He asked softly while nuzzling his head into your hair.

“No, Arataka. It’s perfect,” You replied honestly, “I can’t believe you did so much just for me.”

The hands on your waist spun you around to face him with a flourish, “Well! I did it because you deserve it! I don’t get to spoil you as often as I should so tonight is all about you.”

Reigen took your hand in his and led you over to the area where he had dinner laid out of the two of you. You sat patiently on the couch while he ran back into his small kitchenette to “grab something”. Thankful for the reprieve for a moment so your boyfriend didn’t hear your stomach impatiently growl as you eyed the food in front of you.

“I got us a little something as well!” Reigen reappeared with a bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes.

You visibly grimaced, “Oh that’s.. Thoughtful ‘Taka but you can’t really hold your liquor. Are you sure? I don’t want the night to be over before it starts…”

He looked at you deadpanned for a moment and rolled his eyes, “I can drink a glass or two of champagne and be perfectly fine! Don’t baby me.”

“Ok, ok!” You conceded knowing full well, he could definitely not drink two glasses of champagne. Reigen set the two flutes down on the table in front of you and you casually watched as he pulled the wire cage off of the bottle. You watched as he twisted the cork for a moment but it did not come loose immediately. Reigen grimaced, and looked at you quickly growing flustered when he noticed that you were intently observing him.

“Do you need help?” You offered, you had already known the answer to your question before you asked but out of politeness you offered.

Reigen shot you a pained look, he was the most stubborn and at times arrogant of men, continued to try to open the bottle of champagne to no avail jostling it around in the process, “Nah, I’m good. I’ve done this before.”

POP!

The cork finally came loose with a loud bang causing you to jump slightly off the couch. Reigen watched in horror as bubbly champagne burst out of the bottle onto the floor of his apartment. Laughter flooded from your mouth as you watched it all unfold.

“It’s not funny!” Reigen quipped back, finally tilting the bottle back into an upright position, “H-Hey! The movies made this look so easy!”

You had grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen already cleaning up the spill from the floor, “What happened to ‘I’ve done this before’?”

Reigen knelt down and grabbed the towels out of your hands, “Wait, I’ve got it. Today is about spoiling you, not cleaning up my messes.”

You sat back on your heels and cupped his face in your hands, bringing your lips together in a quick kiss. “Sometimes your messes can be fun. Speaking of spoiling me, how long are you going to make me wait to eat dinner? I’m starving.”

#reigen arataka x reader #reigen x reader #reigen x you #heart to heart event #gail writes #prompt used is bolded #fluff #I was kicking my feet and twirling my hair writing this #I hope y’all like it - I HC him being a secret hopeless romantic 🤧🤧#maybe emphasis on hopeless 🤭

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potionpeddlerpatchy · 6 months

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Hai Patchy!!! Happy Halloween!! Hope I'm not to late but could i get a potion with/for Bakugou if you have one for me or him!!!

I hope you have a wonderful day or night or whenever you see this!!!🧡🖤🧡

Hello Traveler, I can always say that is never too late to receive a special brew or potion from me. You are always welcome to one whenever I am offer them, granted of course you are willing to be patient enough to wait for however long it may take me to create the perfect one for you.

But, your patience will always be rewarded. As of right now I can see something troubles you. That you seem to be close to someone, or wish to be, that just cannot seem to allow themselves the privilege to be vulnerable; despite your attempts to showcase you are. I can see you wish to be closer to them, and allow them this reprieve. Which is very admirable and kind.

To allow that to happen, may I suggest you take my Brew of Blather? It would make even those with lead for a tongue turn into silver. All I ask is that you mixed it within their favourite drink, or even stew, it can be a rather bitter brew to swallow down.

You chewed upon you lip in worry as you continued to mindless stir the hearty stew that you had made; ignoring how it was slowly bubbling up until some flecks of it jumped out and burned your hands. With a quiet exclaim of pain, you pulled your hand away and brought the wounded finger to your mouth, as your free hand turned down the heat.

Normally you weren’t so dazed when completing such a task; on the contrary you loved to make meals for others to enjoy. You were also so alert to ensure that everything came together perfectly. It was just today you had more on your mind than intended. A couple of items that were troubling you that led to your unusual clumsiness.

The main one being the person you were making this dinner for.

Bakugou was a lot of things. He was smart, strong, capable, and had a good caring heart underneath all his bravado – he wouldn’t be in his line of work otherwise. He was also one that wanted to provide, to give his partner and the budding family he wanted to have all they that needed to never have to worry about money, or food, or if they had shelter.

It was that aspect about him, about wanting to get married and have a family, that always surprised all that he told. Especially yourself, not that you thought such a goal was out of realm for even people as brutish as he could be. No, what surprised you was when he told of this domestic dream of his, he wanted you to be apart of it. To be his doting wife, one that would care for his home with the same care he would provide to you to ensure you were fed and safe.

You were blindsided to say the least, as you struggled to even voice a single word about any of the thoughts you were thinking. After all, up until that point you just assumed Bakugou tolerated you. Held a baseline level of respect for you as you mended all the torn and damaged clothing that he, and the others in his troupe, made; but nothing more.

It made you laugh then, as it did now, knowing he thought he made his intentions clear months before his proposal. That the day you helped mended a few shallow wounds upon his arm, to bandage him up enough until he got the proper help he needed was your invitation of courtship. And he stilted compliments as he said thank you after that day, alongside with an intense and lingering stares was his showcase that he had accepted, and thus was doing whatever he could to ensure a proposal.

You thought his bright red face was adorable as, despite your best judgement, you accepted.

Truly you could not have asked for me. Since that day you said you would be his, you were spoiled beyond what was necessary. A beautiful home with all the things you could ever need or want within it. And a doting husband who always showcased his acts of love, not with words, but rather actions. If your eye ever lingered a little too long at something within a shop window, it would appear to you – all wrapped beautifully – upon your kitchen table the next day. Or if you mentioned something was broken, or falling apart, in an offhand manner you would find him working on it on whatever spare moment he had.

But that brought you to your next troubling thought.

Bakugou always did so much for you, and you always felt you could do more for him. To provide him the sense of safety and security he did for you. You could not fight for him, as he could so easily for you, but you knew how horrid his line of work could be. To constantly put your life on the line for another, to constantly be in danger, and to have to sometimes watch as a life slipped from your fingers after you did all you could do, weighed heavy on his soul. And you wished he could allow you to comfort him, to allow you to take on some of that burden for yourself. He never did. Always just walked straight to bed on those days without word; simply just a kiss on your forehead and a small sad smile.

Your heart ached for him. Even as you tired to coax him with gently words to talk about it, to gingerly press your body against his to try and hold him, it just wouldn’t work. Only rarely would he hold you on those days, so tight you felt you couldn’t breath, as he tried to ground himself back – to remind himself of what he still had. It led you down a path only those that are desperate venture into.

