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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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nyx-is-missing · 3 months

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SUNSET PART 1

Or early summer!

Clarisse La Rue x Cassandra De Young (oc! Apollo's kid)

Summary: When Cassandra gets involved in a scandal early in the day, she goes to camp early.

Warnings: men....thats all i could think of actualy.

First read this!

Part 2 is here!

Cassandra De Young

Im fucked.

That's it, that's all i can say.

I knew it as soon as my hand reached his face and stinged, as soon as i heard a camera's flash, and as soon as i stepped into my mom's apartment.

Let's just rewind a bit, okay?

My family own a big business, that you already know by now, the thing is, when they reeaally want to do business with someone they go extreme, the most common technique is to get on the good side of everyone in the family, everyone.

They research, pretend to have things in common, to like the same things, to have the same views of life, and to make it more believable they always go for the person who is closest in age with them.

Usually i dont get involved in this situations because im younger than everyone else, the only teen in the family.

The thing is, this family also had someone around my age.

A 18 year old guy.....eighteen.

Let me tell you, i really wasn't going for trouble today, i tought he may be a normal guy, just with a little money, someone i could have a conversation with, drink some coffe, laugh and go back home and think "hey, not so bad"

He.was.not.

All he could talk about is how much money his family had, where he went for winter break, his pure blood horse, that only ate (attention to this one) IMPORTED GRASS.

Overall a huge dick.

But that i could handle, i've met people like this, i could handle a shitty talk for some hours, what i could not handle was having to go through all this with his hand on my knee bellow the table.

And here i was, spending one of my last days of spring being tortured by the fates.

"You're not paying much attention to the conversation are you?" He said, and gods that accent was almost making me want to jump out of a cliff, or push him out of a cliff, both would work.

"Oh sorry i was-"

"No need to apologize, people get bored i know" Not that he did something criminal by not letting me finish my sentence but, my gods every action coming from him its making me want to die right now "Its okay, i could find some way to make you focus"

Okay, im done

"Im gonna need you to stop saying odd shit" I looked him dead in the eye with a bothered look, and by the surprised look he gave me back i was 100% sure nobody ever told him to shut up when he was saying nonsense.

"C'mon, dont be like that-" he said trying to get his hand a little but upwards, and i only realized i slapped him when i felt my hand burning.

"Oh my gods im sorry i-" And then i heard the camera flashes.

Im going to need you to imagine the scene, my hand was still up, his hand was till on his cheek, and he had a scared look in his face, as did most of the people at the fancy coffe shop.

Do i smile now? Strike a pose? This one is definetly getting front pages at every place.

I chose the safest choice, got out of that straight to my house.

No..i did not payed the bill.

The whole way home i was trying really hard to think of something to say that was not going to make my family mad, especially my grandfather, but considering whe has always mad with something, that felt like a impossible mission.

First thing i saw when i opened the door of the penthouse was my mom, standing in front of the television, and sure enough, my face was on it.

She turned to me, but before she could even say something i started to explain myself.

"Its not what it looks like mom, i swear, i didn't do it on pourpose, let me explain please-" i couldnt actually read the look on her face, but she didnt say anything, so i took that as a go ahead.

When i explained her what happened her face relaxed a bit, but not completely, and she had a look that said your grandpa is getting in my nerves because of this.

"I'll talk to your grandfather about this, but you need to know that the way you acted wasn't appropriate, there is cameras all around and you need to be careful...lets just thank the gods you didnt pulled out a dagger right?" She walked closer to me, and i knew she was trying to comfort me, its a pitty actually, i knew she didnt wanted kids when she had me, i knew how grandpa treated her when he found out, to me, it was enough that she at least tried to love me enough. "You already have your things packed to camp right? I know you have some more days of school but ill call them and tell them you are sick, its best for you to leave earlier this year, then your grandfather wont talk your ears out...you okay with that?"

"Yes mama, ill just finish packing some small things...do i leave today?" I felt her hands on my shoulders, and heard a silent im sorry.

