#read the warnings please

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Baby, Mine

Azriel x Reader - Angst/Fluff - One shot

Rhys returns from under the mountain and Azriel’s life is changed forever as a bond snaps with the female his brother brings back with him. After an unexpected pregnancy is revealed, Azriel strives to show his mate just how much she and their child mean to him. Please read warnings below.

Warnings: discussion of rape and S/A, pregnancy resulting from rape, mentions of trauma, language, mention of pregnancy termination

“We should get up. My stomach’s growling.”

“And I thought it was just the little one chatting with my shadows.” Azriel teased, flushing beneath her gaze as his scarred fingers traced lightly over the growing swell of her abdomen, becoming more apparent by the day. He’d been nervous touching it for the first time, like he’d desecrate that precious life force growing underneath with his hands that had inflicted so much pain. But the way her eyes lit up the first time he touched it, he never wanted to forget the feeling of love and joy radiating into him through that newfound bond. It was beautiful - made him feel worthy of helping raise the beautiful life she was bringing into the world.

Though her stomach growled again, she made no move to get up, and by the way her hands were holding onto him, Azriel knew better than to go retrieve a plate from the House of Wind’s kitchen for her. So he sent a shadow beneath the door to see if Nuala or Cerridwen were there and if they could bring leftovers in, that is if Cassian and Mor hadn’t devoured the entire breakfast already.

“How’s she doing?” Rhys asked into his mind.

“Better than some days but not great, Rhys.”

There was a pause before Rhys’ guilty voice reentered his conscious.

“She’s the most selfless person I know, Az. I’m glad you two have eachother. But if she needs anything, if you need anything, let me know.”

And she was. Selfless in a way that Azriel couldn’t fathom. Selfless in a way that made his gut churn, a way he wanted to roar at the moon and the stars, and anyone who would listen. Selfless when she should have never had to be. She was bright and radiant and kind. The world looked at her and saw ethereal sunshine, walking starlight, unfathomable beauty both inside and out. But there was darkness and pain there too, so buried down deep that only Azriel could feel it in the middle of the night as whimpers disrupted her sleep.

So many nights Rhys would have to come in and cradle her mind, send her soothing thoughts and visions of anything beautiful that could mask the perils that haunted her dreams.

Azriel hated himself for it, the jealousy. He wished he could soothe her in that way but no matter how much love he sent through their bond, that darkness rooted itself so deeply within her that sometimes it took significant power from Rhys to reach it.

As if Rhys wasn’t already fighting his own trauma and waging against the insurmountable guilt he carried after being under the mountain, plus worrying about Feyre in the Spring Court. And that wasn’t to say Y/N was a burden in any way, though she felt she was. It killed Azriel to see both his mate and his brother fighting so much grief and not being able to do anything about it.

She’d have been better suited to be Rhysand’s mate than Azriel’s own by their intertwined traumas, by their ability to put themselves aside for a better world. Azriel, of course, fit into this court of dreamers but she… despite only being here for such a short period of time, she was the biggest dreamer of them all.

Another rumble from her stomach snapped Azriel out of his thoughts, mentally noting to Rhys, “She could use breakfast.”

“I’ll send some for both of you. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Azriel smelled the salt of her tears before he saw the silver lining her eyes. Propping himself up on an elbow, draping a wing over her, he began to ask softly, “Hey-“. Her head immediately shaking and she choked on the word, “No.”

“Baby, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a burden. He just wanted to know if you needed anything.”

She took a few deep breaths, willing away those tears. “He doesn’t have to check on me. It’s my f-“

“Stop that. Listen to me, I’m always here to listen to you and I know that you’re dealing with complex emotions and trauma that I cannot even begin to fully fathom but this.. it’s not your fault.”

Her eyes welled up further as Azriel continued,

“I don’t want to lecture you or invalidate what you are feeling. Your emotions are justified but… these thoughts will eat you alive, they’re vicious lies that have been conditioned into you, and I can promise you that nobody blames anything on you. This entire family is so fucking grateful to have you as a part of it. In a world of darkness, where you had every right, every reason to bring that darkness with you, you chose light.”

He choked on his words as those tears flowed down her face. “You chose light when it only brought more darkness upon yourself.”

She cut him off. “She’s not darkness.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “She?”

And through her tears, he saw the slightest gleam of radiance in her eyes. “I can just feel it. Feel her.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to Y/N’s belly. “Yes, you are absolutely right. She is not darkness - she’s a beacon of light, the brightest star in the sky, perhaps aside from her mother - but the mental load you are carrying, it is dark and it’s heavy. And yes, you would carry darkness with you regardless of this spark of hope” he rubbed her belly in tender circles for emphasis. “But I know that mind of yours. That you are telling yourself that you’re a burden, that you made the wrong choice, when there was no wrong choice.”

At this point, the tears were streaming down her face, his shadows dutifully whisking them away, but only gratitude and love flowed from her.

A knock came on the door. Azriel’s eyes glazed over as Y/N recognized the telltale signs of what was happening. A line creased in his brow before she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay, he can come in.”

“You sure, my love? He understands when you need space.”

She nodded. “I know but I think I need to see him today.” Azriel brushed his thumb in soothing ministrations across her abdomen until she pulled her night gown back down to cover herself.

The door creaked open and Rhys padded over to the bed, guilt and adoration limning his features. “Hey, starshine.” She blushed at the term. She hated her own name after Amarantha had called it so many times under the mountain. Rhys had begun calling her Starshine in secret due to her Day Court origins and the fact that he was convinced she’d been more suited for the Night Court.

Rhys had been drawn to her under the mountain, something about her reminding him of his brother. Rhysand could admit that Azriel was the most beautiful of the three brothers, his features seemingly crafted by the gods themselves. But if Azriel’s features were crafted by the gods, Y/N’s were crafted by the Mother herself. Aside from that, she had a quiet presence, though far less stoic and broody than Azriel’s, it was more of a quiet, gentle grace. A grace that Amarantha had tried so hard to shed her of but was never quite successful.

Amarantha, of course, made it her mission to both seek pleasure from her and torment her. When she never fully broke, Amarantha decided that instead of throwing her to the dark corridors she stuffed most lesser fae in, she’d make an excellent play thing. She looked mostly High Fae after all, yet had enhanced sexual appeal due to her nymph ancestry - perfect high and round breasts, long legs, a firm yet supple ass, and an arousing scent - needless to say, Amarantha delighted to add her to her roster of bed chamber accompaniment.

Y/N and Rhys developed a quiet understanding of each other and the roles they were forced to play in the year that she’d been under the mountain before Feyre arrived. They did not grow close enough for Amarantha to become concerned but enough that she knew her play things got along well enough to bring them both into her chambers at the same time.

Rhys would never forget the first time Amarantha had forced he and her into her chambers at the same time. Y/N tried to be strong, and she was. Another aspect of her that reminded him of his brother.

But she began to crack slightly, and Rhys knew Amarantha would make it so much worse for her if she did. So he did the only thing he knew to do and held her mind. He showed her visions of the Night Skies of the Night Court, the spirits of Starfall, the laughter of a family surrounding a table in a beloved restaurant, anything that could help her through it.

As he held her mind, she’d unwittingly sent visions from throughout her twenty-two years of life prior to being captured and brought under the mountain. She was loved deeply by her family who had little more than love to give. Eventually they had been murdered by Amarantha’s cronies at the age of nineteen - she’d been able to escape and live among the High Fae who sneered and objectified her, but offered enough coin to sleep with her to keep a roof over her head.

Rhys had determined that night that if they ever made it out of there alive, he was taking her to Velaris with him. She’d never live like that again.

He even smiled at the thought of introducing her and Azriel when she was ready to meet his family, already picturing his brother’s rose-dusted cheeks in her presence.

“Thank you” Azriel’s low voice withdrew Rhys from his thoughts, taking the plate from his hands.

A familiar scent wafted off of Rhys to Y/N. Pregnancy had heightened her sense of smell substantially.

As she sniffed the air Rhys gave a soft, sad smile at the eye brow she raised at him before asking, “Where is she?”

He shook his head, darkness rolling in waves off of him. “Tamlin locked her in his fucking manor. She had a breakdown.”

Her face drew tight. “That bastard!” Azriel flinched at the rage flowing down the bond. “She must have been terrified.”

“She certainly terrified the servants in his manor. She shrouded herself in darkness and nobody could get through to her.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

Rhys nodded. “He doesn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Rhys. Where is she?”

“At the Town House.”

Her eyes blew wide. “Cauldron boil me, is she staying?”

Azriel smiled as he felt her excitement flow into him. A bit of that Day Court sunshine returning to her.

“I don’t know. She knows she can’t tell anyone if she goes back, but…”

“I felt it through the bond, Y/N. I think she’s here to stay.”

Azriel’s shadows agitated at the pause in verbal conversation, chattering back and forth,

“Secrets”

“Secrets”

He rolled his eyes and dismissed them, already knowing there were some things that remained between just Y/N and Rhys. He’d accepted it the very moment he’d shown up after he received word that Rhys was finally home and the bond snapped as soon as he laid eyes upon the radiant female by his side. He knew it snapped for her too when she walked right up to him, touched the hands he tried to hide behind his back, her eyes speaking everything she couldn’t. “I see your scars. I bear them too.” And pressed a kiss to each hand.

“Do you want me to leave? I assume she’s at the Town House but I’m sure she’ll be visiting here too, yes?”

Azriel bristled. No way in hell was Rhys going to make his mate leave, whether this home was his or not, she had a right to be present wherever she wished.

“Easy brother.”

Azriel shook off the feeling. The mating instinct was still so strong that he had a hard time not jumping in to defend her at the thought of any threat, physical or emotional.

“Y/N” Rhys took her hand.

“Don’t bite my head off for holding her hand, either.”

Azriel huffed before firing back to Rhys’ mind “I can’t wait for you to find your mate someday so you can see what it feels like to be so wound up like this.”

Rhys only gave a small, secret smile in return.

Y/N interjected. “Are you two done gossiping or can I know whether I should pack up or not?”

“This is your home just as much as it is my home. You are my family and I want Feyre to meet all of you. Cassian has already barreled through the door of the Town House along with Mor begging to be fed. Feyre went up to nap and recollect herself.”

“Can we have dinner with her… if she wants to?” She asked softly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness to her voice.

Rhys gave a nod. “I was thinking that same thing. Would you be comfortable?”

She nodded before the reality of the situation caught up with her.

“Y/N.” Rhys leaned in, gently tilting her head up to look at him. “I am not ashamed of you. I will never hide you or the life you are selflessly bringing into this Court of Dreamers.” His eyes lined with silver. “And I will always be so proud of the love that you both share. I knew from the moment I met you that my brother would adore you. And the fact that you two are mates? It’s one of the greatest things to come from that shit hole of a mountain. A reminder of the beauty that can prevail, even after the most dreadful of circumstances. I love all three of you.”

Azriel held his mate closely, ensuring she felt just how loved she truly was.

“She kicked for the first time the other day.”

Rhys raised a brow.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Ugh, you two are so skeptical. I really believe that this baby is a girl.”

Rhys eyed the scarred hand protectively placed over her round bump, so many complicated emotions running through him, with love being the strongest.

“Feyre will likely ask questions tonight regarding all of us, our stories. Nobody has to share anything they do not wish to, but you also may share if you are comfortable doing so. I would really like for Feyre to become a member of the Inner Circle-“

Rhys looked to Y/N rolling his eyes at the smirk and waggling eyebrows she gave him.

“Stop that. My point is just that, I would like for her to know all of you. I know she’ll love you all just as I do. Hell, she’ll probably love all of you before she’s ready to even fully tolerate me.”

Azriel let out a chuckle as his mate quipped “Tell me the story of the time she threw a shoe at you. It’s my favorite!”

“You cruel, lovely little thing.” Rhys laughed. “See you both for dinner.”

As Rhys exited them room, Y/N sighed. “You were awfully quiet.”

Az nudged her. “And that surprises you?”

“Okay, quieter than usual.”

Azriel pulled her in close, peppering kisses across her forehead. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for. You are still healing and now you’ll be facing someone else that was under the mountain with you.”

“She saved us all, Az.” She looked up into his hazel eyes with nothing but genuine adoration. “Without her, I never would have met you. And what kind of existence would that be?”

She began picking at the plate Rhys had brought in. Letting out a moan as the flavors burst on her tongue.

Az couldn’t help the involuntary twitch of his wings at the sound.

She laughed. “Don’t get any ideas until I’m finished with my food.”

Azriel raised his palms. “I’d never get between my pregnant mate and her meal. With the way she’s started moving, she’d likely kick me away anyway.”

She took another bite while nonchalantly commenting, “I thought of a name for her.”

“Oh yeah?” Azriel’s brows raised in anticipation of a potential name for their child.