You went and visited a peddler. One that made claims could create beautiful potions for any, and all, needs a person might have. You were skeptical when you first walked into her cluttered shop, finding your body tense as your moved about in worry to not brush against anything, your unease began to shrink more and more and you watched her interact with those that seemed to be repeat patrons. To hear them exclaim with joy over what small miracle she provided, to then ask for another was more than enough proof for you to then swallow the anxious lump in your throat and approach her.

“Oh, my poor dear.” She cooed, before you could even utter a word, as her eyes shined with sympathy while she guided you to sit upon a plush chair nearby “Your heart aches so painfully, doesn’t it?”

You allowed yourself to sink into the soft cushion, to enjoy its softness, before you adjusted yourself to sit more upright as you watched her settle down across from you. You tried to think of a response, stopping and starting a few times, before you outright sighed and nodded your head.

“How did you know?” Your quiet voice sang, as your body, tired from pretending, slouched.

“I have been blessed with many talents and gifts, some more manageable than others. One such gift is knowing just what a person desires, what their heart needs.” She began to explain, as she reached her hand out to hold yours, giving it a small squeeze before she continued “I could tell the moment you stepped into my shop, the moment you called out for my aide, that your heart was on the verge of breaking. Not out of rejection, but rather over on behalf of someone else.”

“Can you help me then?” You could feel the corners of your eyes prick with the sting tears, ones that threated to fall out, as you squeezed her hand back.

“Of course I can.”

It was her outright admission that she could that made you trust her. She provided to you a Brew of Blather, an odd-looking liquid that reminded you of the colour of moss. She had instructed you to use it either in some tea, or whatever food you would prepare him that night for dinner.

And here was where you now stood, as you finished kissing the small wound upon your finger where the stew had burned it, as you tried to decide whether or not you should go through with it all. You knew it may help, but at the same time you did not want to trick him into anything. After all, you wanted him to trust you to become vulnerable with you – to do this would set things off to a rocky start at best.

But, as you continued to mull over your dilemma, you had noticed the kitchen door open. Nor did you noticed your hulk of a husband as he shuffled in. It was only after he had wrapped his arms around your waist to cling to you, did you squeak out a gasp if surprise and be brought back to the world around you.

“Thought you heard me…” He mumbled into your hair before he placed a kiss on your crown, you could feel the small smile upon his lips as they lingered there.

“It’s okay,” You breathed out, as you relaxed your tense body to better mold into his “all on me, was lost in thought.”

“What were you thinking about?” His asked, his arms tightened their grip around you as he pulled you more flush against him.

“Nothing really…”

“Oh, is that so?” He questioned as he placed a final kiss to your temple before he tucked his head to rest upon your shoulder. “You normally aren’t so skittish.”

You tired in vain to act unbothered, to seem as you normally were when he got home; but you knew you were doing a horrible job at trying to hide from him your little secret. Especially when his hand wrapped around your wrist to pull it closer – to inspect the small vial of moss-like liquid inside.

“Then what is this?” He asked, though you could not see it, you knew his brow was cocked with curiosity as you closed your eyes tightly, to try and remove yourself from this plane of reality.

“It’s a potion…” You finally whispered out after his question hung like a cloud above you for moments too long.

“A what?”

“A potion.” You replied back, this time with more assertion to ensue he heard you properly “And before you think it, no I am not trying to poison you.”

“Then what is it for, I wonder?” You could hear this slight disbelief in his voice, but his hold upon you remained as gentle as ever – that though his inner thoughts may be screaming danger he knew you wouldn’t harm him.

“I just wanted you to open up” You sighed, as your body slumped down in defeat once more as tears of frustration filled your vision “Just wanted you to confide in me, as a husband should his wife, to allow me to carry some of your burden on the days where it gets to be so heavy.”

You could tell his was silent not out of anger, but merely doing his best to try and form a proper response to your admission; though you knew he was failing as the moment stretched further and further with not another mutter from him. It was not his strong suit, and you knew that.

“I was desperate,” You spoke again, helping him to fill the heavy silence “everything I had tried did not work. So I went and got that, and I thought of using it. But knew I couldn’t.”

“Why?” He finally muttered, his voice soft as he finally let go of your wrist, watching you as you began to twirl the intricate vile between your fingertips.

“Because I knew a dishonest start would not lead to a solid foundation of trust. And above all else, I want you to trust me no matter what.” You ran your thumb over the ridges of the small glass bottle before placing it down upon your counter “To come to me to tell me anything, even if its just to tell me about your day, because you want to, not because you are forced.”

You could hear him swallow the lump within his throat, as his grip on you grew a tighter to the point where you could no longer move. He began to speak but couldn’t find the words. His voice was raw, a sign that he was either going to cry or already was. Clearly he was moved, by what you were not sure. Not sure if it was your utter devotion to not deceive him, or your desperate plea to connect. Whatever it was, you knew you had broken ground, and you would take the victory that small step was showcasing to be.

“It’s alright,” You began to soothe, placing your hands over his own and giving them a gentle squeeze “you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

You felt him nod his head as he acknowledged your words before that nod turned into a shake; his stuttered breath your cheek as he once again attempted to speak “Would…. Would you like to hear about my day then?”

“I would love to”

I always do love when things naturally fall into line without the need of my special brews. It just proves that with patience, the fates above will help guide you to your own solution. Though, I was more than willing to help speed up that unhurried pace.

I will not ask for you to give it back, though you can if you no longer wish to have it in your possession. I have plenty more you can choose to trade it, should you feel adventurous enough to try~

#i hope that this potion was worth the wait my dear #I apologize for being as slow as the bonds of fate when it came to writing this #I can only pray you enjoy it as much as I when creating it #🔮.the peddler's peculiar potion sale #bakugou katsuki #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #bakugou x reader

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tiredpandaportfolio · 7 months

Note

DMC Questions Anon here!

Take every character you wish to and tell me what you think is the most emotionally devastating situation they could be put in and how they would react to it.

[crawls out of the ground] I have been busy.

===

Well, easy. I am in the process of writing something, about that. Dante gets to feel the sting of the consequences of his feud with Vergil.

The whole DMC5 thing killed a lot of people. There is nowhere to hide from that fact. Dante and Vergil and even Nero cannot hide from that fact forever. Vergil may not care, and Nero may try to cope, but I believe Dante will start to buckle. He has been weathering so much all these years and using shitty humour to cope with what he's seen and what he's done.

But what happens when he can't take anymore?

What if, he had some connection completely separate from his family nonsense, that he wanted to keep separate from the problems so they wouldn't taint it? A witch he's gotten very fond of. A witch, who lives in a quiet, near-constant state of being a cornered animal because demons want to literally eat her and unscrupulous humans wouldn't bat an eye at murder and dark rituals just to gain power off her life.