"Yes, but dont be like that, think that you at least wont have to see the news talking about you..youll just be there, with your siblings, eating strawberies and..whatever else demigods do daily, right?"

Like i said, it is enough to me that she tries, even when she isnt great all the time, i know people who dont even have this.

I nodded and went to my room, making sure not to accidentally hit a new sculpture, placed in the corridor.

I didnt wait for her when i finished packing.

I knew she wouldnt be the one to take me there, she never is, she has things to do with the family business, its what ive always heard.

So when i got to the underground garage with my bags i automatically searched for one of the family drivers, sure enough, he was there.

He was a nice guy, but quiet, i knew that he probably had orders not to talk to the family members unless spoken to, grandpa did this with all of them, i also knew he never actually knows where hes been taking me, he takes me there almos every year, but always stops at the road in front of the forest, maybe this sad look he has on his face its because he thinks he is taking me to one of those crazy wilderness therapies as a punishment.

Granpa would absolutely do that if he hadnt had to live with a great public appearence.

"Miss? We are here" He looked at me in the rearview mirror, i only realized i had doze of when my eyes met his and i blinked. "Hold on tight, im going to help you with your luggage okay?"

"Oh..thank you mr bell" He opened the trunk, and then the back door for me, extending his hand to help me get out of the car "thank you, again"

"Sure miss, just let me take your bags out and we are all set okay?-"

Another car dor noise made us both look to the right, to find Clarisse La rue, closing a taxi door, with just one big suitcase in hand.

Now, my story with Clarisse is kind of complicated, i've met her when he were, eight i guess, her family bought some shares in the family business and we saw each other very regulaly, and ever since then everything everyone told me about her is that she is a troublesome girl, that i should stay far.

But she was the one who realized i was a demigodess, and took me straight to camp when a monster found me, and she was the one who, many times when we were little, comforted me when my family made me cry.

It seems like she forgot all of that because she never even looks at me.

If you ask her, she has never even met me at all actually.

"Clarisse, you're early"

"Cassandra, you too-"

"Cass actually, i prefer cass" i corrected her, to wich she just rolled her eyes and muffled a whatever. "Thats all you are taking? One suitcase?"

"And you are taking all that? How do you plan on walking the whole way with all that? Im assuming he wont go with you" she said looking at mr bell, and its true, he could not walk the whole way with me, and i could not walk with all that alone...fuck

"....you could help m-"

"No, dont even think about it"

"C'mon Clarisse!" She didnt even answered me this time actually. "Arent you a Ares-" i looked at the driver taking the suitcases out. "A ares...type of kid? You will pass on the oportunity to demonstrate your muscles or whatever?"

She started to walk away with a bored look, did i already said fuck?

"C'mon ill do whatever! I- i dont know.. 20 dracmas!, no?, ill help you with the cleaning duty you'll eventually have when you fuck it up? I..ill do that AND ill cure you anytime you want, everyday, no matter the time!"

She stopped walking.

Yes! I knew it, one of the many problems clarisse had its that she likes to go out at night to train alone, and when she gets hurt she cant ask anyone to help her, because she would get caught

"Give me those suitcases already and shut up-" she was interrupted by a very happy me hugging her.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouclarisse!"

I felt her hands on my arms and realized she was going to push me away, so i took a step back

"Geez Clarisse, you could've just told me to back off, dont be like that... just take these and ill take those"

I said pointing to the suitcases, and saying goodbye to mr bell.

Can i already welcome summer and his crazy energy? No? Okay.