“Azure. The same blue as the skies. I thought…”

Azriel cut her off, marveling at the name. Whispering more to himself than her. “Blue like the Day Court skies, blue like the skies that I love to take you flying in.”

She flushed. “Yes, exactly. And though it’s a different shade of blue, like your siphons.”

A lone tear escaped his eye. “And,” she continued with a coy smile. “We could call her ‘Az’”

Azriel sat still for a moment. And she would have thought he didn’t like it had it not been the rush of pure shock and awe flowing through the bond.

Suddenly he took her face in his hands, barely giving her time to swallow the bite of bacon she’d just taken, and crashed his lips into hers. And after her lips were swollen and puffy from the heat of his lips, he began pressing kisses all over her belly, whispering between them, “I love you, little Az. I love you more than the skies I fly in. More than my own name. More than any dreamer could dream of being loved. I can’t wait to fly you through the open skies, and show you every shade of blue this beautiful world has to offer. Nothing in this world matters more than you and your mother. I couldn’t be more proud to be your father.”

And he meant it. Every single word. The blood running through the baby growing inside of his mate didn’t need to be his, what mattered was the love flowing within the child and he intended to pour every single ounce of love he had into their baby.

It was Y/N though who broke down at those words. She and Azriel had spent every free moment together since meeting. He’d healed her in ways that she never could have dreamed. Finding her mate changed the time after Under the Mountain from the lonesome trauma reckoning hellhole she’d anticipated and into a time of healing. He listened to her, understood her, let her set the pace in every aspect. And he’d shared his trauma with her, all of it.

The child who had been abused by a wicked stepmother and horrid step-brothers, overlooked by his own father had grown up to be loving, caring, and patient in every way. And now, he was going to be the parent of a child that was not his by conception, choosing to love the child just as he would his very own. A vow he’d sworn in their mating vows and sealed with a bargain.

“What is it, love?” Azriel wiped away her tears.

“Stupid hormones. I just love you so much and I need you to know that you are so much more than I ever could have dreamed of. If I had to, I would go through it all again as long as it led me to you.”

Azriel’s eyes began watering again. “Look at us, Y/N. We’re quite a sight. Whatever you say tonight, just don’t let Cassian know that I’ve gotten so soft.”

Her glassy eyes sparkled as she gave a sweet smile. “I have a feeling that softness has already been there, my love, I just had the privilege of coaxing it out of you.”

He smiled. “Truth Teller personified.”

————————-

“We’re heading up now.” Rhys’ voice cut into Y/N’s mind.

“Are you sure about this, Rhys? Most of them do not know what all happened under the mountain. What if it’s too much for Feyre to take in?”

“She’s my mate, I have to hope that she will love and accept us all in time. It may be a lot to meet us and hear our stories but they’re a part of us, a part of loving us. I’m worried about Cassian scaring her off more than anything.”

“Valid concern. See you soon. Despite the circumstances, I’m so happy she’s here.”

“You know,” Rhys chuckled. “I feel the same way about you, Starshine.”

“You flatter me. Now enjoy your flight with the literal girl of your dreams.”

“She’s glaring daggers at me right now. Pray I make it there alive.”

“Where’d you go?” Az nudged.

Leaning into her mate’s side, embracing the warmth of his arms wrapped around her shoulders she replied, “Rhys and Feyre are on the way.”

“Are you ready for this?” He asked.

“I’m sure you can already feel my nerves down the bond but I appreciate you for asking.” She teased.

Azriel kept his pace slow as they wound through the hallways of the House of Wind toward the dining table. “If you’re not ready…”

She took a steadying breath. “No, he needs to get off on a solid foundation with her. And Cassian, Mor, and Amren have eyed us for a while, they realize that something is off. Plus, I mean, look at this thing.” Her delicate hands found her stomach. “They’re going to figure out that the timelines don’t match up soon enough.”

“Our girl IS growing.” Azriel spoke, not missing the opportunity to feel the life growing within his mate.

She teased, “You’ve referred to the babe as “her” a few times now. Coming around to the idea?”

“I know better than to go against your intuition.”

With that, Y/N gave a wicked grin. “Mother knows best.”

As they approached the dining room, Azriel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be right by your side.”

She beamed. “And I’ll be by yours too, with whatever you may share tonight…and forever, of course.”

As everyone arrived and gathered at the dining table, Y/N couldn’t help but admire how lovely Feyre and Rhys were together. Though she hated the situation that brought her there, that Tamlin tried to hoard her away in his manor, she couldn’t help but feel joy knowing that she was finally beginning to see the true Rhysand.

The Inner Circle kept up with the typical antics and plenty of laughter filled the space, but the conversation eventually turned more serious as everyone took turns giving Feyre insight into themselves.

Feyre looked to Y/N with curiosity. “You were under the mountain, but Azriel was not?”

Her hands shook as she prepared to share. A warmth covered them as Azriel gave a gentle squeeze, sending waves of that reassurance in abundance. She took a breath.

She began by sharing the background of her family, their deaths, that she’d sold her body to survive afterward, how she’d only been under the mountain for a year before Feyre arrived.

“You didn’t know Azriel before they took you?” Feyre asked. Not harshly, just inquisitively.

Y/N held her head high. Her story was not one to be ashamed of.

“I did not. Rhys was one of the only souls to show me kindness under the mountain. I have nymph ancestry with primarily High Fae features. Amarantha took an interest in me and….”

An unreadable expression covered Rhys’ face. This was his trauma too, but he gave a reassuring nod.

“She began taking me to her chambers. I had no choice. It was warm her bed, or face physical torture until death.”

Feyre flinched along with Rhys. Y/N recognized that they were remembering the human girl Amarantha had tortured to death just before Feyre’s arrival.

“She also, against our hopes, realized that Rhysand and I had an understanding of eachother - serve her or die. Being the lust-driven wretch that she was, she began taking us both to her chambers. There was no room for weakness in there. She wanted us just weak enough to submit to her, but we had to remain strong in every other aspect. The first time she had Rhys and I, together,” she cleared her throat, giving pause before continuing, “Rhys saved me. I began to crack, and he held my mind. I will let Rhys speak on his own trauma and the mental load he carried, but he didn’t hesitate to help me get through it. It was not the last time he had to help me through it.”

The table was completely silent. Heart-wrenching expressions filled each face at the table. Palpable rage could be felt radiating off of Amren, though her face remained straight.

Her voice began cracking. Azriel pulled her close into him. “When you saved us,” She looked to Feyre. “I don’t mean to fawn or gawk over you, but Feyre, you did save us.” Feyre gave an empathetic look, nodding to Y/N to continue. “Rhys brought me back to Velaris because he couldn’t bear for me to return to the life I was living, because this Court of Dreams is made up of individuals who have lived through terrible traumas and, despite every reason to lead bitter lives- have chosen to dream of a better world. To fight for a better world. And he knew a certain Shadowsinger and I would get on quite well. In fact, he’s been a smug bastard ever since over just how well things went between us.”

“When I met him.” She stared lovingly to Azriel who swallowed a lump in his throat. “The bond snapped between us immediately. The same day I was brought here, I met my mate.”

Instinctively she placed her hands on the swell of her abdomen. “Rhys gave Azriel leave to spend time with me, for him to help me through the aftermath of what I’d been through…”

“But two weeks after arriving back, my scent began to shift.” Mor’s brows furrowed in contemplation.

“I became very sick shortly after that. Rhys called in a healer, Madja, who confirmed that I was two and a half months pregnant.”

Cassian audibly gasped and Mor murmured “Oh my gods.”

Azriel kept his composure for the sake of his mate, but this was killing him. His brother and his mate being forced by that fucking witch. “Azriel is not the biological father of this baby. The child was conceived under the forced coupling of Rhysand and I by Amarantha.”

Feyre’s face was a mix of sadness, and rage, and sympathy.

“There were options to terminate the pregnancy. However, due to my Nymph ancestry, such options can have negative, potentially deadly effects. Aside from that, though I never planned to have a child - I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another family member. Rhys, after losing his family, felt the same, which he only expressed after I shared my feelings with him. He was completely supportive of any decision I made.” Feyre looked to Rhys and then back to Y/N, no negative judgement written on those lovely features.

Y/N looked to Azriel with a loving grin “And Azriel- he took me to a priestess that night. We both wanted to accept the bond from the moment we met, the connection was unbelievably strong, I never believed in the power of the bond until I found him. And now because he’s ever the romantic, though I see him already blushing at the mention of it, he wanted to make a vow before the Mother - a vow to love me no matter what choice I made, a vow to love the life within me as his very own child, to love and cherish us both until his last breath.”

She pulled the sleeve off of her shoulder, revealing the intricate tattoo solidifying his vow.

“And Rhys,” She gave a soft smile. “He made a bargain to love and care for this child and to recognize Azriel as its father. We will not hide the parentage from our child. And Rhys, I know, already loves them dearly, but mine and Azriel’s decisions for our baby come first and will be respected as any biological parents would.”

She’d left out the part where Azriel had gone under the mountain to investigate later on and found that Amarantha had begun supplying a fertility tonic instead of birth control to Y/N after the Calanmai that Rhys had gone to the Spring Court and seen Feyre. Though she didn’t know who Rhys saw, she likely suspected he’d developed interest in someone else and become jealous, hoping an accidental pregnancy would either create a rift in any potential relationship or, even worse, that the baby could be used as leverage against him.

The table remained silent until Rhys chimed in. “So my brother is my child’s father. I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

Despite that sadness the Inner Circle felt, Rhysand’s comment elicited smiles. Azriel gave his brother a nod of thanks for breaking the tension while affectionately caressing his mate.

Mor eased the tension further by chiming in “Y/N! You are further along than we realized which means….. we get to go shopping for our newest family member sooner!!!”

Feyre decided soon after that she would like to work with the Court of Dreams.

————————-

Epilogue

Because his mate was always right, Azriel was indeed the father of a beautiful little girl, clever and stubborn like her mother, and the light of his life. Her mother the sun, and she the moon.

He and Rhys had just returned from taking “Baby Azzie” who was now a toddler to get pastries along the Sidra. Azriel returned with his half-asleep daughter in his arms, who perked up upon seeing her baby brother cooing in his bassinet. “Nyxie!!” She yelled, hurrying over to the winged babe. Rhys, however, arrived with numerous shopping bags in his own arms.

Feyre, who had been lounging with her head on Y/N’s shoulder gave the two a big smile. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “All of that better be for Nyx.”

Azriel and Rhys shared a laugh before Rhys spoke. “Well, half of it is, but only because someone batted her little lashes at us repeating ‘Brother, present. Brother, present’ until we took her into what is conveniently her favorite toy store.” Az cut in, “And because my brother is getting soft in his old age” before Rhys could remind Azriel that he was, in fact, the older of the two, Az continued, “Rhys had to buy something for her for every item she picked out for Nyx.”

Y/N groaned. “Cassian literally just bought her five new toys and six new outfits on their last outing.”

The raven-haired toddler with her mother’s nose and radiant skin, Rhys’ smile, and by some gift of the Mother - had Azriel’s golden-flecked hazel eyes, toddled up to Feyre, giving her a big hug. She then turned to her mother, leaning in to whisper something, that came out as quietly as a yell. “I got something for sissy too. Daddy has it in the pocket realm.”

Y/N’s face flushed as Rhys and Feyre gaped. “So much for keeping that a secret for a little longer.”

Feyre squealed leaning in and throwing her arms around Y/N. “I thought that maybe I was getting allergies, your scent hasn’t been as strong but you were glamouring it!”

Rhys pulled Azriel into a long hug, then walked over to Y/N with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Azriel placed a hand on his chest as he took in the sight of his blended family. It wasn’t what he’d ever expected but, to him, it was everything.

#feyre #rhysand #azriel x pregnant mate #Azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel one shot #angst #sarah j maas #READ THE WARNINGS PLEASE #feysand #under the mountain #amarantha #acotar angst #acotar x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

[throneofsapphics]

Oh gods your angst fics are just so so so so good. The knuckles one? Give it to me in an IV drip 😭

Please I beg (gently), a fic where the bat boys or poly acotar couple keep the reader from harming themselves?

So sorry if this is too dark, or not something you’re interested in! Please ignore if so.

Thank you for being so talented 💕

a different kind of fear 

(part two)

Nessian x Reader

Summary: Nesta and Cassian catch reader at a vulnerable moment. 

Warnings: self harm, descriptions of injuries, blood, angst-ish?, not proofread 

A/N: you are so damn sweet thank you <3, I’m glad you like them! I surprised myself doing nessian for this, but I’ve already got ideas for a feysand one too 

Everything was too much. Too gods-damned much, she thought she’d lose it. She wanted control over something - anything. 

Her eyes found the small line up of daggers on the chest. Some of them hers, most of them Cassian or Nesta’s. 