She gets to see exactly what the trees do, she gets to find out that the trees are particularly after witches because their blood runs thick with power. She sees a lot of people die horribly. She nearly dies. She hasn't seen Dante in months by the time they finally see each other again and she's a very different creature now. She's terrified of him. She has no patience for his jokes and his light-hearted attitude. She doesn't use jokes to cope and her trauma is too fresh and too deep.

She's angry. She blames him--she blames all of them. She doesn't want to fight, she doesn't want revenge, she just wants to never see them again because she's terrified one day Dante, or Nero or Vergil, will snap and give in to the demonic urge to acquire more power, and she will be a prime target.

Because they've had a taste of the power the trees distilled from blood and she's scared it's like an addiction they can't help. She does not want to be a rabbit in a den of wolves. So she angrily curses them and flees. Whatever she and Dante had is over.

And he blames himself, because that's what Dante does. He bottles it all up, blaming himself and trying to forget it, but he can't. It's not fair. He got his brother back, he has a family again... but it's not complete. He feels as though the cost of achieving all that was losing her. It's not fair. He's been living with guilt and grief for years.

His time with her was a reprieve; a welcome break from his life of quiet suffering, hidden under his humour and weary pretending that all is well. She really made him feel happy. And now, she's gone. He scared her away. Her words have hurt. Her presence has hurt, because he spoiled her. She went from friend, ally and love to a victim of his idiotic feud with Vergil. But he can't blame Vergil-- he had as much of a hand in this as Vergil. And he can't bear to start another round of fighting over that.

So he bottles it up until it starts to crack him. He can't fight against the dread any longer. Any joy he got from Vergil being back has been marred. He can't ignore the blame anymore. He blames himself for everything and it will destroy him.

#panda writes #devil may cry #ask panda

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horrorscoupes · 2 years

Text

posting this as a tiny reprieve from echotober... gavin deserves this

cw for dentists: very sweet and domestic

One thing Gavin was sure he’d never grow accustomed to was innocent affection first thing in the morning. Hands pawing at him for more in the early hours of the day, he was very well versed in. Freelancer spooning up behind him with their nose against his shoulder and hands safely above the sheets? He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond.

“I got you good, huh?” They yawned against his skin, like they were making small talk, and traced long lines their nails had left down his back. “Want me to heal them for you?”

“And take away my spoils of war?” He rolled over, and they accommodated the change in position without complaint. Pulling them into his arms felt natural in a way that made Gavin’s skin itch pleasantly. They giggled when he nuzzled into their neck, prepared to add to the masterpiece of love bites already littered across it. “Does my deviant want an encore of our rapturous performance from last night? Unless I tired you out too much…”

“Mmmm, not right now.” They stretched within his embrace with a long, drawn out groan, “Sore.” Before dread could wash over him they twisted their fingers into his hair. “Good sore. I clawed up your back for a reason.”

He didn’t have a snarky response for that, and instead settled for grumbling into their neck while he kissed it. Their skin tasted faintly of salt and smelled like the lotion they liked to use after they showered; it was a welcome flurry of sensations, one that felt comfortable and safe. They pet him like a cat while he continued to mar what little clear skin they had, mumbling responses to his barely coherent monologue and slowly guiding his head up, up, up until they could see his lidded, sleepy eyes.

“I have an hour before I have to get up for class, if you want something.” They wagged their brows at him, but made no other move to initiate. “Or we can just lay here. I’m happy either way, we can do whatever you want.”

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted freelancer #redacted gavin #my writing

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stargirlfics · 2 years

Note

Hi Amalia - thinking about you and hoping that you’re having a great week! 💖✨ And I have been wanting to send you an Alfred thought, and I think I finally have one. Vacations - what do you think they are like? A quick weekend get-away? Or something longer? Do you go somewhere new, or do you visit an old favorite of his, to make fresh memories? Would love to know what you think!

Hi Jess! You’re so sweet, it’s been a busy but good week for me, I hope you’ve had a great one yourself! 💌

I’m so glad you sent me this bc thinking about Alfred and vacationing is so sweet! Especially because he doesn’t often allow himself a break like that, so busy with things at work and with Bruce so it’s really such a treat for him in general let alone to take you with him, it makes it special

It’s definitely a weekend getaway the first one or two times and it’s somewhere that’s and old favorite of Alfred’s which makes it much more than just time spent away, it’s him showing you a part of himself. I really love the idea of him wanting to make fresh memories in a familiar place yes! Like he wants his place to also become your place, he wants to bring you into this fold of his life and it’s just the kind of romantic thing I think he’d do

He leads you with ease, showing you his favorite spots, letting you in on his connection with the place, indulging your questions. It would be such a cozy trip, I’m so soft thinking about it! You come back with lots of trinkets and pictures to have as keepsakes (though it always takes a little coaxing to get Alfred to be in a picture, not always his comfort zone, preferring to capture ones of you instead but seeing how happy it would make you has him giving in every time)

Then later on when he finds the time to plan something longer and this time somewhere new to you both, maybe somewhere with less rain, more sun, maybe a beach or two, it would be a vacation he let’s you lead on, fully intending to spoil you, letting you have whatever you’d like, wanting you to feel special, adored! You’re surprised with fancy taste this time around with Alfred encouraging you to ask for anything you wanted, that you’d get to whatever you wanted on this trip. He would just be watching your excitement and wonder the entire time and that’s the best part for him, I’m crying!

Just think about all the conversations and evenings spent laughing and kissing and just being in his arms, happy to have this little reprieve of time to escape daily life, all the ways he’d fuck you, indulging in your desires because there’s time to slow down now, to explore, and that’s what the getaway was supposed to be about for you two, it’s just perfect!

I’m so in love with this daydream omg, thank you as always for talking about our fave dilfy butler with me, it’s so fun! Love you!!

#jess ⚡️#alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x you #alfred pennyworth imagine #alfred pennyworth headcanons

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kittymaine · 2 months

Text

Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites

I finished Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites by Joy Demorra last night. I devoured this book. I now feel silly for putting off reading it for so long now, because it is so up my alley that it's stupid.

True Love Bites is the first book in the Hunger Pangs series. It is set in a magical twist on Victorian England. It follows three protagonists: a disabled werewolf captain, a roguish vampire viscount with a bad reputation and a mysterious woman with powerful magic. This book focuses mainly on the relationship between the first two, the werewolf Captain Nathan Northland and the vampire Viscount Vlad Blutstein. Nathan returns from war badly injured and barely recovered, but life in his ancestral home isn't the reprieve he was hoping for. No one seems able to cope with his lingering injuries, including himself. When a family friend suggests applying for the open position of Captain of the Guard on the island of Eyrie, Nathan is eager for any chance to get away from his family and re-enter the wider world. The only problem is that the island of Eyrie is full of vampires.

So, what initially intrigued me about this book was hearing someone describe it as a sort of deconstruction of romance tropes that grew legs and kept going. And, after reading it, I can confirm that it is indeed that! And also that all the subversions are super satisfying! There were so many beats where I could feel my brain saying, "Ah, yes. The classic (whatever). Now, this character will do this and- Oh. Oho! Nevermind! What the fuck! Go off! Yes!" I don't want to list off the examples, because they felt like really satisfying twists to me and I hope they feel the same to others. So I don't want to spoil them ahead of time.