#fanfic #lesbian #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse pjo #pjo series #pjo tv show #clarisse la rue #clarisse x reader

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heheimazing1 · 16 days

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um, i don’t really know how to write these but here’s my first mini fic! percy jackson x daughter of apollo! fem reader is the implied relationship. i hope you enjoy this and lmk if you’d like to read more of my writing.

can’t catch me now

by Olivia Rodrigo

The children of Apollo always liked music, it usually depended on their mood of what kind they wanted to hear, but they mostly wanted soft music. It was always calming for them to listen to, 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 making them feel like a kid again, but those moments were short-lived. The younger campers of Camp Half-Blood only 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 liked when Cassandra played or sang music, claiming that she always knew how to cheer them up or calm them down. Cassandra was basically the older sister of the younger campers, only happy when they were happy. On a special night one of the younger girls asked, “Can you sing a sad song Cass?” Cassandra was surprised, to say the least by her request, but once she saw the girls pleading doe eyes, she couldn’t say no. Maybe that’s why everyone liked Cassandra, because the word ‘no’ is not in her vocabulary. “Sure thing, honey.” Cassandra replied with a warm smile, leading her to the campfire. She looked over to Charles Beckendorf, asking him to light the campfire to signal a meeting. Once the fire was lit, campers walked in and sat around the campfire. Cassandra pulled out her acoustic guitar, the wood freshly stained as a gift from her father. “Andrea here asked for a sad song tonight, but it won’t be as sad as it is calming. Is that okay?” Cassandra asks as she gestures towards the girl, her face reddening once the spotlight is on her. A chorus of yes’s spread around the campfire, a majority of them cuddling up and sharing snacks or drinks. As Cassandra puts her guitar on her lap, she makes eye-contact with Percy, a smile growing on his face once he sees her. She grins back, running her fingers along the strings, relishing in the sweet sound of it. She starts to strum the strings gently, a soft, calming tune playing out. She keeps a gentle strum, taking a deep breath before she begins to sing. “There’s blood on the side of the mountain, there’s writing all over the walls.” Her soft voice, along with the fire crackling is the only thing you hear. The campers sit around the campfire entranced by her sweet melody she plays and sings. “Shadows of us are still dancin’, in every room and every hall. There’s snow fallin’ over the city, you thought you could wash it away.” Andrea sits right beside Cassandra, staring up at her with wonder as she sings, despite the four year olds hyper nature, she always can sit and relax when Cassandra is near. “The bitter taste of my fury, and all of the messes you made. Yeah, you think that you got away. But i’m in the trees, i’m in the breeze. My footsteps on the ground. You’ll see my face in every place, but you can’t catch me now.” As Cassandra continues to sing, the younger campers eyes begin to droop at her calm tone, almost as if a 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭 was put on them. “Through wading grass, the months will pass, you’ll feel it all around. I’m here, i’m there, i’m everywhere, but you can’t catch me now. No you can’t catch me now.” She makes eye-contact with Percy as she sings, shared secrets between their gazes. “Bet you thought i’d never do it, thought it’d go over my head. I bet you figured i’d pass with the winter be something easy to forget.” She smirks slyly at him as he blushes, looking away to prevent himself from further embarrassment. “Oh, you think i’m gone cause Ieft.” She sings the verse again, watching as Andrea hums along and bops her head to the beat. Cassandra strums slower, her voice hushed as she sings quieter. “There’s blood on the side of the mountain, It’s turning a new shade of red. Yeah, sometimes the fire you founded, don’t burn the way you’d expect. Yeah, you thought that this was end.” She finishes the song with a few soft notes, everyone cheering at her beautiful music, 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. Later at the bonfire when the joyful campers settle down, many compliment Cassandra on her song, going back to their conversations. Eventually everyone goes back to the resided cabins, her music offering them a peaceful, nightmare-less sleep.

#percy jackson x you #percy pjo #pjo tv show #percy jackson and the olympians #daughter of apollo #music is life #percy is flustered #pjo series #percy jackson #rick riordan #the lightning thief #walker scobell #disney

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nepobabyeurydice · 7 months

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hands full of fire

Summary:

Leo burns himself into the tips of Piper and Jason’s heart, and they can’t quite find it in them to place ice on the wound.

on Ao3

.x.

He looked perfect.