Almost on autopilot, she walked towards them, eyes zeroing in on her first. Her hand grasped the cool metal of the dagger. Grounding her, bringing her an inch back towards reality. A small shift and she faced the mirror. The coolness against her skin felt right. Slowly she pressed it against her forearm, letting it rest against her pulse. She winced as she shifted it slightly, a small knick on her forearm, and the blood dripped down - falling on the cream colored nightgown. It felt strangely like warm water. 

She felt out of control, like her body was moving on its own - her mind separate from her conscious. Every inch of her focused on that small cut. On how it felt good - good to have some sort of control. She gave her attention to the mirror, and brought it up towards her neck. She knows she won’t slit her throat - won’t kill herself, but the temptation to feel that kind of control, to feel the metal against her skin was too much, and she brought it up towards her throat. 

It could have been seconds - or hours, but she stood there, slightly shifting the knife back and forth. She winced as a small slice cut against the front of her throat - not enough to kill or severely injure her, but blood dripped down her throat, her chest, staining the top of her nightgown - turning it a sort of pink color. Freedom, that’s how it felt. 

-

Nesta thought she knew fear. She’d faced death and spit it’s cold and ugly face, but walking into their bedroom, Cassian on her tails, to see her in front of the mirror, a knife held to her neck, blood trailing down her skin, in a trance of sorts, her eyes far gone from this reality. Fear, pure fear filled both her and her mate behind her. She glanced at Cassian, and his eyes had gone wide and she could hear his heart nearly bleeding out of his chest. 

He took a few steps - silent, careful not to scare her, not with how damn close that knife is to slitting her throat. Gods she was already bleeding, the blood soaking her neck and dripping onto her clothes. She wanted to sprint over there, to rip that damned dagger from her hands and clutch her tightly, but a warning glance from Cassian kept her from doing that. 

-

She heard the door open and close, vaguely aware of someone else’s presence in the room. Two someone’s. Cassian and Nesta. She couldn’t bring herself to lower it, her body froze in place. 

“Y/n.” Cassian’s voice was gentle and soft, “put the knife down sweetheart,” but she didn’t miss the demand in his voice. Almost a command, trying to force her to do something. Her mind recoiled against it, even as the sensible part of her knew she should listen. 

“Put it down.” Nesta’s voice was harsher, and she spotted Cassian glaring at her from the mirror. They kept taking careful steps towards her, and she watched. Her body was completely still, frozen in time and place. 

As she didn’t move, they kept carefully approaching. Then, she felt their panic. A tang of guilt ran through her, but before she could process it more, a large hand clasped around her wrist, yanking it away from her, squeezing until she dropped it. 

Smaller hands tugged her back, away from the mirror, and spun her - crushing her into Nesta’s chest. One hand dug in the back of her hair, holding her tightly. Nesta was shaking, she realized - her hand shaking slightly against the back of her head. 

“Get her cleaned up.” Cassian sounded unusually grave. She half expected Nesta to snip back at the order, like she usually would, but the female led her towards the bathroom. Y/n was vaguely aware of Nesta washing her, her pinched face as she cleaned the small wounds - already healing quickly, but she still rubbed a salve over them. For once, she didn’t protest and let Nesta dress her, taking care of everything.

When they came back out, there wasn’t a single blade in sight. Cassian stood by the door, his hair ruffled like he’d been running his hands through it. He saw the exhausted expression on her face - fatigue had set in. 

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” His voice was clipped, but there was a softness in his eyes. Nesta shuffled her over to the bed, pushing her towards the middle. They caged her in on each side, holding her tightly, like she might disappear at any given moment.

#READ THE WARNINGS PLEASE #nessian x y/n #nessian x reader #cassian x y/n #cassian x reader #nesta archeron x y/n #nesta archeron x reader #poly!nessian #poly!nessian x reader #poly!nessian x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar fic #not proofread my bad

[aboyshapeddog]

WIP ⚠️

Jacob Gives Staci The Boyfriend Treatment

Relationships: Staci Pratt/Jacob Seed

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Drug Use, Smut, Unhealthy Dynamics, VERY Dubious Consent, Dom/Sub dynamic, Bliss = Slutweed, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Intox Kink, Dark, Massages, Rough S*x, Daddy Kink (kind of), PWP, Violence

Staci wasn’t allowed to consider refusing the Seeds, ever; the thought alone was in a territory his brain was no longer wired to reach. So when the Herald of the whitetails offered him a lit joint (what the fuck), his only questions were internal.

“Finish this for me will you?”, Jacob’s grumbling voice brought him to focus, the thing hadn’t been touched. Staci couldn’t remember the last time he’d smoked either. The familiar and just as unfamiliar smell filled his chest, it made his stomach twist. “Yes Sir.” Staci agreed like his words meant anything, then he reached for it, whatever the fuck it was.

“Aht aht aht.” His hands were both held still by one of Jacob’s own, whose movements always seemed to be a step ahead of his somehow. Instead the larger man pinched the burning piece between two fingers and brought it directly to Staci’s lips.

His voice was low, “Show me you know what you’re doing first, Deputy”. Staci didn’t hesitate, he leaned forward, wrapping his lips around the end of it, looking down as he took a sharp pull, to save himself from the intimacy of connecting eyes. He coughed into his hand, and smoke puffed out through the spaces between his fingers. Jacob smiled and let out a short laugh, “Been a while?” the personable part of Staci wanted to smile too, he didn’t. The joint was pressed back against his lips, he caught Jacob’s eyes this time; they were calculating, observant in the same manner he used to track deer, fowl, and rabbits; prey.

When Staci inhaled this time it was long and slow, like a well deserved drag from a cigarette; his mother would be sick at the sight. He was reminded of the D.A.R.E. t-shirts she’d gotten them both after attending a program at his high school. The smoke curled in his chest, he let it idle there before blowing it out of his nose with practiced grace. Sorry Mom. Jacob’s grin then was something Staci recognized too - wolfish, wild, and fucking ecstatic, the cat that caught the canary, he could be sick.

Jacob released the deputy’s hands and moved to his large oak desk, grabbing a clipboard off the top and clicking a pen. he motioned with one hand for Staci to approach, and Staci, like a good dog, silently took his position beside and behind Jacob.

The large man scribbled on the sheet in front of him, every once in a while pausing to think . . . creating a brief permeating silence before the scratching would continue. Jacob held the joint in his left hand, lifting it into Staci’s space with one hand while the other continued to jot notes. Pratt had to lean down to get his mouth on the thing, so he leaned.

As he took another long pull, Jacob turned to look at him directly; eyes like dissection pins, the thoroughness of the examination made him falter. Staci coughed again, and Jacob scratched another note on the clipboard. They locked eyes and Staci felt a nail through his gut, Jacob was studying him.

Knowing Jacob, this could be like his own personal project ARTICHOKE. Staci’s thoughts were already racing; jumping off the springboard of paranoia, and here he was, anonymous test subject PEACHES directly under Jacob’s thumb. No, that’s what angels were for, come on Staci. He took another big hit. Jacob hummed to himself “Only You”, glancing back at Pratt every once in a while. Staci stared straight ahead.

The nervousness clawed at his gut like it could tear out of him and save itself from whatever fate awaited its owner, he couldn’t stop himself, “What’s in that?”. His voice was hoarse from the smoke and disuse but he kept it steady, he cleared it and continued “uh, Sir.” Jacob ashed it before turning to face the deputy, “Worried about something?” He chuckled, only waiting a moment before standing to his full height and sticking the blunt between Staci’s parted lips. “It’s a personal blend, a gift.” He spoke with the same nonchalance he used when noting ration cuts and delivery schedules. “You’ve been promoted to my personal food tester, Pratt.”

Jacob sparked the lighter underneath it again, watching the cherry turn bright red as Staci hesitated. Exhaled. Then inhaled.

They stood in silence, the sound of the second hand of the old clock on the wall struck like thunder in Staci’s ears. “Tell me, how are you feeling?” What kind of question was that. How should he be feeling? He was lonely, tired, hungry, he couldn’t remember being anything else since his arrival. “Sore.” Oh yeah, that too. Somehow while he was stuck in his own head, Jacob had closed the distance between them again, staring down at his deputy and taking in every minute expression. “Sore.” Staci said again, his words seeming less and less of his own volition.

The redhead turned his partner around, pulling the small man’s back to his chest, and firmly running his hot hands down the younger mans sides “Here?” he asked. The sensation sent shivers down the deputy’s spine, he could feel his muscles twitch under the contact. “Umm, no actually. More near my uh neck, and shoulders.” Jacob released his hold and went to note something on his clipboard, Staci charted every movement. Then Jacob’s hands were on his shoulders, thumbs digging into his trapezius, the pressure, pain, and relief almost made his knees buckle. Jacob noticed “Right here?” his question was more of an acknowledgment, but Staci answered anyways. “Y-yeah. Right there” his voice was as low now as it was rough, jesus did he really sound like that.

He should stop, he thought to himself, really, but god his mind was racing. When was the last time somebody had touched him like this, when was the next time anyone would take care of him again, if there was a next time. “Stop thinking so much Pratt, I can smell the smoke coming from your ears.” Was he that obvious? Staci relaxed into the other mans touch, taking another drag of the “personal blend” and letting his head loll to the side. The deputy allowed himself to be completely hypnotized, eyelids fluttering shut, and taking deep, heavy, breaths.

Jacob worked silently, a silence the deputy had come accustomed to, diligently massaging the tight tissue; stretching and kneading the others tan skin under his fingertips. Staci let out a breathy groan, shocking himself out of his trance. He shot up to perfect posture. Only to be shoved down into Jacob’s chair, “I said relax, Pratt.” And he did, taking another hit, fuck he was already so high he was laying back nearly boneless in the Herald’s arms. “Now-“ the older man started, continuing to massage as he spoke, “How are you feeling?”. Staci sighed deeply. Warm, fuzzy “Good” he breathed out, “A little uh lightheaded, and uh”, horny- his eyes flitted open. Not now, not with half a mind in front of Jacob. Mot like he could help it but holy fuck now was not the time. “Good?” Jacob responded, running his hands up and down the younger mans sides. Staci tried to ignore the way it tingled in his gut “Yes Sir, Good. Thank you, Sir.” Jacob smiled. “Good.” He removed his hands from Pratt, who promptly began tensing and relaxing his closed fists on his thighs, while Jacob made another quick note on his board.

He was back, again, in the blink of an eye, now sitting on his desk across from Staci. The mountain before him leaned down slowly, taking the brunettes ankle in his hand and unlacing a boot, then sitting himself back upright, bringing the socked foot into his lap. “How about here Pratt, this sore.” His voice was lower now too. “Yes Sir.” Pratt answered too quickly, wanting needing Jacob’s warm hands on him again. Jacob smiled. “Alright Pratt, that’s good, i’ll take care of you.”

Jacob slipped off the man’s jeans and continued his slow methodical journey of tenderizing every bit of meat on his body; cracking toes, and rolling his ankles, then firm squeezes up around his claves to the pits of his knees. Staci was in heaven. Sinking deep into his seat still smoking like a chimney, he was reduced to muted gasping and groaning through a fist over his mouth, while the joint burned down to the filter. Jacob, ever the observer, took hold of it when the stoner started burning paper, casting it aside to his pristine ash tray before getting right back to work. “How are you feeling now, Staci?”Jacob’s voice tickled in the deputy’s ear, he smiled and puffed out the last bit of smoke he’d been holding through his nose, “I’m-“ he interrupted himself with a short laugh “I’m excellent.” He smiled wide before adding “Sir.”

Jacob smiled back, nowhere near as lighthearted. “Excellent?” he asked, and Staci knew that smile; he’d been on the receiving end every time a food can had been placed just far enough out of reach. But right now, body and mind singing praises for the earth Jacob walked on, he cherished it. His body seemed to follow his thoughts without filter, leaning closer to the Seed as he nodded “mmhmm.” Jacob let him, leaning even closer so he could whisper in the younger mans ear. “Well isn’t that nice. Unfortunately I don’t think that’s true, Peaches.” He slid a firm hand slowly up the muscle of Staci’s thigh, inching his way in to press his open palm hard against the fat bulge in the Deputy’s briefs. Staci gasped loud, shutting his eyes as a wave of pleasure crashed over his body, “Fuckin- mierda.” he choked. “You’re telling me you don’t want any help with this, sweetheart?” Jacob tutted, grinding the heel of his palm against Staci’s hard cock. “Dios mio, please.” Jacob loved it when he begged, with those wide brown cow eyes, long dark lashes, and pretty pink lips always a little wet and raw from being chewed on.

“Oh don’t you look pretty.“ He admired with clear condescension. “I’m gonna need you to use your words, Staci; ask me to take care of you.” The poor kids mind must have been a soup, Jacob knew it. The way he blinked slow, his eyes seeming to get stuck on one thing or another for too long. But now, he was pink, in his cheeks and his fingertips, panting with his legs spread wide for Jacob; his eyes practically crossing as he made contact. “Take, take care of me. Please, Sir.” Perfect. “Atta boy.”