I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in romance, but a little tired of all the normal formulas. It was really sweet and heartwarming, and I'm honestly champing at the bit to read the next one.

Content warnings are available on the author's website (also linked in the title at the top of this post) if anyone needs it.

#hunger pangs #true love bites #joy demorra #booklr #ebook #booktalk #series starter #romantasy #why choose #lgbtqia #polyamory #gay romance #bisexual romance #read an ebook week

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mycosmoshine · 2 years

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How to Sleep After Hair Transplant Procedure?

Hair transplant in Andheri West is one of the most well known helpful system among individuals. Beside the routinely done scalp hair migrate, beard growth, mustache, eyebrows, and sideburns are in like manner speedy becoming popular. Due to many significant level systems like Sapphire transplantation, the veritable technique is unimportantly nosy, yet it has explicit ideas for after-care. Out of all of them, the principal one is your snoozing/resting position. Since it is an operation, there will be delicate disquiet for a week or so after the technique, but this period is critical for the perseverance of the as of late moved hair follicles.

What are the right deals with as for napping/taking rest after a Hair Transplant procedure?

You could want what reason Hair Transplant in Andheri would it be fitting for me I be so stressed over the snoozing position. The reaction to that, while napping, there is a biggest chance hurting your new joins. Any strain on the as of late moved areas can hurt both the skin around the cautious site and the migrated hair. Coming up next is a summary of the huge number of nuances that you should bear in mind while napping or dozing:-

• The recipient area ought to be away from the pad, and no quick contact between your migrated hair and the pillowcase.

• Lay on your back and not on your stomach. The back should be in an upstanding position.

• The head and back should be raised at a 45-degree point.

• Do whatever it takes not to lay on your stomach since it will hurt your migrated hair and addition extending.

• Another decision to endeavor is staying aware of the head level above heart level while resting. Here, the blood reflux to the scalp district is reduced, which it can cause broadening or enlarging.

• Set down with pads under your knees to reduce the strain on the cautious locales.

• Critical stretches of rest can construct the load on your scalp and extends recovering. Setting down for brief reprieves during the day is great.

All of the above proposition are not intended to make you restless. Put yourself up to rests gently without making tension on your scalp. Hair Transplant Clinic in Andheri provides the best service to all the customers where all the customers are happy with the service.

About cushions for post hair migrate care

As right now referred to, hair transplant centres in Andheri west endeavor to set down for brief reprieves during the day. In any case, if you truly need to rests for longer around night time, use a remarkably arranged pad for those going through hair revamping. These extraordinary cushions contain a gel-like material that assists cushion the head and simplicity with stressing on the neck muscles. Use more than 1 cushion to show up at a 45-degree point.

If you can't get the exceptional cushion, use a sensitive pad, like a versatile cushioning that reduces pressure centers in the head locale and keeps off sweating. Sweating causes shivering and besides hurts the hair joins.

Put a cushion or another pad under your cushion to keep your head precisely raised and do whatever it takes not to hurt the as of late moved hair follicles.

A neck or a development pad maintains your head, and it will similarly protect the hair joins in case you pivot evening time during your rest.

Stay aware of Cleanliness of the sleepwear

One should be careful so as not to spoil the cautious site. So take uncommon thought in staying aware of the neatness of your bed, pillowcases, and sheets. While washing them, make an effort not to any ideal experts which could cause bothering or easily affected reaction on the scalp since one shouldn't scratch their scalp during recovery. Scratching hurts both the assembled and provider areas. At the point when you start scratching, it just proceeds to increase since shivering additions.

When could I anytime rest customarily after a hair migrate framework?

Inside one to around fourteen days, you can start napping conventionally. Inside these 7-14 days, the moved hair joins are secured and enrooted in the recipient district. All of the thoughts will save you from trouble, torture, shivering, sweating and sickness. Follow any excess thoughts regarding hair wash, shampoos, hair styling, hair coinciding, wearing covers or scarfs over the scalp, medications, and brushing as suggested. You can return to the same old thing quickly.

Clearly that eating a sound eating routine copious in protein and supplements for something like multi week after the movement will speed up the recovery cycle. We at cosmoshine are with you all through the Hair Transplantation process. We will guide you at each step till you see expected results and have a smile everywhere. In our clinic, where the client will enjoy the procedure, we also offer the best services for cosmetologists in Andheri West

#hair transplant centres in andheri west #hair transplant clinic in andheri #hair transplant in andheri #Hair transplant in Andheri West #Cosmetologist in Andheri West

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prettyboykatsuki · 3 years

Text

»» — { ♡ } —— { ♡ } —— { ♡ } — ««

into it | k. bakugou

➳ tags ;; smut, praise kink (so much praise kink),d/s undertones, dumbification fem!reader, unprotected, mild dacryphilia (what else do we expect lol), pro-hero!katsuki

➳ wc ;; 1.5k

➳ a/n ;; my period came n it’s My Day so im posting this. sorry if i’m a little rusty! i haven’t written any nsfw since like? march.

»» — { ♡ } —— { ♡ } —— { ♡ } — ««

He know he’s spoiled you rotten.

He knows this fact better than anyone else in the entire world. It didn’t matter how obvious it was to others, he knew it and he knew it well. The way Bakugou Katsuki finds himself stuck by your side leaves him with more questions and answers. He’s developed quite the habit of listening to your every word, clinging off your little attention and praise like it was more important than anything else.

In a way, it was. That feeling he gets in his stomach, the pride in his chest when you bat long lashes at him and say “katsuki” the way only you ever could. You’ve got a grip on his being like nothing else. The world could be falling apart but he knows in his head he would be worrying about his baby.

He knows he’s in love and he’s strong enough to admit it. But there’s a difference between being in loved and being whipped beyond belief or comparison. He’s indefinitely the latter.

He’s whipped out of his fucking mind. It’s ridiculous and gets more ridiculous as the days pass. The way he pours so much energy into leaving you spoiled and sated. He was always the asshole, the tough guy - but these days he questions himself for just how soft he’s gone.

For you and only you. If anyone else had half the attitude you had with him, he’d probably rock their shit. With you, he merely sighs - grabs your face with strong hands and goes “why you bein so bratty huh?” until you’re confessing all your sins to him. It’s a religion of sorts, practice of worship. If you’re an altar, Katsuki feels like follower. Disobedience to your desires has always felt like sacrilege.

Bakugou knows he spoils you too much. You’re not much for material but when it comes to time and attention, he’s always making room for you. Sits you in his lap while he works as long as you behave (lets you stay even if you don’t). Comes home to you. Doesn’t go out unless he’s sure you won’t be lonely.