Not an inch was out of place from the last time Jason had seen him and all he wanted to do was cry until his throat bleed.

He couldn’t. Jason couldn’t, or he’d fall into despair and never rise up again.

“Surprised to see me?” the dream said and Jason choked back a sob.

Fuck, he had really good memory, he thought dazedly. His hands were shaking, he wasn’t sure how his hands could shake in a dream, but they were.

“What’s wrong?” the dream asked, his lips pulling into a frown and his brow furrowing just right that it didn’t trigger a single sense of wrongness from Jason.

This time Jason can’t choke back the sob. It leaves his throat, broken and ugly and pent-up. He hasn’t cried since that day. Hadn’t been able to let himself to breakdown while there was so much to fix between the camps and the gods.

“Oh, Jay.” the dream said achingly. “Jay, Jay, Jay. I’m so sorry, cariño.”

Even the accent, gods, Jason hated his mind.

“Leo,” he named the dream and hated himself a little. His friend was dead, this dream couldn’t, wouldn’t replace him.

No matter how much Jason wanted him to.

The dream, Leo, placed his hands on Jason’s shoulders, steadying him like back on the first time they tried out the Argo II. They were warm, and he could feel that warmth through his shirt.

Leo’s warmth would dig into his bones if he were real. Jason closed his eyes and tried not to look at the near-perfect imitation his mind had conjured up.

“Jason,” Leo said, his hand reaching up to cup Jason’s jaw. A finger brushed over the little scar on Jason’s lip and Jason let out a sob.

He hated his mind, he hated his dreams and most of all he hated himself for letting Leo die.

“I’m sorry.” Jason warbled out. His glasses fogged up so much that Leo actually looked like a ghostly blur. “Gods, Leo, I’m so sorry. I’m so-”

Another hand. Warm and firm on Jason’s other cheek, he leaned into it.

Tears still trailed down his face, blurring his vision enough that Jason can convince himself this place isn’t a dream. That he’s here with Leo in Bunker 9 and in the distance Piper is speaking with Annabeth and that all feels right for once in this ugly world that they live in.

“I’m alive.” Leo said and the shape of his words sounded so beautiful. “I promise you, Jason, I’m alive.”

“If only,” Jason said, “that could be true. But this is a dream and I cannot love you.”

The words felt like ash on his mouth, but his centurion had taught him when he was young how to banish dreams that were not his own.

“Jay,” the dream said desperately. The warmth was leeching from its skin returning to where ever dreams went. “Jay, please.”

Jason squared his jaw, his glasses in fog in the dream, and he felt drained, broken and exhausted.

“You’re dead, and I couldn’t save you.” he uttered and the heartbroken expression on the dream’s face made his own heart shatter too.

“He woke up in a freezing room, asleep in front of the Hippie Zeus statue. Jason was half-sure the dream had been a hallucination, half-sure it had been enemy action.

Leo was dead, dead and gone and even Nico and Hazel couldn’t say where he was in the Underworld as if Gaea had decimated his spirit so utterly that he couldn’t even reside in Elysium like he deserved.

“I’m sorry, Leo.” Jason told the empty room. Thunder crashed through the windows, growing louder in pitch as though sensing Jason’s emotions. “I’m so sorry.”

.x.

It’s a beautiful dream, Piper thought. The sky is blue, the beach is beautiful and in. in the distance she can hear her dad laughing with Hedge and baby Chuck cooing as Mellie floated high above.

It’s a beautiful dream, if only the ghost wasn’t invading it. The sight of it made Piper feel sick and too small as she looked upon its visage. Her memory was limited to words that caught her attention most of the time, but her mind had recreated Leo perfectly.

Perfectly enough she knew this was fake.

Is it selfish, Piper wondered as the dream looked at her, to want him to be here?

Jason wasn’t here, but Piper knew why, she’d never seen him and her dad interact in a safe environment that Piper associated so much with safety. Jason would’ve been drowned within the hour if that was the case.