For Staci it was a blur, hot hands everywhere, manipulating his drunk feeling body. For Jacob it was tying his own neck with a lobster bib, pulling the smaller man’s briefs down and spreading his knees over his own. Jesus, Jacob thought, the poor mutt was leaking already. He didn’t hesitate, sliding his hand over the top of Staci’s cock, and twisting his fist over the dripping head just so- “Ahnnnn fuckingh Jake-” there it was. “That’s right, i’m gonna make you feel real good.” Pratt really knew how to whet his appetite. Jacob spit directly on Staci’s cock, and used his free hand to squeegee saliva straight from his tongue. Staci just took it, lying still while Jacob violated his mouth, it made Jacob hungry.

He pulled his wet fingers out of Staci’s mouth and coiled them in his hair, wrenching his head back so Jacob could lick the inside of his mouth. Staci stuck his tongue out for good measure. “You fucking whore.” Jacob panted wet breaths into Pratt’s mouth, “You take off your pants for every man that gives you a joint?” Staci kept his tongue out. “This is all it takes to get you swallowing my spit and humping my hand, a little brain buzz and a few minutes of the boyfriend treatment. You are pathetic, Peaches.” The Herald ground his cock against his the other man’s ass as he spoke. The deputy’s wordless whines dripped drool on his uniform shirt.

Jacob used his larger size to keep Staci pinned in place, one arm holding him tight, and the other jerking his cock at a torturously slow pace. Staci begged and bucked his hips, dizzy with endorphins, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Well, not literally. Jacob heard every halted “oh god” “feelssso-“ “mierda” and reveled in it. “please, uhn- Jay“ Oh he was perfect wasn’t he. “Jesus you’re a fucking mess.” The herald chastised like it didn’t turn him on even more.

“You like it when a big man takes charge of you?” He lined up a slick finger with the smaller man’s hole “Hmm Staci?” and shoved it in deep. “Yes. Yes, Sir.” Staci would be mortified at the degradation if he weren’t on the verge of exploding. Jacob thrust his finger in and out of the deputy, switching their positions again so he could slip in a second. Now he had the younger man balancing on tiptoes, bent over his desk, hard cock hanging over the edge. Staci’s legs locked at the knees to present his wet hole like breeding stock. The deputy pressed his forehead against the cool polished wood.

Jacob fucked two fingers in, curling them as he slowly pushed in and out of Staci’s tight heat. “Alright, yeah. I’ll be your Daddy.” Jacob grunted, starting to work his own cock with oil and line it up with his partner’s entrance. Then so slowly, pushing the head in. “oh fucking God.” Pratt whimpered, and Jacob just as slowly rolled his hips, fucking deeper into the smaller man with every motion. Staci whined when their hips met, gasping, and hiding his face deeper in his arms as the clap of Jacob’s hips against his ass echoed through the room. Fuck this was so dirty.

The herald started picking up his pace, and force, the kid had his fun, now it was Jacob’s turn. He grunted with every thrust, leaning down to squeeze the deputy’s cock as he bottomed out, slamming deep against his prostate. Moans were pushed out of Staci’s lungs now, with every connection of their hips his back curled, shoving his body forward like dead weight. Jacob was so deep it almost hurt, “W-wait can you, uh Jay-“ a hand was thrown over Staci’s mouth “Not now sweetheart, it’s Daddy’s turn” he sounded as sympathetic as he could manage as he pinned into the other man with reckless abandon. A gargled moan with drool slipped through his fingers, he smiled wide, and pressed a kiss to the deputy’s back. He fucked into Staci like a toy, gripping his hips and pulling them hard against his own. Staci’s legs trembled, switching from one foot to the other to keep his ass high enough for Jacob’s liking. “That’s a good boy.” Staci whined again, causing more drool to pool beneath Jacob’s hand.

“Just like that.” And just like that Staci was cumming, choking out a moan and fat white puddles between Jacob’s uniform boots. His legs trembled and he fucked into nothing as he eked out the last drops.

This was overwhelmingly ignored, save for a low whistle Jacob let out at the sight, and it sure was a sight. Staci collapsed in from of him, hair slick to his face from tears, sweat, and smothered drool. Jacob fucked him mercilessly, still tugging at his pink cock as it dangled between his legs. “Please Jacob it’s too- it hurts, please I can’t.” In lieu of a verbal response the other man bit him, hard at first, before licking and nibbling his neck and shoulders; it mixed the sensitivities excruciatingly. Then Jacob was growling right in his ear, “I’m gonna get every last drop out of you, then i’m gonna breed your little ass”. It was all so much. The larger man fucked continually, hard and deep, pin pointing his sensitive spots with every thrust. His hand too, twisted around the head of his cock, teasing the over sensitive slit like he meant torture another orgasm out of him. “Please, I-“ his mind went completely blank, knees folding and collapsing again into Jacob’s arms.

It wasn’t long before Jacob joined him, thrusts becoming more sporadic, and harsh before “Fffuck.” Jacob panted, now directly into Pratt’s neck as he crushed the poor man beneath him. Staci could feel the warm semen dripping down his thighs, it made him shiver. He felt disgusting, truly, but Jacob all over him and inside of him it felt so so good. The older man grumbled above him, lifting himself off of the deputy slightly, and slowly pulling out his cock. More cum on the floor, now dripping directly out of his ass and Staci could feel it.

Staci made to stand up himself but Jacob pushed him back down, and said“Stay.” So Staci stayed, until Jacob came back with a damp cloth, wiping him down thoroughly with a gentle hand. Staci didn’t dare utter a word.

They were both dressed in no time, Staci itching to run and hide in the nearest shower or cage for eternity. “Before you go..” Jacob started, “Yes, Sir” Staci was too eager again, “How are you feeling?” The question felt heavy without the lip loosening that the drug had given him, he really couldn’t say, he really shouldn’t say . . . “Sore, Sir.” came out again, and he was. Jacob scribbled down another note on his clipboard, seeming to finalize whatever assessment he’d been conducting. “Good.” In his experience, Good could also mean Dismissed; Staci walked to the door before turning around, and pausing, “I think the blend is good, Sir. If you want to try it yourself. Sir.” They locked eyes, reading one another for what felt like minutes, and there was that hunters look again. “I’ll make a note of that, thank you, Pratt.”

#WIP #ns/fw #jacob x staci #jacob seed/staci pratt #staci/jacob #nsft #staci pratt #jacob seed #jacob seed x staci pratt #READ THE WARNINGS PLEASE #here’s a short one .. these are all works in progress cause i don’t have the time right now to fine tune everything #i do have a longer one i’m writing right now #i’m thinking of posting it on archive just cause of how long it is but idk we’ll see i might just drop it on here when it’s done #even though this one is long-ish for a oneshot #but this one was kind of crazy no ?? #lmk if it’s too out of pocket i get ahead of myself #also i promise not all of my ficus will have drug use i just came up with 2 of these while high so … c’est la vie #⚠️

[saengak]

of claws and tusks

Summary: Plo Koon survives Order 66, only to share the fate of his people when Dorin does not submit to the will of the Empire. (Or, war crimes are committed against the Kel Dor and Plo suffers.)

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: M/M Fandoms: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types Relationship: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe Characters: Kel Dor Characters (Star Wars), 104th Battalion | Wolfpack Battalion Members (Star Wars: The Clone Wars) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), Plo Koon Lives, Slavery, Kel Dor Culture & Customs (Star Wars), war crimes against the Kel Dor, Threatened Harm to Children, actual harm to adults, Mental Health Issues, Plo Koon Needs A Hug, Character Death, Dehumanization, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

#plo koon #wolffe #plowolffe #ploffle #the clone wars #tcw #sw #star wars #commander wolffe #of claws and tusks #NEW FIC NEW FIC #I was struck by the muse like lightning #I'm very sorry Plo #I promise I adore you #read the warnings please

[chaoticgeminate]

Allure

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4.1K Content Warnings: Thar be monsterfucking ahead (Din is an alien here), sex pollen/pheromone influence (but consensual), mentions of crazy alien biology for pointless plot and because I'm a nerd, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! Notes: This is a birthday request/gift to @hardc0rehaylz! Hope you enjoy, birthday girl 💙 Reader has the nickname "Miss Fortune" but I tried to avoid any other descriptors.

Something was wrong with you.

For the past week you’d begun waking up overheated, sheets stained from sweat and messy drenched underwear, and you’d wondered if you were having some really good dreams that you just weren’t remembering but never had it been a week straight consistently. The only saving grace was that your new traveling companions, Mando and Grogu, were in the crew bunks while you had your soundproofed Captain’s quarters.

You couldn’t begin to imagine the quick death you’d be given for potentially “corrupting” the child.

Taking on the armored bounty hunter and his green pollywog as a crew hadn’t been in your plans but he had promised good pay and Peli was able to modify the star fighter port on your ship to fit his N-1 without an issue. A scrapper and a bounty hunter, the pair of you were definitely something and as much as his quiet demeanor had been kind of off-putting at the start you’d gotten to know his body language pretty well.

The kid was cute too, so that was always a plus.

You let out the softest sound of annoyance before getting up, taking the coldest shower you could since you were set to land today and drop off some of the higher value scrap stored in the hull. It would have been nice to be able to take care of yourself but that just wasn’t in the cards, instead you willed that ache away as best you could under the ice cold spray. A fresh two-piece flightsuit was thrown on over your compression leggings and thermal top –it wasn’t exactly warm in space, even with environmental controls- and after tugging on your boots you made your way toward the bridge.

You noticed Mando and Grogu sitting in the lounge area, the pollywog was playing with that little metal ball you saw him with constantly while the armored hunter was looking over your spare datapad with electronic schematics in it. His old ship was pre-Empire so he struggled with some of the repairs on yours, his way of chipping in was to handle minor fixes for you since he’d paid to install a mobile carbonite unit, so he’d been determined to learn what he could.

But watching him sit up straighter, the way his shoulders practically jumped, made you pause. His helmet turned slowly toward you and it almost came across as a bashful gesture.

“Mando? You okay there?” His shoulders drooped as he nodded and you decided to ignore his weird behavior, since there was no chance in the Maker that he’d ever actually tell you what was wrong with him. Instead you hit the bridge and double checked the coordinates and autopilot settings, your astromech was in the process of repairs and waiting for you back at the Guild headquarters so everything was manual for now, and Mando was lucky that he could do the calculations in his head after nearly destroying Belt.

You sat down in your seat and smiled when you heard Mando’s heavy steps take the gunners chair, he’d deferred to your flying after a particularly nasty dogfight you’d won while soaring through an asteroid field. With you in the pilot’s seat and him in the gunner chair no other scrappers or smugglers had been able to bully Lady Luck away from a haul again. Added to the repairs and modifications Mando helped fund, after you were introduced to the stubborn and charming –in her own way- Peli Motto, your light freighter was a bounty hunter and scrapper’s dream.

Neither of you spoke as you navigated through the energy barricades, landing in your designated dock at the spaceport, and you waved to a few of the usual attendants after opening the cargo doors so they could begin unloading. Jaxom waved at you and an amused smile crossed the Toydarian’s face as Mando walked just behind you, very close to your back, but your eyes landed on the numerous Jawa convoys that were here to buy up what they could.

The little scavengers weren’t unusual here but they were known to try and steal right out of fresh drops, luckily for you the loading and unloading crews weren’t amateurs.

“Welcome back, Miss Fortune, I already see several high credit items being unloaded as we speak and am quite eager to see what you might’ve brought home.” You shrugged Jaxom’s arm off your shoulder and playfully punched the Guild Coordinator in the arm. His flirting wasn’t anything serious but you still discouraged it where you could, you did not want to give him the idea that you’d ever accept his company.

“Hands to yourself Jax, I know where them mitts of yours have been.”

“You wound me, but I suppose you’re right, I keep telling you not to assume the Hutts aren’t good lovers.”

“Yuck, no fuckin’ way you disgusting slug licker. Is Belt repaired yet?” You nearly buckled at the sudden touch of Mando’s gloved hand on your lower back as he moved beside you, the heat that shot through your body almost made you fall into him, and your everything responded enthusiastically to the contact. Jaxom looked between the two of you and his hands rose in a placating gesture before he stepped aside to go count up your haul, leaving you to head into the workshop where Belt greeted you with a cheerful chime.

The entire walk you had Mando’s hand on you, the heat of it practically radiating through his glove, and as much as you wanted to him ask why he was doing that your tongue had felt like it was swollen and you were almost wondering if anyone could see the effect it had on you.

Belt chimed and the BB-2 unit rolled over toward you with a cheerful little cry, you crouched down and immediately hugged him close. With Mando’s hand off your back there was just enough of a sharpness that returned to you, something was definitely wrong but you couldn’t run a health scan quite yet.