You didn’t particularly ask for any of it. You’re eager to let him be, but him? He seethes at the idea you’re getting your daily dose of love from anyone else. Turn his blood hot under his skin, makes his mind feel like it can’t sit still.

So you’re spoiled rotten whether you like it or not. Bakugou would be damned if anyone came near you with the intentions of what he always intends too.

You’re spoiled, to put it plainly. But Bakugou can’t say he hates it, no matter how much he tries

{ ♡ } —— { ♡ } —— { ♡ }

“Such a spoiled fuckin’ brat, huh?,”

You shake your head, but your voice trembles in your throat when you try to reply. With the way Bakugos got your legs pinned, a hand resting on your navel with two fingers in your cunt, it’s hard to think at all. You squirm out of his reach, away from him. Everything in your body feels like it’s trembling and the pressure in your body has you dizzy and aching.

Your clit is swollen from what feels like hours of stimulation. His mouth latches onto the swollen nerves, and goes and goes - matches the pace of his fingers fucking in and out of you. Every movement makes you twitch - an aching fever in your core. It’s almost painful - completely overwhelming. Bakugous determination leaves little room for error.

“Ngh, I don’t ― aah, don’t mean to be”

He chuckles a little at that. You can feel it reverberate against your body. When your eyes flutter open to see him between your legs, you’re sure you’re gonna cum again right away. Bakugou fucks you open with two fingers then three - stretches you out till your nice and soft. It makes you feel gooey, cum and saliva pooling onto once stain-less sheets.

“Katsuki, ‘s enough, please - enough,”

“Not enough baby,” he bites your thigh with sharp canines, red eyes boring into yours “Gotta be a good girl ‘n give one more. Spoiled fuckin’ brats gonna take all of it, aint she?”

You let out something half-way between a whine and a whimper. The muscles in your thighs ache from holding still so long - from shaking. Your eyes roll up till there’s only white. Fuck you’re cumming again. How many times is it now? You can’t remember.

It aches. Your cunt like a play-thing against the wet muscle, thick fingers that stretch you much wider than you thought possible before. He gives and gives and gives - and you take like the spoiled and greedy brat you are. When he ruins your pretty pussy into stuttered, breathless and raggedy orgasm - you take it all so greedily.

“So fuckin’ pretty when you cream on my fingers, princess,” and he grunts, uses his free hand to jerk his cock. It’s stiff enough to hurt, the ache in his balls unbearable. But he’s gotta get you nice and sloppy - he likes to give it to you all in one go after all.

Your brain feels like it’s melting, mouth dropped own and drooling. Katsuki is always so mean but not with you. With you, he’s whispering sweet nothings into your sweaty skin and biting claim into the flesh. You let him melt you into whatever shape he likes with the promise he’ll hold you through it.

“Gone and fucked you real stupid, huh?”

There’s an unmistakable affection in his words that makes you screw your eyes tight enough it hurts. Tears prick your lashes as another orgasm rips through - shreds you to pieces.

“Katsuki”

You hold your arms out for him, needing to cling - and he lets you like he always does. You kiss him desperately, tongue searching for desperate reprieve as he drags sticky fingers up to your mouth. You can feel his cock slide between your folds, heady heavy and throbbing against your clit.

It’s so, so hot. It’s molten, your brain and stomach turned to complete fucking mush. You whine again - loud into his mouth.

“Clean ‘em good or you’re not getting my cock”

You nod dumbly. His fingers slide down your throat, touch your tongue and stretches your mouth out.

“Haah,” he chuckles against your throat “So fuckin’ messy, huh? Your mouth and your pretty little pussy are so fuckin’ soaked for me, aint they?”

“Yeah, yeah - ‘s f’r you”

“All for me?”

You nod with his fingers in your mouth, smiling like you’ve won the fucking lottery as you look him in the eyes. So obedient and pretty and good. His dick aches.

“Mhm”

He has you pinned so easily underneath, grunting as your knees are brought to your ears. You yelp as he bends over you, sliding his cock against your clit - fucking right between as he looks at your desperate face. Your eyes gone hazy as you watch his cock almost catch on your hole but never quite hitting.

“’tsuki, hngh - please”

You’re distraught. So fucking spoiled - you’re in delirium begging for his dick. You need him so bad you don’t know anything other than digging your nails into his biceps and begging over and over and over.

“Fuck ― fuckin’ take this dick baby, shit”

Your brain turns to static when you feel him fill you up in one fluid motion. Katsuki is thicker than he’s big, stretches you so good you scream silently. Strong hips that make you ricochet right into the bed with each thrust, you can feel yourself cream over him. It’s humiliating.

He rolls your clit between his thumb and forefinger as he pistons you. Your body jerks so violently you almost lose hold - but Bakugou placates you with a tongue in your mouth. Kisses you messy with teeth and tongue - so salacious it has your cunt fluttering. His muscular body pins you to the bed, leaves you helpless and open wide for him to take.

Bakugou’s spoiled you so he knows how you need, knows how to make you cum even when you’re so fucked out you can’t feel the air in your lungs.

He french kisses you because he knows that’s how you like it - his spoiled, obsessive angel that can’t quite get enough of him. He knows just how your mouth likes to be occupied, knows just what nerves to hit.

“C-Cumming!”

Bakugou drops his forehead on your shoulder, mouth enveloping yours. He doesn’t say anything but his fingers grip into the fat of your thigh. You can feel him in your stomach, in your cevix

Bakugou cums in you hot and heavy and thick. He groans into your mouth - jaw tense and brows taught when he fucks his load into until it’s all mixed together.

His eyes open to check on you, his baby. Your eyes are red and puffy with tears - but you’re smiling lazily. Scheming. He squints

“What the fuck is it, brat?”

“.. You’re only gonna give me one?”

Goddamn it.

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#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bakugo imagine #bakugou imagines #bakugou imagine #bnha x you #bnha x y/n #bnha imagines #spice cake

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imagine-you · 3 years

Text

an ache I still remember (sirius black/reader; gen)

word count: 1.8k

author's note: basically, I have this whole fic I've planned in my head where reader is james potter's younger sister (by a year), was in slytherin, and eventually fell in love with sirius black. she also gains custody of Harry, so he never lives with the Dursleys. last night, while listening to the audio book for PoA, this drabble idea got stuck in my head and wouldn't let go. so, here's this...and hopefully I eventually write the full story.

read on ao3

To say that you had a lot to worry about lately would be an understatement. You had hoped that after Harry’s adventure-filled first and second years at Hogwarts, that he would get some kind of reprieve in his third year. Nothing ever came easy for you and your family, though.

Harry’s third year started off with a dementor attack on the train, segued into a mad, escaped convict out for his blood trolling around the area, and subsequently led up to your nephew wary of the dementors stationed around the castle looking for said escapee.

Not to mention, the mad, escaped convict was your ex-fiancé.