“Pipes,” Dream Leo said. He walked towards her dressed in the same clothes as after Khione. “Piper, I’m here.”

“You’re dead.” Piper choked out. “And I couldn’t stop you.”

He reached out, hands reaching towards her face and she couldn’t bring herself to bat him away. Dream Leo smiled, his hands were warm on Piper’s face, and his brown eyes crinkled in just the right place. All Piper wanted to do was weep.

“The rumors,” Dream Leo quipped, pressing his forehead against Piper’s own, finger catching on one of her braids. “Have been greatly exaggerated.”

Piper closed her eyes and tears spilled out of them. She could taste the salty wetness of it on her lips and she wanted to scream. How could her dream feel so much like reality? She sniffed and cried harder when the familiar smell of motor oil and incense.

“I miss you.” Piper said. “I wish you were here.”

“I am here, Beauty Queen.” Dream Leo replied. “Well, I’ll be there soon, it’s been a struggle to make our way back.”

Piper licked her lips and squeezed onto Dream Leo’s hands. She grabbed the back of Leo’s neck and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Be safe,” Piper said, still certain this was a dream but how could she let Leo go without asking him to be safe. She pulled back and pressed a kiss on his forehead.

“You know me, Pipes,” Leo smiled. He spread his arms out and took a step away. “I’m always careful.”

Piper’s lips twitched. “Liar.” she said and Leo and the dream faded like sand caught up in the wind.

Piper woke up to the concerned face of Lacy hovering above her.

“You were crying in your sleep again.” she said.

“I had a beautiful dream,” Piper replied. “And I was so happy I cried.”

Lacy shifted onto Piper’s bed and gripped her hand. The Aphrodite Cabin was still and silent. Moonlight came in through the pink tulle curtains, making the cabin look cold and dead compared to the morning.

“Was it about mom?” Lacy asked and Piper is struck by how little her siblings know about her mom.

“Yeah,” Piper lied. “It was about mom.”

.x.

Leo woke up crying in Calypso’s arms. She had one hand around him, securing him in place, and the other gripping the strap they had attached to Festus. Leo was half-sure it was for the heat he radiated, half-sure Calypso just wanted to make sure her escape was real.

“They don’t believe it’s me.” he told her.

Calypso pursed her lips and pulled the strap attached to Festus slightly to the left just in time to avoid a storm of venti. “It’s not unexpected, Leonidas. The way you were brought back was banned by the Cupbearer for a reason. It splintered your soul in three and what will happen after only the Morai know.”

Leo closed his eyes. They ached and burned as he did so and he can feel the tears slipping from his cheeks. “Hazel and Frank should’ve told them. About what I did.”

“I think,” Calypso said, “they did not wish to place your friends in blind hopes. Much like you did not wish to place me in them.”

“You deserved to leave that island.” Leo said fervently. It wasn’t just that Calypso reminded him of his favorite cousin or that she just emanated the same aching sadness that Leo also had. It was the fact that Percy Jackson had made the gods promise something, and they hadn’t fulfilled them. It was always up to them to pick up the slack and Leo could tell there would be so much slack picking.

“You are kind, Leonidas. You are kind and so breathtakingly cruel on occasion. But, we will get you home where we can all fix this.” Calypso sighed. “I think I will search for my sisters on Mount Tam or see if Leto will accept taking me on. I’d like to avoid binding myself to the Olympians as much as possible.”

Leo nodded and straightened up. He squinted down at the sea and nearly wept again when he saw the familiar sight of the Italian coast.

“Maybe New Rome will suit you. It’s close to Mount Tam or so Jason says.”

Calypso hummed. “And you, Leonidas? Where will you go?”

Leo tried for a smile, remembered she couldn’t see him and let it drop. “I’ll follow Jason and Piper, if they’ll have me after what I’ve done.”