“Belt, look at you, lookin’ real good now. Mando promised not to try and shoot you again, okay? So if he tries anything let me know right away.” The droid hummed and its head shifted to look up into the dark visor, then back to you, before Belt chirped and whistled in agreement. You couldn’t help but smile when Grogu whined and reached for the droid, he’d devloped a quick attachment after all, but it was even cuter as Mando set the child on Belt’s dome head and the droid rolled after the armored hunter with Grogu on him.

You bit your cheek to avoid laughing and waved to Grogu, heading for the cantina for a drink and to meet with Jaxom for your pay as Belt followed Mando back onto Lady Luck. The fact that getting distance from Mando made that strange heat burning under your skin dissipate a little didn’t really clock you as strange, even though it should have, and Jaxom watched the door as you walked in as if waiting for the bounty hunter to follow.

After being grilled about when you’d started sleeping with the tin can –which you hadn’t, even if you wanted to- Jaxom finally paid you and sent you on your way. Mando had two bounties on planets nearby so once refueling was done you were set to leave, your steps were light and you were ready to just lock yourself back in your room for some relief when you stepped into the hull and were nearly bowled over by the sharp spicy musk that practically permeated everything. Your knees trembled and you did go down, after the hull doors closed at least, while you struggled to breathe past the thick air.

Heavy footsteps made you look up and Mando uttered a soft curse, scooping you up with one arm as the other rested just below your ass like a seat as he pressed you against his body and hurried toward your cabin.

“Mando?”

You had a thousand and one questions but your tongue refused to work, everything was starting to feel fuzzy, and Mando continued to utter curses as he set you into your bunk and disappeared. The thick air seemed to follow him, your room suddenly felt too small and your skin was too hot, hurriedly you began to fumble with your flight suit to just get it off. It was like you couldn’t breathe all of a sudden, everything was too tight and your clothes felt itchy and uncomfortable.

“Easy, hey, wait-“

Mando’s return was quiet and the door closed behind him, his hands stilling your movements, and that helmet was practically burning through you.

“You’re okay, it’s not- it’s me, this is my fault.”

“What is it?”

Your voice was hoarse as if you’d been screaming, you felt so thirsty, and Mando took your wrists in one hand before he made you drink from the canteen on his belt.

“My… my species releases pheromones, but they’re not- they become solid for up to an hour on contact with certain atmospheric gasses. Gasses very highly concentrated on this planet. I had to- the kid and the droid are in the bridge and they know not to come out, once we get into the air the pheromones will break down and get recycled out.” He sounded bashful, terrified even, as he explained it to you. The idea that he wasn’t human had occurred to you but not enough to make you linger on it for too long, he looked plenty human and didn’t have lekku popping out of his helmet or horn indents like a Zabrak would need, so learning he was actually not human was only a touch of a surprise.

Mando’s gloved thumb brushed your lower lip, the buttery smooth material catching on your dry skin and you felt that heat return, calling to him. Your soft whimper led to him pressing just a touch harder to your lips, his head tilting just slightly and you clenched your thighs at the gesture because the heat was back. You fel tlike you were burning from the inside but now you knew, it wasn’t the kind of fever you’d suspected.

“So- so y’like turn me on by your pheromones?”

“Only if- only if you’re interested too. It’s- it only takes if you’re also interested in me, somehow it recognizes the biochemical signs of attraction and lust in other species. Otherwise you’d just be sneezing until my mating season ends.”

“Mating- like… like kids?”

“Yes.”

“Not exactly looking to have kids yet, if at all, Mando. It’s why I’ve got an implant.”

“I do too, an implant I mean and I know it works, but my body still thinks- it’s biological to ensure the species continues.”

Your head still felt fuzzy but it wasn’t as bad as before and you found yourself staring into that dark visor wondering, his explanation implied that he could tell you were at least interested in him but not if it went the other way or if you just were the only one in a certain area that was even present to react.

“Does it- why are Belt and Grogu confined to the bridge?” You abandoned your first train of thought, not sure if you wanted to find out that he didn’t want you, instead you focused on the other things going on.

“I don’t want either one of them to suffer any adverse effects, Belt’s internal systems create heat and it might cause the solidified pheromones to gunk up inside his system and the kid is- well we don’t know his species at all. I also- I didn’t want them to hear if… if you wanted help.” The way he grew quiet, nervous, was like lightning down your spine; he was still pinning your arms in place but not in a way that felt threatening.

He wanted you, which honestly just blew you away because he’d never made a sign before, but something was making him hold back.

“Why- why do you sound scared? Are we going to struggle with this if I want you to stay?”

Mando swallowed thickly, so loud you could hear it through the vocoder, and finally he exhaled a heavy breath.

“I only know about this because, well, back when I was at the covert there was another Mandalorian I unintentionally… he reacted to my pheromones.”

“He? Does your species-“

“Sequential hermaphroditism, bidirectional. Depending on the genetic identification of the potential partner my species will… our genitals will change. I have a working set of reproductive organs that are both male and female, but being born male my usual state of being is male and it’s what I identify as.” You blinked and the influx of new information made you struggle against his hands, the hunter letting you go and flinching when you captured one of his hands in yours as you sat up.

“Talk to me, Mando, what happened.”

“He found out- he found out about me and what I was and rejected me. Publicly, at that, before choosing to fight me. Paz was- he was always larger, more strength in close combat than me, and had the Armorer not intervened he may have been able to overpower me and remove my helmet.” The fact that someone who -if what Mando had told you was completely accurate- had some attraction to Mando was even willing to go that far, to beat the brakes off him, infuriated you. He was scared of being rejected, again, and you squeezed his hand in yours.

The gesture made the air grow thick again, your vision blurring a little, but you situated yourself right in his lap after pushing him to sit on your bed.

“I’m not rejecting you, Mando, I want this. You. But only if you want it too-“

His helmet pressed into your forehead, interrupting you with the gesture, the slur of your voice fading into a whine as those large hands of his moved to hold your hips in place and stop you from grinding into his lap.

“You don’t know how long I have wanted this, mesh’la. But you- you deserve-“

“Don’t you fucking start with that, I don’t care what you think I deserve. It’s about what I want you karking idiot.” To emphasize your statement you tapped your forehead against his helmet and tugged on his cowl, looking right where you were sure his eyes were behind that dark visor. Everything was heightened, the feeling of his hands on you and the sharp need that was burning between your legs, you could see the flecks of soft fuzz in the air, and your tongue tasted sweet as he growled behind that bucket of his.

Clearly your insistence that you wanted him was making him release more of those pheromones.

“I’m going to wreck this needy little cunt, I’m going to be the only one able to fuck you the way you need.” There was threat, promise, and desire all wrapped into that one statement and you tugged harder at his cowl to reveal the tanned skin hidden underneath; he moaned long and loud as you gave into your immediate desire to sink your teeth into that newly revealed skin and leave a sign of your claim. You pulled back just enough to tell him to do something, anything, because your skin felt like it was on fire.

“Mando-“

“Din, my name is Din Djarin, and I’m going to have you screaming it.”

“We’ll see about-“

Your challenge excited him, obviously, if the sudden tearing of fabric was an indicator. The chill of air between your legs made you jolt and pull away from his neck, which also gave Din the advantage he needed to shove you off his lap, and before you could even try to pin him down the hunter was on the move. You backed up as your pride screamed to give him a challenge, a chase, but those damn pheromones made your knees weak.

He captured you in his arms with a low chuckle before dragging you back toward him and you yelped when he spun you around so suddenly, his gloved hand dragging through your wet folds as he shoved your upper body over the pull-out table in your room. You keened at the sensation of his gloved fingers on your skin, trying to struggle but his grip on your wrists was firm as he held them against your lower back, and he used his free hand to hold your legs and maneuver his shoulders between them leaving you fully exposed to him as he crouched behind you.

“That’s it, mesh’la, look at you dripping for me. Don’t try to look.” His warning made you shiver but the hiss of pneumatic pressure releasing followed by the hot breath of air on your exposed cunt was enough to make you keen. You hadn’t realized he’d ripped through the multiple layers you were wearing, the fact that he was strong enough to do so only made you throb, and the clatter of metal was the only warning you got before he began truly devouring you.

It took no time for you to realize his tongue was textured, and not like a human, but not in a way that was painful; it was strange but it felt good, really good as he licked through your folds and stopped to circle your clit. The long, wide, stroke made you moan shamelessly into the tabletop as your floor muscles tried to tighten and relax all at once between the impending orgasm and your body’s desire to take more of him. Every slurp, every suckle, and every touch of his mouth was a rocketing you closer and closer to a dazzling end; it had been cycles since a partner had made you orgasm in bed and your chest heaved as you tried to rock back even a little against his face.

Every breath you took was thick, the air spicy and musky, and your head was spinning in the best way as more and more wetness your body made was lapped up like a massiff with a meiluroon. It was to the point that you couldn’t even close your mouth, his name was a prayer and a plea on your lips as you squirmed with your cheek pressed into the flat surface.

The rasp of facial hair, the low moans of delight from Din vibrating against your body, and the feeling of his leather clad fingers pressing into the skin of your ass with his thumb holding you open wider for him was overwhelming and yet not enough. Your body tightened when his thumb dragged down, his grip on your wrists tightening, and as he used his thumb to circle your clit with that buttery soft leather it was like explosions under your skin.

Everything tightened up and you wailed his name as your orgasm slammed through you, writhing against the sensation as he continued to drink you down, and you were so sensitive that he quickly pushed you into a second orgasm that left you drooling a little from the intensity. Between the hazy pheromones and the endorphins now flooding your system you were pliant as he let your hands go, helmet returned to his head, and Din chuckled softly behind you before you heard the unmistakable sound of his bandolier being set aside.

Din didn’t take off much, you caught a glimpse of his fauld and tasset on the floor, before you heard the zipper sound as he freed himself from his flight suit; he kept you on the table, this time taking your hands and holding them both above your head, and you whimpered when you felt the slick glide of him between your thighs. How you had assumed he’d have a human cock, since he’d proven to be very alien outside of a generally human skin tone and frame, was beyond you so feeling the extra ridges and not quite human shape along his shaft as he slicked himself up with your body left you shivering.

The heat was back and your body was practically leaking at this point, you needed him to fuck you more than you needed to breathe, your tongue felt thick and swollen but you didn’t care how slurred and lust drunk you sounded.

“Din, please Din ‘m so wet- need your cock. Please-“

“That’s it, mesh’la, sound so fucking pretty begging for me.”

Your pleas turned into a sharp inhale and a deep moan from somewhere in your chest as Din’s cock finally pressed between your lips and into your body, it felt so good that your eyes rolled back and a full body shiver made you tense up around him, all while your body stretched deliciously for him. You couldn’t exactly picture what his dick looked like based off the feel but it was alien, he was throbbing inside of you, and that dull heat roared to life as you began trying to squirm.

“Please fuck me- shit, Din please-!”

Your eyes clenched shut as you fought, attempting to get some sort of friction, and Din snarled behind you as he pressed more weight onto your hands and thrust down into your body so deep it felt like he was punching through you. At his base he felt bulbous, the squelch of sound that accompanied him pulling himself back echoed in the room from how wet you were, and the head of him was flatter with a flare to it that kept him from pulling out of you entirely before he was filling you again.

That roaring heat was consuming, your skin hot under the layers of clothes you were both still wearing, and each time he filled you Din’s raspy moans and breathy exhales echoed through his vocoder along with a string of filth. Your own attempts at speech were reduced to pitiful whines or long moans, your fingers flexing as Din held you where he wanted you.

“Maker you’re so fucking tight, so fucking wet-“

The slap of skin on skin was only made more noticeable by the slick noises when he filled you deep and your coordination was all fucked up because of the pheromones so all you could do was lay there and writhe against him.

“Your little cunt was made for me, mesh’la.”

“Y-yes Din, s’yours-!”

You agreement made him release your hands and pull you up, one large hand now spread across the center of your collar as his other arm was banded across your waist since your legs were useless at this point, and even now you fumbled to try and get leverage somewhere. You brought one of your hands up to grip his cowl as your other hand fumbled along the outer seam of your body to feel the shape of him.

Your breath jumped when you felt one of the ridges you’d touched flex and you threw your head back when that part of him slipped out of you and up along your seam, the end of it was also flat but at an angle with a divot of some kind and Din shuddered as you touched the tip of it before he captured your free hand and held it flat against your own chest.

“Let me- I’ll cum too soon if you do that.”

You wailed when that appendage found your clit, the divot resting against your swollen bud, and you could have sworn it was sucking with the sudden and overwhelming sensation that made every muscle in your body tighten up as stars exploded behind your eyelids. You’d never come so hard, every part of your body was tingling like it had fallen asleep from the tips of your toes to your scalp, and the wet splatter of your release on the floor made Din snarl as he continued to fuck up into you.

“Din- ‘s too much I can’t-“

“One more, one fucking more, then I’m going to fill this little cunt. I know you can do it.”