You were grateful that Remus had been added to the Hogwarts staff that year. He was by far a vast improvement compared to Lockhart and was also one of your closest friends. You didn’t know if you could have survived a school year with solely Severus for company while you had to listen to him make snide remarks about Sirius, even if Severus was aware of how much they hurt you.

Harry had balked at the idea of Severus once being a close friend of yours, and while you still had your friendship, albeit a rocky, shaky one, you knew that Severus’ hate for Sirius far outweighed any love he may have held for you. You knew he had never quite forgiven you for being James Potter’s sister and falling in love with Sirius, and while you had always stressed you couldn’t pick your lineage or choose who you fell in love with, Severus was nothing if not stubborn. The man could truly hold a grudge like no other.

In the days leading up to Halloween, as the Sirius Black sightings seemed to grow progressively closer to the castle, the nightly rounds made by staff were increased. You usually didn’t mind your nightly patrol duties, but there was a tense atmosphere around the castle. It felt like everyone in the building was collectively holding their breath, waiting for a pin to drop and shatter the fragile silence.

You were supposed to patrol with Severus, but he had been steadily dropping hints that he suspected Remus of being in league with Sirius. You didn’t have the patience or the heart to inform Severus that Remus wasn’t entirely convinced of Sirius’ innocence, even if you never thought for a second that the man you had fallen for years ago was capable of murdering a street filled with innocent people, let alone one of his best friends.

No, Sirius Black was not a covert Death Eater. He didn’t give a damn about Voldemort and he wasn’t just like the rest of his family. You knew, without a doubt, that Sirius was innocent. You had been petitioning the Ministry for years about giving him a fair trial, but no one wanted to help you. No one wanted to believe you. Severus thought you were delusional and Remus seemed to fear that the worst was actually true. It hurt, but you never stopped trying to help Sirius.

With Sirius free of Azkaban, you half-hoped he would run and never look back. But according to the Daily Prophet, Sirius was heading right for Hogwarts. Was he trying to find Remus? You? Or was he simply curious about the godson he had missed spoiling for the past twelve years?

You didn’t want Sirius anywhere near Hogwarts. The Dementors would descend, and you knew that whatever was left of his mind would truly flee along with his soul the second they came near him. You didn’t know how much of the man you had once loved had been burned away by Azkaban, but you hoped he was still in there somewhere.

You were thinking about Halloween the next night as you made your rounds. After James and Lily were killed, it quickly became your least-favorite holiday. You always mourned your brother and sister-in-law, but this year, your thoughts were preoccupied with Sirius, Remus, and keeping Severus from outing Remus as a werewolf to the whole damn school out of spite.

You were rounding a corner when you caught sight of a man hurriedly scrambling into a deserted classroom.

You frowned, aware that you should have been the only one in this wing of the castle. Severus had opted to take a different hallway when you admitted you wanted a moment alone with your thoughts. There was something oddly familiar about the man, but you couldn’t quite place him.

You moved towards the classroom, your wand out, before you pulled the door open. You stepped inside, the room dark and offering no sight of the man you saw.

You turned to leave, willing to brush it off as a trick your eyes had played on you, when you came face-to-face with the wrong end of a wand.

You glanced up at the person wielding it, surprise overtaking you at the sight of the man in front of you. “Peter?”

You had so many questions, but before another word could leave your mouth, there was a bright flash of light and then darkness.

You drifted in and out of awareness for a while. You heard someone calling your name, but couldn’t recognize the voice. There were flashes of lights, the smell of the hospital wing, and something brushing against your hand.

Everything was a blur and nothing made any sense. You cracked open your eyes at one point and could have sworn that Sirius in his animagus form was sitting at your bedside. He whined when he noticed he had your attention and you held out a hand, yearning for someone you feared would always be out of your reach. You didn’t care if this was just another dream about Sirius. You would always welcome his presence.

“I miss you,” you managed to mumble as darkness crept back in at the sides of your vision. You felt Sirius’ nose brush your fingers just as you succumbed to sleep yet again.

The next time you opened your eyes, Severus was sitting at your bedside. You jolted into awareness, automatically moving to sit up.

“What happened?” You glanced quickly to Severus before you looked past him, searching for someone you knew wouldn’t be there.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Severus said. “You were found in a classroom, completely unconscious, and bleeding from a head wound.” Severus scowled for a moment before his expression smoothed into curiosity. “Y/N, who attacked you? Was it Black?”

“Sirius?” You thought you remembered Sirius in his animagus form visiting you, but you disregarded it as just a dream. It felt so real, but you hoped that even Sirius wouldn’t be so reckless as to roam the castle while everyone was actively searching for him.

“He was spotted in the castle last night,” Severus informed you, squashing any hope you had that Sirius wouldn’t be completely reckless with his ill-gained freedom. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days. Y/N,” he urged, learning forward in his chair. “What happened?”

“I was patrolling,” you answered, your brows furrowed as you struggled to remember. There was a huge hole in your memory, though. It was a blank canvas that had been nearly completely erased. “And then…” you trailed off, struggling to remember what occurred to land you in a hospital wing bed.

“And then?” Severus prompted, quirking an eyebrow at you in question.

“I don’t remember,” you admitted with a frown. “It’s just not there.”

Severus squinted his eyes at you, as if he suspected you might be lying to him. Finally, he sighed before shaking his head. “Your former paramour must have obliviated you,” he concluded. “It wouldn’t be out-of-character for him.”

“It wasn’t him,” you insisted.

Severus offered you a pitying look. “How would you even know? You can’t remember.”

“Sirius wouldn’t. He didn’t,” you stressed.

“He did,” Severus argued. “Black broke into the castle, you came across him, and he wiped your memory because he didn’t want to be discovered. He’s a murderer, Y/N. It’s about time you accept that.”

You glared at Severus, gearing up to tell him to leave you alone, when you were interrupted by Remus approaching your bed, Harry trailing in his wake.

“I managed to get him to attend his classes today, but he was worried about his aunt,” Remus told you, offering you a tired smile.

“I’m fine,” you assured Harry, not wanting him to worry. Harry had already lost his parents, so the last thing he needed to worry about was losing you too. “I’m fine,” you repeated with a little more conviction.

Harry offered you a look that told you he didn’t believe you. “They couldn’t wake you up,” he pointed out. “What happened?”

“Something we’re all eager to know, Mr. Potter,” Severus cut in. He stood from his chair, offering Remus a quick sneer, before he considered you. “We both know I’m right,” he offered, before he turned and brushed past Harry and Remus, not bothering to spare them another look.

“What was that about?” Remus asked, moving to take Severus’ vacated chair.

“Just more of his theatrics,” you dismissed. “He has his own theories about what happened since I have no recollection,” you added, sharing a look with Remus.

It didn’t take long for Remus to understand what you weren’t saying.

“Ah,” Remus mused. “Well, yes, it would be easy to assume that, wouldn’t it? But sometimes, the easiest assumption is the wrong one.”

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, a confused frown on his face.

“Nothing,” you immediately denied. “Now,” you started, fixing Harry with a serious look. “Shouldn’t you be doing your class assignments?”