“They love you.” Calypso said with utter certainty. “Like Penelope loved Odysseus, like Rhea loved Kronos, like Apollo loved Cassandra. They will love you with the bitter certainty that it will always begin and end with you three. Bask in that, Leo, there’s nothing more beautiful, and I’ve witnessed some of the most beautiful romances from Hephaestus TV.”

Leo sniffled and wiped his nose. I’m coming back, Leo thought. I’m coming back, and then you’ll be able to love me in the flesh. I’ll be careful because you asked me to. I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m coming back to you both.

“Hasta el final.” Leo muttered, the words feeling like a comfort on his mouth. “Y hacia delante.”

#heroes of olympus #jason grace #piper mclean #leo valdez #calypso pjo #lacy pjo #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing

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sun-n-moon-showdown · 1 year

Text

official duo list!

• Cecil and Kevin from Welcome to Nightvale

• Zuko and Sokka from Avatar: The Last Airbender

• Paintbrush and Lightbulb from Inanimate Insanity

• Joe and Nicky from The Old Guard

• Enid and Wednesday from Wednesday

• Cassandra and Rapunzel from Tangled the Series

• Lunala and Solgaleo from Pokemon

• Sun Wukong and Macaque from LEGO: Monkie Kid

• Theo Raeken and Liam Dunbar from Teen Wolf

• Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story

• Princesses Celestia and Luna from My Little Pony

• Artemis and Apollo from Greek mythology

• Kyouya Ootori and Tamaki Suoh from Ouran High School Host Club

• Kaoru and Kojiro from Sk8 The Infinity

• Blake and Yang from RWBY

• Will Solace and Nico Di’Angelo from Percy Jackson

• Captain Kirk and Mister Spock from Star Trek: TOS

• Solulu and Luluna from Kiratto PriChan

• Cure Soleil and Cure Selene from Star Twinkle Precure

• Ryuji Sakamoto and Ren Amamiya from Persona5

• Duke Thomas and Cassandra Cain from DC

• Shadow and Sonic from Sonic

• Mario and Luigi from Mario

• Merlin and Arthur from BBC Merlin

• Killua and Gon from Hunter x Hunter

• Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun

• Aether and Lumine from Genshin Impact

• Ceil Phantomhive and Elizabeth Midford from Black Butler

• Amaterasu and Waka from Okami

• Uzumaki Naruto and Uchiha Sasuke from Naruto

• Kurosaki Ichigo and Kuchiki Rukia from Bleach

• Looks to the Moon and Seven Red Suns from Rain World

#snm info

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crown-ov-horns · 1 month

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...

To be honest, I'm surprised they aren't married in mythological canon, knowing the Olympian family tree.

Or, maybe, my thinking is just affected by Baltic mythology. The Sun and the Moon are often portrayed as married in my culture (the genders are the opposite, by the way - the Sun is female, the Moon is male). Or divorced. In that one song, the Moon does cheat on the Sun with the Evening Star, and gets hacked in half with a sword during the divorce.

#greek mythology #apollo #artemis #apollo x artemis #like greek gods do inc*st and see no problem with it #i guess apollo's nine (9) girlfriends would get mad if he married his sister #baltic mythology #fr for me the sun is a lady the moon is a bloke #and they're married... divorced?... Involved #we have a good outlook on cheating tho don't we #greek mythology fandom #i was looking up apollo and cassandra... don't ask you can find the explanation somewhere in my hoard of ramblings #diary pages

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johaerys-writes · 1 month

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About that post of yours about people getting upset about Patroclus and Achilles being seen romantically, I've seen every single thing that made me so "wtf?"

I've seen them use the justification that they're cousins, from some sources. This doesn't make sense bc cousins getting along in Ancient Greece wasn't all that fuss, it's not like they were brothers! And they're cousins once removed…Orestes and Hermione are first cousins and no one finds it strange!