Your body was powerless to resist, and the fact that he was fucking you while standing up with your legs basically reduced to wet noodles was enough to make your cunt spam one last time before Din was humping you as he rode out his own release. Your legs were weak when he began to loosen his grip, making you grab his cowl and arm for support, and Din walked you the few steps over to your bunk before he pulled you against him and used his cloak like a blanket to cover where the two of you were still joined.

“Sleep, mesh’la, rest. I’ll be here.”

You wondered if the pheromones could also cause you to sleep, or if he’d just fucked you out so good that you were exhausted, but your eyelids drooped and as you did slip into dreamland you heard him whispering something in a language you didn’t understand and you smiled knowing that he’d be here when you woke up.

All Fics Taglist: @hardc0rehaylz @wordsnwhiskey @pagannightwitch @radiowallet @musings-of-a-rose

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#chaoticwrites #din x fem!reader #din djarin x f!reader #read the warnings please #minors dni

[embossross]

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2 >> Chapter 3

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: graphic torture (not of reader); murder (not of reader); very very bad therapeutic practice

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of suicide, trauma and abuse, and many more that I don't know yet

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~5k

Any day now, the rainy season will end, bringing a brief respite before the humidity of summer becomes unbearable. You often think about moving to a land with a more temperate climate. A country near the equator, where you could invest in a single wardrobe that works year-round, rather than switching out the contents of your closet five times a year to accommodate the seasons.

Raindrops break through the protective barrier of your hooded cloak. When you lick your lips, you taste cold and wet.

The trip from your apartment to your office is a long one, three-quarters of an hour by train plus a nine-minute walk from the station. Plenty of time for the elements to drench and shake you. Snow in the winters proves especially brutal. Waiting at your office is a change of clothes, cosmetics, and hair product. You construct your work attire like a suit of armor. A blank slate of dry-cleaned perfection distracts from your age and makes patients respect you.

Most patients anyway.

On the train, you scan an article about the winner of last year’s Nenmatsu Jumbo. Through the lens of your phone, you read how the lucky fortunate pledges half his fortune to a shrine in Hokkaido and will spend the rest on sending his four children to private schools, lavish vacations, and a plot of farmland. The winner says he has no intentions of retirement just yet.

700 million yen. A transformative amount of money. You have run the numbers, and with about half that much saved, you would be set for life. No need to worry about disability, disaster, or devils sweeping away your years of hard work. With 350 million yen, you would finally be safe. Happy even.

Hanma Shuji is your winning lottery ticket.

The price you charge for his treatment is obscene; more importantly, if you’re successful, it will unlock a new revenue stream with the Tokyo Manji gang. Their organization must be rife with degenerates, neurotics, and depressives, all with blood money to burn. Ten years of catering to the criminal class, and you may well reach your savings goals. When you think about it at night, you fall asleep with a smile.

Your happy dreams assume, of course, that Hanma doesn’t sabotage you at the get, which is not looking promising.

He’s late.

At the office, you change out of your rain-soaked clothes, blow dry your hair, and read your case notes three times over. Your eyes stray repeatedly to the time on your phone as Hanma’s lateness makes the move from possibility to definitive reality. Arriving a few minutes late seems like Hanma’s style, and arriving fifteen minutes late as a power play might be his m.o. as well, but half an hour? He doesn’t plan to show, and you know it.

You walk to the empty reception room. There are a couple other patients on your case load right now, but you are scheduling their therapy around Hanma’s, clearing entire days just to focus on your golden goose. You even gave your receptionist the day off to ensure his privacy. An hour-long train ride here and an hour back would be for nothing if Hanma ghosts you.

Frustrated, you hover over his name in your contacts. Calling and begging him to participate in his own treatment will cede all authority you have.

While your office is disturbingly minimalist – designed to keep your most distracted patients engaged – the reception room is livened slightly by large windows that overlook central Tokyo. The rain beats against the pane thunderously, but you can still see the activity on the street below. It’s an office district, so mostly fellow professionals leaving for meetings or a working lunch. The street is more active than typical as the Samurai Blue are playing a match at the stadium, and your office block is a well-known detour to the venue. You can make out the blue jerseys as lucky fans stream toward the game and unlucky fans look for a bar to catch the match on TV.

It sparks an idea, and you press Hanma’s name before fully processing it.

“Hello, who is this?” Hanma greets, voice twisted with mockery.

He knows exactly who is calling and why. Your number is already saved in his phone. You ignore the flame it alights in your gut. Hanma likes to play games, and you can oblige that.

“The Samurai Blue are playing right now. Are you near a TV?”

“Hello to you, too. Hide has been resurrected from the dead and is giving an impromptu concert at Tokyo Tower. Are you near a radio?” Hanma says, mirroring your bizarre introduction.

“That’s funny. You’re funny,” you say, momentarily surprised into laughing before you remember you are angry with this man.

“Mmhmm,” Hanma hums. It’s a filler noise. He’s waiting for the inevitable chastisement, to see you plead for his cooperation. He will be disappointed.

“I’m not going to waste your time asking why you are late for our session or if you’re coming in. if you were a typical client, I frankly wouldn’t care. I’d bill you for the session anyway and treat myself to pork belly on your dime. But Kisaki-san has impressed the importance of working with you upon me, so I want to keep this appointment. Rather than beg for you to have mercy and come in –”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you try,” Hanma interrupts.

A spark of memory from your last session. Standing at full height, he was mountainous, easily one of the tallest men you have ever encountered. His wide-legged stance, so much space between to settle at his feet, legs lolled out because spaces weren’t designed to contain a man of his stature. The hint of tenting, possible erection. Predator’s eyes.

You ignore him.

“How about a wager?” Silence. You think that’s a good sign, so you bully on. “If the Samurai Blue score within the next minute and a half, we keep our session today. If not, I start looking for flights out of town for when Kisaki-san sends someone knocking on my door.”

“Kind of funny to imagine it might very well be me that he sends in that eventuality, huh?” Hanma says, though it’s not funny at all. “Fine. You’ve caught my interest. Ninety seconds. They score, we meet, and you can try your psychobabble on me.”

“Perfect.”

There’s a flatscreen to entertain waiting clients, mounted above a gurgling water tank. The remote is missing, so you manually press the power button and scroll until you find the match. On the line is silence as you assume Hanma also finds the right channel.

“Starting now?” Hanma asks.

“Time it.”

You watch as the match unfolds. The Samurai Blue are already down one, and their opponent, red jerseys, have possession of the ball. Blue streaks of activity as the national team tries to defend and retrieve.

You don’t have any special affinity towards football, but only the most stubborn could avoid watching the World Cup or Olympic matches, when the radios blared the action from the open door of every convenience store or market stall. In university, most of your fellow students were men, and you would join them semi-regularly at the student bars to watch a promising match; you would call it “making an appearance.” Your boyfriend keeps up with the international leagues, catching the scores on his phone and commenting on coaching decisions without ever bothering to actually turn on a match.

This wager is a shot in the dark from a gun that may not even be loaded. You have no insider insight to guarantee Japan scores, and probability is against you.

That’s why when the center forward retrieves the ball, barreling past the center circle, your heart rises in your chest. The impossibility of it, this quick drive down the length of the field, from winger to striker and now nearing the goalpost, is a pure shot of adrenaline.

What are the odds? Are they as impossible as winning the Nenmatsu Jumbo, a New Year’s miracle?

The goalie lines up to block, and you will the striker’s attack to land. Millions may be watching, singularly concentrated on this very play, but in this moment, you are on the field. Your will is all that matters.

When the ball connects with the net, Hanma roars on the other side of the phone. He doesn’t groan in disappointment; he’s celebrating the goal. Like you, the adrenaline has drugged him. You stare at the players taking their victory lap in disbelief. Your own celebration a quiet closing of your eyes, a silent prayer.

“How’d you do it, doc?” Hanma whistles into the phone. “Did you bribe the goalie in advance?”

“Pure luck,” you say, a little breathless at how true the words are. You have never been lucky, and it stuns you. You have to will yourself back to professional reserve. “You wouldn’t have been interested enough to take me up on a wager if the odds weren’t completely stacked against me. That’s what makes it exciting.”

While the Tokyo Manji gang runs underground casinos and Mahjong parlors across the city, no one reported Hanma as a gambler. Under the right circumstances, you speculate he would thrive on gambling. The moment of tension, when both the loss and the win feel equally possible, is an adrenaline high, and the kind of thing to electrify a bored misanthrope. You did not plan to test this hunch on Hanma so early, hoping to save it for future sessions, but you are happy to see your suspicions proved accurate.

“Smart, and a coin toss wouldn’t have worked because you couldn’t trust me to be honest about the results, and I wouldn’t trust you in return. You know, you’re pretty manipulative. Are you sure you’re not a sociopath?” Hanma says. It’s the first compliment he’s spared you, followed immediately by an attack.

“If manipulating someone occasionally was all it took to meet the diagnostic requirements, everyone would qualify,” you disagree.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Yeah, you say all these things about me being a risk-taker, unempathetic, manipulative, whatever, but am I really all that different than anyone else? In my experience, people are plenty self-serving when anything half important is on the line?” Hanma says.

Sampling bias, you think. Hanma’s line of work exposes him to society’s desperates, the people drowning beneath the weight of their previous mistakes and dying to breathe again.

“That’s a good topic of discussion for when you come in. I’d wondered what you thought about my assessment last week, especially now that you’ve had some time to process.”

“Oh, I’m not coming in,” Hanma says. You hear the slam of a car door and the beep of a lock. Now, the sound through the phone is distorted as Hanma walks through the rain to wherever he’s going that isn’t your office.

“Hanma-san, we had a deal…”

“I know that, and I won’t reneg. You can have your 90-minutes, but I never said I’d come to your office. You can come to me. I’m down by the Port. I’ll text you the address.”

“My office is in Ueno. That’s…over an hour away by train,” you say, knowing as you say it that your logistical concerns will be met with indifference.

“And I have a meeting that can’t be missed. I know, I know, self-care, put yourself first, but I think I might be a workaholic, doc. Work, work, work. They don’t even give me holidays off!” Hanma jokes.

Even as you negotiate with Hanma, you know it’s futile and start preparing to brave the elements once again. You zipper your wet clothes into a plastic bag and hang them in your closet. Your receptionist will take them for dry-cleaning when she stops by to lock up for the night.  Your raincoat hasn’t dried off from before and wets your clean clothes as you pull it on again.

“If I come to Koto-ku, will you still be there?” you challenge, imagining making the trek only for Hanma to move onto some other distraction.

“You have my word. I think it’ll be good for you to see me in action,” Hanma says.

You choose not to think about what that might mean.

“If I take the train out to Telecom Center, you need to pick me up. I’m not walking down to the port in this rain, and I doubt you want a random taxi dropping me off at your important meeting,” you say.

Reasserting some boundaries, not allowing Hanma to control the terms. It’s part of your role as therapist, but it feels seedy with him. Maybe because these power plays are standard for his job. Normally your clients are less aware of how you subtly maneuver them.

“I’ll send someone to pick you up,” Hanma concedes.

“We have a deal.”

“I love hearing you say that,” Hanma moans, and then a beep as he unceremoniously hangs up.

As the rain beats down upon your head once again on your walk to the station, you half hope a tsunami strikes the city and carries Hanma Shuji out to sea. But only half.

- - - True to his word, a yakuza decked out with a neck tattoo and everything picks you up from the station and delivers you to a warehouse by the harbor. The grey sea is frothing and angry. Here, the wind is twice as strong, tangling your hair and tripping your feet.

You enter the warehouse, off-kilter and a little afraid.

In the movies, these criminal warehouses are always empty, perfect for a drawn-out battle, but this one is in active use. Rows, stocked with packages, stretch up to the ceiling. A line of cranes sit powered off by the entrance. A couple yakuza stand off to the side, smoking and playing dice.

Your guide leads you past them to a row cleared from merchandise. Amid the narrow row are two folding chairs, in one sits Hanma, and in the other sits a man who is handcuffed and chained at ankle and wrist to his seat.

You swallow.

The bound stranger is in his thirties. He wears a satin button-up, probably a fellow yakuza or at least someone who works in the entertainment district. Freshly shaven, which means he hasn’t been hostage for longer than half a day. The man sports a black eye, but no other obvious signs of struggle.

“You made it, doc!” Hanma calls out. In contrast to his prisoner, he’s the picture of casual comfort. He sits backwards in his chair, chin propped against the backrest with plenty of room for his gargantuan legs to stretch out.

“Thanks for sending someone to pick me up,” you say primly, deciding not to rise to the bait and comment on the other man. You glance around and realize your guide has disappeared in the few seconds it took you to get your bearings. Apparently, this is Hanma’s show alone.

“I want you to meet Fujimori Hisao,” Hanma says, gesturing at the bound man. “I’m afraid I can only give you half my attention here. You can ask me your questions, but I need to ask Hisao-kun some questions of my own.”