Harry rolled his eyes before he sighed. “I can’t be worried about my aunt?”

“Not so much that you can’t keep up with your schoolwork,” you told him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “See that he gets back to his common room, Remus?”

“Of course,” Remus agreed. Remus reached out to briefly clasp your hand in his, offering you a sincere look. “I’m glad you’re alright. Try to get some rest and I’ll send Poppy right over.”

“Thanks,” you told him. You glanced to Harry, holding an arm out in a silent request for a hug.

Harry wrapped his arms around you, reeling you towards him in a surprisingly crushing hug. You realized he must have been more worried about you than he was letting on.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, reaching up to ruffle his hair when he pulled away. His hair, the perpetual mess that it was, reminded you so sharply of your older brother in that moment that you felt tears prick your eyes.

Harry nodded his head, very much appearing as if he doubted your words, but allowing Remus to usher him from the room nonetheless.

You settled back in your bed, closing your eyes, and waited for Poppy to come fuss at you. As you waited, you couldn’t help but wonder if Sirius really had braved the hospital wing to visit you. You remembered the dream seemed oddly vivid, your fingers just brushing against Sirius’ nose before you passed out.

You felt a smile tug at your lips at the thought, the ever-present ache you had felt in Sirius’ absence for the past twelve years easing just the slightest bit.

#harry potter #sirius black x reader #sirius black #sirius black x you #harry potter fanfiction #sirius black imagine #harry potter imagine #marauders #reader insert #reader #my fic

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yandere-daydreams · 3 years

Text

Title: Frigid.

Pairing: Yandere!Rosaria/Reader (Genshin Impact).

Word Count: 2.5k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Modern AU, Non-Con, Semi-Public Sex, Drug Use, Toxic Relationships, Victim-Blaming, Implied Past Assult, Dissociation.

Touching Rosaria was like touching ice.

Or, like having ice touch you, at least. She didn’t like it when you touched her – if she did, she wouldn’t have her hand clamped around your wrist, right now, there wouldn’t be a chill washing over your skin, inching towards your chest, making your heart beat a little faster every time the threat of frostbite began to seem more like a strong possibility than a distant fantasy. It was jarring, really, compared to the heat of the bodies around you, dancing and moving and sweltering, despite how crowded the club felt, despite how much you wished they would stop. You’d been the one who wanted to come, you were the one who usually liked this kind of thing, but suddenly, the music was too loud, everyone was too close, you could still feel your last drink burning at the back of your throat. It was all too much. It was all too hot.

Except Rosaria, of course. Never Rosaria.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt warm, around her.

She was sticking close to the walls, thankfully. You were glad you’d chosen a smaller club, easier for Rosaria to navigate as she dragged you across the cramped space. It was too dark to see where she was going, darker than it usually was, but you didn’t mind letting her pull you along. You were used to it, the graceless way she pushed through couples and groups and inebriated patrons, the quiet apologies you let out as you followed her, how easy your own feet were to trip over as the bright, flashing lights and the sour flavor coating your tongue made it more and more difficult to think. It was almost a relief when she found what she was looking for – the side exit, the one you liked to use whenever you got too overwhelmed. It was sweet that she’d thought to use it tonight, too, even if you couldn’t remember telling her about your little escape route.

The alleyway it opened into was narrow, just as dark and just as stifling as the club, but the music wasn’t as loud, the air wasn’t as choking, and more importantly, you were able to collapse into Rosaria, burying your head in your chest as she caught you by the shoulders, begrudgingly accepting your clumsy affection. She didn’t like being touched, but you really liked touching her. It made sense that she’d make an exception for you, in the moment, at least. She always made an exception for you.

“Rosey,” You started, slurring the nickname into something near-incomprehensible. There was a tap to your shoulder, a row of blunt nails skirting across bare skin. In the back of your mind, you wondered if she was mad at you. “I can’t… It’s too warm, Rosey. My head hurts.”

“Obviously.” Her tone was lighter than it usually was, more playful. Not quite patient, not yet, but more sympathetic than she usually bothered to be. Like she was talking to a child, rather than a friend. Like the two of you hadn’t already done this a hundred times. “You overdid it, princess. You’re drunk.”

You shook your head, absent-mindedly. You didn’t feel drunk. You felt… dizzy. Out of it. Disoriented in such a way that meant trying to find out why you were struggling to keep your balance only made you more likely to fall. “You had more than I did,” You mumbled, because it was true. You knew how Rosaria could be. You’d wanted to be good, tonight, even if she claimed to be content nursing her third glass of wine. “’s not fair. I’m don’t even feel that—”

“You’re always so careless, too,” She said, cutting you off. Speaking over you, like you’d never said anything at all. Her grip tightened, and you backed away, pressing yourself against the nearest wall. Rosaria didn’t let go. “Drinking so much, staying out so late… It’s a miracle you haven’t learned your lesson, yet. I’m a little surprised no one’s ever taken advantage of you.”

Your heart dropped in your chest. The wall was unpainted, uneven, bare cement and little else. It hurt to touch, to lean against, especially with Rosaria resting her weight on you. It hurt to move, when you finally thought to fidget. “You're being mean,” You whispered, and her hand fell to your hip. Your dress was too thin, too tight. It felt like you were bleeding out in a snowbank. “Would someone really do that?”

“I would.” She was too close. She was too cold. You didn’t find the constant chill comforting, anymore. “In a heartbeat. Especially after you start acting like such a fucking tease.”

You wanted to go home. There was something pounding in the back of your skull, now, throbbing, blocking out whatever Rosaria might’ve said, making it impossible to process anything but the black dots fraying at the edges of your vision and Rosaria’s lips, chapped and painted red and on your neck, the corner of your jaw, only lingering for a moment before her teeth dug into your jugular and you screamed, the shrill sound immediately cut short by a palm against your mouth, keeping you quiet despite the little whimpers you let out as she pulled back, allowing something warm to run over your skin and pool near your collarbone. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it would get on your dress, if it would leave a stain. You wondered if she would apologize, when it did.

“Spoiled little brat,” She growled, nearly under her breath. Her grip loosened, Rosaria shifting, but any reprieve was short-lived, quickly replaced by two fingers pressed into your tongue and a row of nails clawing at your waist, pulling at your skirt, leaving you to gag and whimper as ice-cold fingertips dug into your thigh, cold enough to leave you trembling. She wasn’t holding you, not really, not tightly enough to call it restraint, but your body felt weak, your legs were shaking, and you couldn’t imagine trying to run. You couldn’t imagine trying to stand. You were almost thankful for the knee she forced between your thighs, for the trace of stability she thought to offer. You wanted to be thankful. You were trying to be thankful. “No talking, alright? I need you to keep quiet. Can you do that for me?”