I've seen people use the justification that Achilles is married (Deidamia). Firstly, it depends on the source, secondly…he still has Briseis? There are sources that there are Briseis and OTHER characters (e.g. Polixena). Even in the sources where he's married, that doesn't stop him from doing anything. Not only Achilles but other characters! Agamemnon has been married for years and had Chryseis and Cassandra. Odysseus is married and his lovers vary with sources. Even before Helen was kidnapped, Menelaus already had a child with another woman. "Ah, but he would still prefer Deidamia, just as Odysseus and Menelaus still preferred Penelope and Helen" well, Agamemnon explicitly states that he prefers Chryseis, and Jason preferred Creusa over Medea…maybe we can assume that different characters are different characters!

I've seen people use the justification that both he and Patroclus had slaves… which, again, doesn't change anything. Again, married men had slaves, I don't know why we're pretending otherwise. Having a slave does not prevent having other relationships, after all, not even a legitimate wife prevents it (or married men wouldn't have bed slaves in the first place). "Ah, but that shows they like women in mythology!"…yeah…but well, some people like more than one gender. That still doesn't rule anything out, I don't see where we're going!

I've seen people explain that it's bc this is something modern… which isn't, there were already romantic interpretations of them in antiquity (Aeschylus, hello? Plato?). But then you point that out and they say "well, but it's not Homer" but then they bring up things like Polyxena and Penthesilea as proof and…their myths with Achilles aren't Homeric! And then they say it's not one of the explicitly declared couples…which, again, doesn't stop anything?? Even more so bc one of the people I saw saying this shipped two characters who never had any romantic text or subtext so it's a walking contradiction!

And even with this "explicit couples" thing, I've seen people talk about a vibe like "oh why focus on Patrochilles, which isn't even canon when there's Apollo x Hyacintus" and I'm still trying to find WHAT is the similarity between these two ships besides being between two male characters. Not even tragedy can be considered a determining factor since tragic couples are not exactly rare in mythology…like, oh tragic couple, so Megara x Heracles is the same too! C'mon, guys! I got the impression that these people have the idea that the ship only exists bc it's MLM and, therefore, any MLM ship plays the role even when the dynamics AREN'T the same…

Or they'll say "the fans make them into a straight stereotype of rigid gender roles", which if you go to the Ao3 tag and read the fics is easily refuted! Especially for Achilles, who depending on the fic isn't even a perisex cis man. But they really don't know the majority preferences of shippers bc e.g there's an idea that absolutely everyone is strictly bottom Pat x top Achilles bc "furious warrior Achilles" and "cool guy Patroclus"… which's funny bc it couldn't be further from reality! And the same person who says this has a ship with strict gender roles, for the love of god!

Even if the ship were canonically impossible… well, hcs exist! As a kid, I watched Naruto and thought Ino x Sakura was very cute, but that doesn't mean I DIDN'T notice that the canon couple was going to be Sakura x Sasuke. It looks like they've never seen shipping before, my god!

Finally: I left the most absurd for last. This wasn't on Tumblr, it was on another social network. Basically, user kind of texted something like "of course you like Patroclus x Achilles, you're not Greek!" And I'm still trying to understand the relationship between someone being Greek and someone liking or not liking a ship. Could it be that in the documents that ask for nationality, if you put "Greek" a questionnaire appears asking you if you ship Patrochilles and if you click "yes" you are taken for falsifying your nationality or something like that?

P.S.: You don't even need to answer this ask. I really just needed to comment on this nonsense, and my friends aren't mythology fans, so here we are!

Okay so I'm just over here nodding aggressively to a lot of things you said, I know you said I don't need to reply to this but let me just add a couple thoughts:

1. Seriously the cousin thing is laughable to me, like who cares who CARES!! Literally it doesn't even matter, not only were romantic relationships btwn cousins not that big a deal in ancient greek works and mythology but also there are so many literary works written before the 20-21st century that feature cousins falling in love, like in the realm of fiction at least it isn't the big and shocking thing the antis think it is, and it hasn't been for centuries, I don’t get why people get so worked up about that...... it doesn’t even count as an argument, moving on