“And if I don’t like your answers, can I do whatever you do to Fujimori-san to you, too?” you ask.

“Funny! I keep forgetting that you can be funny when you want to be,” Hanma giggles. “I promise to be completely honest in all my answers. I need to set a good example for Hisao here. Don’t want to have him thinking he can pick and choose when to answer me. Honesty is the best policy and all.”

Hanma likes to hear himself talk. Sometime during his monologue, Fujimori starts to silently weep. With his hands restrained, there is nothing to catch the tears until they streak past his chin and collect in the column of his throat.

The scene is unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed. Sometimes you hear about violence in the past tense in a clinical setting, but never before your own eyes. Criminal acts are hypotheticals to you, who has never even noticed a shoplifter in action. Your boyfriend always tells you that you’re naïve in the ways of the world. Innocence must cling to your skin, despite your best efforts to conceal it, because Hanma smells it on you, too.

The surprise reveal, the casual greeting, all of this is an act, a performance to frighten you. He wants to see you break.

You decide to get comfortable, shrugging off your coat. There is no third chair, so you lean against the shelves. You situate yourself close to Hanma. The other man is in your periphery, but you can ignore him with effort.

“May I begin, Hanma-san?”

He grunts.

“We could have scheduled for later this evening when your…appointment wrapped up. Why did you want me to see this?”

“You’re gonna cure my boredom, right? I thought you should see one of the last things that still gets me hot and going,” Hanma says.

“You’ve thought about what we discussed last session. Do you have any thoughts or questions?”

“I told Inui that I was officially a sociopath, and he said everyone already knew. Go figure,” Hanma sneers, and the other man goes deathly silent at hearing his captor self-describe as a ‘sociopath.’ “I stand by what I said on the phone though. I don’t see what’s all that different about me from your average guy. Take Fujimori-san here, he betrayed his friends, giving information on Toman to the HKJ – that’s a triad we’re in business with – and for what? Money!”

“NO! I didn’t. I swear! Hanma-san, I swear I would never –”

The way Hanma bursts from his seat is violent, knocking his chair to the ground with a clang. The way his fist connects with Fujimori’s chin is something worse than violent. Fujimori’s neck snaps back, so hard, you fear it broken, before his head falls limply forward. Frantic denials turn to drawn out moans of pain.

“Don’t lie to me!” Hanma hisses.

Your heart thunders in your chest, as if the threat is directed at you. Rather than return to his seat, Hanma prowls around Fujimori’s limp body. A victory lap or another intimidation tactic.

“People can be self-serving, especially where money is concerned. That’s not enough for a clinical diagnosis,” you say as calmly as possible. “To be diagnosed with ASPD, you need to meet additional criteria. For example, right now, I’m having a physiological reaction to seeing you punch that man. I feel for his pain and wish it would stop. A sociopath wouldn’t have that kind of empathy for someone else’s suffering.”

Hanma drops large hands onto Fujimori’s shoulders, massaging them and getting into the beaten man’s face. “You hear that Hisao-kun? She feels for your pain! It’s true that I don’t, but you should just confess and tell me who your contacts in the HKJ are, so that I don’t have to hurt you anymore.”

Before Fujimori can answer and earn Hanma’s wrath again, you forge onward, “I’d love to know more about how you feel about other people, too. Have you ever felt something you would describe as love? Does spending time with your favorite people make you happy? And while we’re at it, why are your favorite people your favorites? What makes them special.”

“You’re asking too many questions at once, doc. Rookie interrogation mistake!” Hanma chastises.

“That’s because I’m not seriously asking those questions yet. We’ll save them for another day. But I wanted to answer your question about what makes sociopaths different than the general populace, and the answer probably lies in how you’d respond to those questions,” you say. “Here is a direct question for you. In as much detail as possible, since we last met, when were you most bored?”

Hanma seriously considers the question, “Last Thursday was collection day, where all the men who report into me, bring their cash for the week. I just have to sit there, watch people count bills, and threaten to split a few heads if they come up short. No one was short this week, so I just sat there until four, then dropped the cash off with Koko. I called Kisaki, but he didn’t need me for anything. So, I decided to try one of our new nudie bars, where the girls are all pros. Nothing worse than seeing the show and finding out they’re all amateurs that can’t deliver, right? Well, I get there, have a few drinks, and as I’m looking around, I realize, I’ve already fucked every girl in the place. A real drag, right?”

You note Hanma’s verbal tick, the tacking on of ‘right’ at the end of his sentences. Is it to make you complicit in whatever vile things he says or a bid for validation? The former seems more likely.

“You never sleep with the same woman twice?” you ask.

“Where’s the fun in that, am I right?” Hanma says, giving a comradely clap to his prisoner’s arm. “Anyway, that was probably the moment, when I realized there wasn’t a girl in the place to interest me and nothing better to do with my night.”

Like you hypothesized on day one. He craves novelty.

“This is a hard question for most people to answer, but please give it a try. What does your boredom feel like in the moment? Can you find the words to describe it?”

Once again, Hanma takes the question seriously, allowing a long pause to collect his thoughts. You find it impossible to watch him as he ponders because to look at him requires you to look past Fujimori. He has regained some of his wits, mouth shaping around silent pleas for you to save him. You, this strange woman who doesn’t appear interested in torturing him, appear like a guardian angel, but there is nothing you can do. You lack the leverage with Hanma, and you would find a bullet in your skull before you finished dialing the police.

There is a sheen of sweat about Fujimori’s lip that strikes you as especially pitiful, and you look away.

“Cold,” Hanma says, at last. “It feels like that one night in winter, the coldest night of the year, when your bones freeze from the inside. Rationally, you know it’s only a few hours until the sun comes back, but instinctually, some part of you thinks, ‘this is it.’ That all you’ll ever know again is the bone deep cold and the dark.”

A phantasm of cold slices through your gut. You didn’t expect such evocative words. A high school dropout with abysmal marks to show for his public education, you didn’t expect Hanma’s intelligence, but his words move you. They are so uniquely human and familiar to the worst days of your own life.

Softening against your better judgement, you continue your line of questioning, “When I’m cold, I usually grab a jacket, an extra blanket, warm up by the kotatsu. My instinct is to do something to get warm. On Thursday, when you realized there were no girls to seduce, what did you do to warm yourself?”

“This is damn poetic what we have going here,” Hanma laughs, breaking a bit of the spell his words cast upon you. “Let me see…Thursday, I took a bump, and then decided to wander around the city. See if I stumbled on something more interesting.”

“Did the change of scenery help, or were you still bored while you walked around?”

“Still bored. I’ve been walking these streets since I was eleven,” Hanma says.

“And did you interact with any people during this walk?”

“Some juvenile delinquent bumped into me. Literally. Landed on his ass. Then, he wanted to pick a flight like it was my fault. I had to shut him down,” Hanma says and then scoffs when a fissure of concern ripples across your face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill the poor kid. I just flashed a gun, so he understood I was the real deal, and suddenly it was ‘a thousand sorries, sir.’ J.D.s in my day weren’t so quick to back down, but anyway. I ended up at my tattoo parlor. My artist was working on someone else, but she kicked him out when I came in. had her do a color touch up on one of my tattoos.”

“Do you have many tattoos?” you ask, thinking Hanma would fit the profile for a tattoo addiction.

“Not by yakuza standards. Wanna see it?”

Hanma undoes the lower button of his dress shirt, rolling the material up above his abdomen. You can’t see clearly around Fujimori’s shaking frame, so Hanma releases his victim and walks closer to show you. In this suit, Hanma appears deceptively lean, but he’s filled out beneath his clothes. Clear lines cut across a chest and abdomen of defined ridges and dips. Your tongue wets your lips.

A dragon winds around his side, roaring face toward the front and tail trailing to his back. The green ink is fresh and vibrant with an undercurrent of red as the skin is still inflamed from the touch up. The work on the scales looks intricate and must have taken dozens of hours to complete. It is the only tattoo you can see on his chest.

“Pretty,” you admit. “Dragons are associated with the Tokyo Manji gang, right? Do you feel pride in being a lieutenant? Many gangs operate almost as families with people willing to commit unspeakable crimes against outsiders because they’re so invested in protecting the sense of belonging they feel with their in-group.”

“I know what you mean, and it’s what guys like Hisao here should be willing to die to protect. But, for me, not really. I feel pride in how far we’ve come. I’ve been with Kisaki since the early days, and I was part of making all this happen. And, I have a…fondness for some of the top guys, but we don’t feel like a family. I followed Kisaki all those years ago because he promised me a more interesting path than what I could picture for myself, and that’s why I��m still here,” Hanma says.

Something electric is lighting you up from your intestines. The immediate transparency that Hanma offers is not typical of clients. You sense nothing but honesty from his words. There’s a speed to your back and forth, testing your ability to think of the next question and draw connections. The mental strain plus your muted fear on behalf of Fujimoto makes you feel hyper-present, more present than you have felt in weeks as you commute between work, home, and dates with your boyfriend. You don’t want the session to end.

“You don’t feel any loyalty? But you must have had so many opportunities to betray them over the years, and you never took them,” you point out.

“The opportunity never felt worth it,” Hanma shrugs. “But speaking of loyalty! Hisao-kun, I think we’ve neglected you too long.”

Two-pronged annoyance shoots through you. Are you more upset at the promise of pain coming Fujimori’s way or how easily Hanma drops your conversation? The magnetic aura that made you feel as if it were only the two of you in the world must have been one-sided.

“Hisao, I did my research before collecting you. Unmarried, no kids that you know of, parents in good health. No loan sharks breathing down your neck or out of control gambling addiction. So, tell me, what made the money worth betraying your family? Risking your own neck for a couple million yen. If there was some big reason, maybe I could understand it, but without one…you’re hurting my feelings,” Hanma teases.

He keeps his hands tucked in his pockets, almost like sheathing a sword or holstering a gun, but you know he will be quick on the draw. Fujimori suspects as much as well, eyes darting between Hanma’s face and pocketed hands. The purple silk of his dress shirt is stained almost black with sweat at the pits.

“I swear I didn’t do it, Hanma-san. I swear!”

There is no immediate retaliation. Instead, Hanma drops to his knees in front of his captive. You stare in awe at the submissive position. Even on his knees, Hanma’s impressive height puts him at eye-level with Fujimori, who senses nothing good from this change in posture. Unconsciously, Fujimori strains against his bonds. Your fingers flex and twist as if you too were bound.

“We’re both Toman, Fujimori, and that makes us brothers in a way. We both promised we wouldn’t lie, and an oath to a brother is not something to break casually. Do not look me in the eyes and lie to me,” Hanma says lowly. He leans forward so their foreheads are touching, spectacled eyes drilled into Fujimori’s own. You can’t see their faces, just the white column of Hanma’s arched neck. “Now, tell me who was your liaison from HKJ?”

“I didn’t do i–”

Lightning fast, Hanma’s hand darts forward. The attack is soundless. Rather than a blow of force, Hanma plunges a finger straight into Fujimori’s eye. The choice is so startling that Fujimori gasps rather than screams, and then reality catches up to him and he starts to bellow.

“I can’t stand when people look me in the eye and lie,” Hanma sneers.

He stands up to his full height and wipes his hand against his pants. Eyeball juices. His pants are wet with eyeball juices.

The screaming stops. Wait, no, you see Fujimori’s mouth still open in a wail. Above it, blood stains his cheek, and above that…No, the screaming continues but you aren’t processing the sound. You are in shock and dissociating from the stimuli around you as a method of self-defense. Looking at Fujimori’s battered face is impossible, so you look at his legs instead. Panic has set in, and the man is using all of his weight to thrust up against his bonds, arcing the legs of the chair into the air and back down. It’s futile; the chains holding him are too strong.

Eventually, you look to Hanma and realize he’s been observing you the entire time. There is a smile on his face, too obvious to be anything but performative. Like when he threatened to masturbate in your office, he is looking to unsettle you. This time he has succeeded.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Hanma asks.

Even under the traumatic circumstances, there is a fierce streak within you that refuses to back down. Hanma is watching you with a sympathetic expression as fake as the blonde streaks in his hair. You don’t want to reward his bad behavior, or worse, provoke more of it.

“What did Fujimori-san do?” your voice shakes through the question.

“We’re negotiating a deal with the HKJ, big opportunity for us to expand our slice of the Meth trade. If we can secure entry through Hong Kong and replace our current suppliers, we’ll cut our costs by 5% and mark up our prices by 10%, free money. It’s a good deal for everyone involved, but that doesn’t stop greed from setting in. everyone wants to walk away with the sweetest deal. That’s why we think the HKJ will try to infiltrate Toman, plant a few moles. If they can cause a problem for us – say an unexpected police raid or losing our current supplier – they can then swoop in, play the heroes in clean up, and then demand the better cut. In general, we keep a close watch on our subordinates’ bank accounts to make sure everything is on the up and up, and an offshore account wired Hisao-kun ¥5,000,000. Payment for services rendered, perhaps?”