Right. Obviously. Rosaria was so smart. She always knew what to do, so she must’ve been right, and she was so kind, too, letting her fingers slip out of your mouth as soon as you offered her the small, eager nod she was looking for. You were glad she was wearing leather, a jacket a size too big and pants that clung to her like a second skin – it gave you something tangible to hold onto, something to hide your face in, even if you hated the texture, the sound, the way it felt under you as she cupped your pussy and some thin piece of fabric tore, forcing you to shy into her just a little more. You almost asked why. If she didn't like your dress, she could’ve just told you. If she didn’t like you, she could’ve said so in a way that didn’t make you feel so…

So bad.

“You said you were hot.” Rosaria was talking before you could, though, explaining herself. Why was she allowed to talk? Part of you wavered, flickered, realized that she wasn’t being fair, that she wasn’t being nice, but Rosaria was good at this kind of thing. She must’ve known something you didn’t. That’d make sense. She knew a lot of stuff, compared to the handful of foggy ideas that separated your mind from total oblivion. “I’m just helping you out. You’re not stupid enough to turn down help, are you?”

You shook your head. You weren’t, even if she chuckled at your meek response, even if you couldn’t see how grinding her hand into your cunt could help you feel anything but hot, like you’d been in the sun for an hour too long. Like you were being burnt alive, and Rosaria was the one stoking the flames.

Your thoughts were spinning, now, twisting, spiraling, the need to shut your eyes and make it stop almost overshadowing the slick building up between your legs, that awful, sticky feeling that made you squirm, holding Rosaria tighter and attempting to weakly push her away at the same time. The embarrassment was palpable, that nagging sense of shame, only made worse by Rosaria’s huff of a laugh, by the lingering sensation of her teeth ghosting over your skin and the way you jolted into her, anything intelligent you might’ve said replaced by a small, submissive whimper. It was embarrassing. You wanted it to stop. You wanted her to stop.

But, she didn’t. She wouldn't. You couldn't force her to.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to ask.

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like much of anything, honestly, as her fingers slipped below the black lace of your panties, as she toyed with your clit and drank in those pathetic sounds you might’ve thought someone else was making, if your own voice hadn’t been so recognizable. Your body was too numb, your nerves already too burnt, Rosaria’s chest too cold where it pressed against yours, like your life depended on little more than ice and sleet. It didn’t feel good, but your face must’ve been flushed, your pupils blown out, your scrunched expression littered with hints that you were in anything but agony. Rosaria sounded smug. She wouldn’t sound like that, not unless you gave her a reason to. She wouldn’t do that to you, not unless she thought you deserved it.

“For fuck’s sake,” She drawled, slowly, like she didn’t have anywhere better to be. She didn’t have anywhere better to be. She wouldn’t have bothered to spend time with you, otherwise. “You’re already so damn wet. If I’d known you’d be this needy, I wouldn't have bothered with the fucking pills.”

You opened your mouth, but you were barely able to get out a strangled cry before something was inside of you, your panties pushed to the side and two long fingers scissoring you open, too quickly, too suddenly, too violently. It was like she’d broken a dam, like some necessary barrier had been crossed and crushed, like everything you’d lacked, earlier, everything your mind had been merciful enough to block out came flooding in for the first time. There was the sting, tight and tearing and impatient, but there was pleasure, too, something beyond awareness, something beyond discomfort. It was a fire, smoldering and invasive, and you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way your hips bucked to meet her hand, or the new weight behind your eyes, or her smirk, her smile, her self-satisfied sneer. You didn’t like that she was happy. You didn’t like that you were in pain, and she was happy. If you were being honest with yourself, you might’ve been able to admit you didn’t like Rosaria at all, right now.

“S-Stop, Rosey, it hurts—” She had a pattern, now, a tangible pace, a vengeance you wished you'd never provoked. She must’ve hated you. She must’ve. You couldn’t think of another reason she’d curl her fingers like that, another reason she’d abuse every sensitive spot that made you whine and tremble and tense-up, another reason she’d be so mean, especially to you, especially now, especially here. It wouldn’t even matter if you made noise, if you cried out, if you screamed. It couldn’t be louder than your rapid heartbeat, your racing pulse, the wet clicks that only got worse as Rosaria slipped a third finger in and left you to clench around her, too humiliated to care about the slight pain. “Please, I don’t wanna—”

“What did I say about talking?” She was being cold again, ruthless, but it was a playful sort of cruelness, her tone just lilted enough to make you feel guilty for trying to convince yourself she was such a monster. “You don’t want to what? Sit pretty and let me do all the work? Stand there and cum?” There was a laugh, a flick of her wrist, and the heel of her hand came up to grind against your clit. Instantly, you wished you’d never said anything at all. “Do it. Make yourself useful, for once. Cum.”

You didn’t want to. You really, really, really didn’t want to, but there was nothing you could do to stave it off, to get away from it, to keep your knees from buckling or your body from going rigid or Rosaria from kissing you, stifling the breathy moan that threatened to spill out between choked sobs and quiet pleas for her to stop. At least she was gentle about it, as gentle as she could be, pointed canines barely cutting at your lips, a cloud of lingering cigarette smoke barely choking you, her touch barely forceful enough to bruise, as she cupped your cheek with her free hand, tilting your head back and encouraging you to lean into the gesture.

It was almost sweet, how she lingered, how she didn’t pull away until after the aftershocks had faded, until you’d stopped trying to resist, until you were too tired to do anything but collapse into her when she let you go, catching you the moment you threatened to fold into yourself. It was a small mercy. You didn’t want to spend the rest of the night on the ground, sobbing yourself to sleep in some dark, claustrophobic alley. You didn’t want to do that. You didn’t want to be here.

You just wanted to be with Rosaria. You just wanted to be anywhere else, with her.

“Rosey,” you tried, testing the waters. You tried to blink, to stand up on your own, but your eyelids felt heavy, you felt heavy. Rosaria only hummed, in response, snaking an arm around your waist. Already, you were struggling to remember why you couldn’t stand. You were struggling to remember why it hurt so much, when you tried to. “I… I’m not having fun, anymore. Can we go home?”

“You’re lucky I like you, princess.” You were. She was such a good friend, and she always came out drinking with you, and she always took care of you the day afterward, too, when you were sore and hungover and, more often than not, too bruised and battered to get out of bed. Even if the kiss she pressed into the top of your head made you shiver, even if the ghost of her icy breath made your skin crawl, even if a part of you was still begging to keep her at a distance, you were lucky to have her. You were thankful you had her, thankful enough to ignore how low her hands dipped as she held you up, thankful enough to stop yourself from thinking about the slick dripping down your thighs, and the cut on the side of your neck, and the chalk coating your tongue, tasteless and unremarkable, but not completely unfamiliar.

Thankful enough to look up at her and smile, as she finally sapped away the last of your warmth.

“Let’s go home.”

#yandere #yandere love #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere prompts #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere oneshot #genshin impact #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #yandere rosaria #rosaria x reader #yandere fantasy #yandere fanfiction #yanderecore #yancore

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