2. People saying that Achilles can't possibly be queer because he sleeps with women and has a son etc etc..... I feel like they’re missing the point, because the thing about Achilles, in my opinion, isn't whether he’s gay or not, or even if he’s bi or not. Those neat little categories are a relatively modern invention I think, and I don’t think that any ancient person would identify as gay or straight or what have you. In some places being a little too close with your buddies (or your students, particularly young male students --athens i'm looking at you--) was a thing, in some others it wasn't, but it wasn't part of their identity like it is now, ykwim? So I think it's pointless to try to put Achilles and Patroclus in those boxes, many people have tried it and it doesn't work. Achilles may have a son with Deidamia but he doesn’t mention her in the Iliad not even once, he cares about Briseis and in the text he lies/sleeps with her but he wouldn’t stop Agamemnon's men from taking her nor would he return to the fighting for her, his relationship with or feelings for the women he sleeps/has slept with doesn't really affect his behaviour. It is Patroclus who he has the emotional bond with, Patroclus who convinces him to do something other than sulk in his camp, Patroclus whom Achilles values above all, Patroclus's death that changes the trajectory of the war and Achilles' own life. The bond between Achilles and Patroclus has cataclysmic consequences for all the Achaens and the Trojans, no other woman in Achilles' life comes close to what he has with Pat.

So like..... that's what's important here. Achilles could have slept with a thousand women and Patroclus with a thousand more and it wouldn't matter. I'm not here to argue whether they were exclusive or not sexually speaking, that's irrelevant and frankly I don't care. I also can't comment on Achilles x Polyxena or Penthesilea I'm not very familiar with those myths and they aren't even Iliad canon anyway so who cares. People have been writing fanfic about him for centuries, what's new.

3. As for the rest of the arguments against Patrochilles I have to admit I stay as far away from drama as I can so I don't really know what is being said online about them. The things you're saying honestly sound like toxic fandom behaviour and antis being at it for no goddamn reason. I'm not even going to respond to that because again, I don’t think there is anything to say. People can ship what they want and headcanon Achilles and Pat boinking any which way they want as long as they leave me alone lmao. Like as long as they don't come to my ask box or ao3 comments with dumbass or exclusionary views (or if Tumblr doesn't decide to spam me with them) then I'm good. I'm definitely not going to go looking for those views on Tumblr or elsewhere.

4. Honestly I didn't even know racism had been brought into this LMAO like I was not familiar with the take that if you're Greek you can't like Patroclus/Achilles. Like.... why is that? Why wouldn't a Greek person like Patrochilles? Do Greeks not have good taste then? I don't get it. Maybe it's because the Iliad is so deeply rooted into ancient greek culture and we learn about it in school or what not, so like it has to be this sacred thing that no one can touch/spoil? For me, shipping ancient dudes is the best way to actually learn a thing or two about history and literature and what have you LOL like I care so much more about the Iliad now than I did in high school. The sad thing is that I feel like if I ever told people irl that I ship Patrochilles they would first be baffled and then probably appalled lmao I can't even imagine their reaction if they ever saw the Patrochilles shrine I keep in my study 😂 Homophobia is a big thing here sadly, and I personally know people who would literally fight anyone who says that mlm was a thing in ancient Greece (because as we know the ancient greeks were the pinnacle of perfection and wisdom and the gays now just want to ruin that 🙄). I'll never forget my high school ancient greek teacher going into a whole rant about it for an hour, and also the school textbooks we had themselves were so heavily censored. It's just such a sad way to be if you ask me, both because you're a fucking homophobe but also you're missing out on so much of the nuance of this culture that you're supposed to "revere", it's always been super baffling to me.

Anyway this rant got away from me so I'll just stop here lmao. At the end of the day I think people will just say whatever they want about whatever they want, I sometimes also get upset and hurt by those dumb takes but it's really not worth it. I try to stay in my lane and block liberally and nerd out with like minded people and I think that's what life/fandom is about, you know

#tw: racism #tw: homophobia #fandom wankery

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