The last question he directs to Fujimori, who sits paralyzed in fear. Denials could lead to another outburst of violence but staying silent doesn’t bode well either. Against your better judgment, you catch a glimpse of his eye. It isn’t dislodged from the attack, but the eyeball is swollen with blood, thick like the juices of a passionfruit.

You shake your head in disbelief, like the gesture might change things.

“That’s it? One suspicious deposit in his bank account is all you have to go on? All you have to justify…this?” you gesture helplessly at Fujimori.

“Uh huh.”

“But that could be anything! Maybe a relative died and willed him some money! ¥5,000,000 is a lot, but it’s not a yakuza-only level of money!”

You know that the Tokyo Manji gang tops police wanted lists not just for their role in organized crime but their penchant for violence. It’s rare to see a yakuza gang in the news for murder these days with so many yakuza fighting to keep their government-granted legitimacy, but Toman bucks the trend. Of the top lieutenants, Hanma is the guard dog, biting any hand that would near the leaders. If Kisaki directs the madness, Hanma executes it with extreme prejudice. You know that.

But you always imagined the violence unleashed against those who had “earned it.” The triviality of Hanma’s evidence, enough to condemn a man, shocks you more than his aggression.

Hanma flings himself back into his chair and says, “Hisao-kun, did someone die and will you the money? Mind I’ll have someone verify before we leave her, and if you’re lying to me, I’ll gouge the other eye out completely and make you eat it.”

“No! No one died!” Fujimori swears quickly.

“Welp, there goes that theory. Got any others, Doc?” Hanma waits for you to answer, but you shake your head. “No? See the truth is it doesn’t matter. Hisao-kun is hiding something, or he would have explained where the money came from already. Maybe he’s not in league with the HKJ. Maybe he’s taken a bribe and not given us our cut. Maybe he’s skimming off the top. Or maybe, he’s our little rat. Regardless, he doesn’t get to keep secrets from his masters, and so here we are.”

It makes sense in a cruel way. Maintaining a criminal enterprise requires absolute silence. You sign your secrets away at the doors. The way the movies depict it, you would have thought gangs were all about freedom and rebellion against society’s rules, but really you just trade for a whole new set of restrictions and far more dire consequences. Gangs are about money. And, if someone would try to steal hundreds of millions of yen from you…you might find yourself capable of gouging into a man’s eye, too.

The way the human brain can rationalize in moments of trauma is truly remarkable.

“You said this got you hot earlier? Are you aroused by this?” you ask, slipping back into therapy-mode.

“Nah, I mean hot as in the opposite of what we were talking about earlier, with the cold boredom. Now, if your skirt rides up any further, that might get my dick up,” Hanma leers.

Startled, you find that your skirt has risen up your thighs, so the dark band at the top of your stockings peeks through. You quickly pet it down into place, and Hanma play scowls at you.

“May I sit down?” you ask meekly.

“Sure, princess,” Hanma says, standing to offer you the seat he was occupying. “But we won’t be here much longer.”

You take it gratefully. Not until you’re seated, do you realize your legs are trembling.

Hanma returns to questioning Fujimori. You watch the back of Hanma’s head as he works, tuning out the particulars. You don’t like knowing so many details about a major upcoming yakuza alliance. It could make you a target. Even without carefully listening, you realize Fujimori has confessed and is starting to share whatever intel he can, like offerings to a malevolent god that demands human sacrifice.

Your stomach growls. Your eyelids lower. In the aftermath of a trauma, your body doesn’t know what is wrong and is cycling through possibilities to fix the problem.

There is plastic-wrapped melon pan in your bag, stashed away from a visit to the convenience store earlier that day. Would Hanma mind if you have a snack?

You are about to risk it when a pop rattles your ear drums. Ears ringing, you take several moments to process Hanma turning around and tucking away a gun. Behind him, blocked from sight by Hanma’s height, Fujimori has been shot. Somehow, you know it was aimed to kill.

Hanma approaches you, continuing to block out the dead man. He grips the chair you’re seated on and spins it around, so that you’re facing away from the body. The gesture of kindness pierces through your shock. You can’t thank him though, gaping like a fish at his blank expression. A smattering of blood and a chunk of something you won’t consider have landed on his clavicle, just above his heart.

“I’m going to take a shower and then take you out to dinner. You can sit near the entrance and wait for me. My men will be outside. Nine rows to the right and twelve up to reach the exit, okay?” Hanma intones slowly, making sure you process the directions through your shock.

You nod.

Hanma walks off in the direction of Fuji– no, in the direction of the body that was Fujimori. You ought to run. Flee the scene. While he’s in the shower, you could race out of the warehouse altogether, trick his men into letting you through, and then what? It’s a two mile walk to the station, and Hanma has a car. Unless he likes a lingering shower, he will catch you. Plus, he knows where you work. You promised him a degree of professionalism, a hardened mob-therapist who could roll with the darker sides of the job. He expects you to do just that.

But dinner?

Part of you understands. The back-and-forth before he lost interest in you had been intoxicating, and you still want to return to that. Like an abuse victim, who reminisces about the early days of love bombing and will ignore the abuse that just occurred. For a few minutes there, Hanma’s attention felt like magic.

Slowly, you limp toward the exit, following Hanma’s instructions. Plenty of time to think about whether you run screaming out the door once you’re there.

Reaching the exit, you stare at the unlocked doors that represent your chance at freedom from the day’s monstrosities. From your interviews with Kisaki and other members of the Tokyo Manji gang, you know Hanma has no history of violence towards women that fell outside the basics of his job. He doesn’t rough up the working girls or ape the girlfriends of his enemies. There is no reason to expect you are the exception. He wants to scare you, yes, but if you don’t give him cause, he won’t kill you.

You can’t forget the money on the line. The life-changing, Nenmatsu Jumbo-level miracle money to which Hanma holds the key. It is your dream, and you have come too far to abandon it now.

So, you lean against the concrete block wall and wait. You have a dinner to attend.

#hanma shuji #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #hanma x reader #hanma smut #tokyo rev smut #from his mind to hers #embossross masterlist #read the warnings please #torture tw #murder tw #improper medical practice tw

[jeannewritessometimes]

[[God of Night x GN!Reader, HEAVY smut fanfic, OH MY GOD I'M SO EXCITED TO WRITE THIS ONE]]

[[Warnings: MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, explicit sex, slight predator/prey themes, biting, oral sex (reader recieving), unsafe sex, begging, body worship, crying during sex (everything is consensual of course), breeding kink, slight dumbification, overstimulation, orgasm denial, size kink.]]

You ran through the trees, heart pounding in your ears as you hopped over roots and loose branches. You'd broken into a temple, one that had been used to worship a god of the night in the past. Illinois had ended up leaving you on your own before you even got into the building, muttering something about "something's wrong".

You thought he was just being a pussy at first, but now you were second-guessing that assumption as an angry god chased you through the woods. You gripped onto the artifact that you'd stolen from the temple in your hand, a crystal ball that held a small flower in the middle. This was what you and Illinois had originally planned on taking, and you'd be damned if you let a little chase ruin that plan.

The adrenaline flooding through your veins only served as a replacement for caffeine, giving you the energy to keep running.

Unfortunately though, that adrenaline didn't make you any more observant, and you tripped over a rock and belly-flopped straight onto the floor.

For a moment, you had a fleeting sense of hope that the god had lost track of you, but the sound of footsteps behind you only helped to rip that hope from your heart.

You helplessly reached for the ball, trying to get ahold of it, but the god stepped on your hand to stop you and picked it up instead.

Fuck.

"All this, for a little trinket?" A surprisingly baritone voice came from the god, and you raised your head in an attempt to look at him.

He was... fucking beautiful.

The god was perfectly sculpted masterpiece, with chiseled features and muscles that moved underneath perfectly fitted clothes.

He looked down at you, an unreadable expression on his face. His face was somehow even more beautiful, his eyes a golden brown that seemed to glow beside the dark red swirl that circled around his eye. Maybe they were glowing. He was a god, after all.

"Oh, you thought I'd just let you go?" he asked, kneeling down and flipping you around so that you laid on your back.

You started to scramble away, terrified, but he grabbed your ankle and pulled you right back over to him easily. Maybe it was an effect of the adrenaline, but that strength sent a wave of heat straight to your core.

"Do you remember who I am, mortal?" he asked, his voice low and threatening as he stared at you.

You hesitate, inhaling sharply as he grips your jaw roughly with his hand. "Answer, fool."

"Fuck- fine, you're..." You thought back to what you remember Illinois calling him. "...the God of Night. Of darkness."

He lets go of your jaw, but keeps a firm grip around your ankle. "Good. You may address me as Night." He leans closer, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

Sure, he was probably about to kill you, but something about him was just so fucking enticing for some reason.

He paused, and let out a quiet chuckle after a second. You were tempted to snap at him and ask what he was laughing at, but something told you that being outright disrespectful wasn't a good plan right now.

"You had a reason for stealing this, didn't you?" he purred, something switching in his eyes that made you squirm. "You were trying to get me to chase you, weren't you?"

Oh.

Oh shit.

Night thought you were trying to get some (literal) god-tier dick.

As he began crawling up over your body, you suddenly became aware of how much he towered over you. Again, this probably due to the fact that he was a god, but it made you clench slightly as you thought about the implications of his size.

Maybe it was better to let him think that was why you stole the artifact... that, and the heat stirring in your core made it hard to focus on anything other than the sudden urge to let this man fuck you senseless.

"Oh, devoted follower," he murmured, moving his lips against your ear and pinning your wrists to the ground below you. "You have no idea how long it's been since I've ravaged a mortal's flesh."

As his lips trace along the shell of your ear, you can't help but hopelessly buck your hips up against his when a whine escapes your lips.

He lets out a low chuckle, gently planting a line of kisses down your neck and running his tongue over your throbbing pulse point. The feeling of your racing heart seemed to encourage him, and he suddenly sunk his teeth into your skin.

You cry out in pain, and he rolls his crotch against yours as he pulls back and nuzzles the bite mark with his nose. "Oh, star," he moans out, "your fear is delicious."

You open your mouth to try and reply, but your words are swallowed as Night presses a passionate kiss to your parted lips and slips his tongue into your mouth.

As your mind goes fuzzy with the intensity of the kiss, he moves his hands to move down and gently take off your shirt and rest them on your now-bare waist.

Now that your hands are free, you have the opportunity to get out from under him and run, but the heavenly feeling of his hands on your skin erases any previous hesitation.

As his hand slips downwards, he pulls out of the kiss and crawls downwards to make it a bit easier to take of your pants.

You panic for a moment, worrying about the fact that you hadn't shaved, but you remember that Night is a literal god and has literally existed since before razors were invented.

You lift your hips slightly as he pulls off your pants and your underwear, and he lets out a quiet growl at the sight of your leaking sex.

That sound went straight to the growing warmth in your gut, and you let out a moan as he immediately runs his tongue along your arousal. He slips his lips around your sex, letting out a quiet hum that sent vibrations running through your body.

He moves your legs to rest on his shoulders as he works his tongue over you, eagerly pleasuring you as you let out obscene noises that would put an overpaid porn star to shame.

He moves away for a moment, using his fingers to collect the mixture of spit and slick that was leaking from you, and then immediately moving back to pleasure your arousal as he slipped two of his fingers inside of you. He worked his fingers in and out, his tongue swirling along your sex perfectly as his fingers curled against a specific spot that made your vision go fuzzy.

You cry out in pleasure, and he slips in another finger that stretches you out beautifully and continues to attack that specific spot inside of you.

A tense feeling begins building up in your gut, causing you to gasp for air and buck your hips against him. Night doesn't seem to mind, letting out another hum that made you moan again.

You feel yourself reaching that blinding high, clutching onto the ground helplessly as your muscles quivered. Suddenly, Night pulled away, and the loss of contact made you whimper pathetically.

"Star, you're going to hold it back for me," he demanded, slowly rubbing his thumb in circles against your sex after a moment. You whine, still quivering from the build-up of that first high, and arching your back slightly.

"Please, Night, please," you begged, the feeling starting to get overwhelming. "I'll do anything, just- please let me c-!"

Night shook his head, gently caressing your cheek with his free hand and slowing his thumb even more.

"Oh, but you look so pretty when you're desperate," he purred, wiping away the hot tears that started to slip down your face unexpectedly. "I love hearing you sing for me."

You writhed underneath his touch, letting out a choked sob as you started to get close again before he removed his hand from you completely.

The dark look in his eyes made you attempt to quiet your whimpering, and you watched with silent desperation as he began removing his own clothes at a painfully slow pace.

Finally, when he'd completely stripped, you stared at his perfectly sculpted body in awe. You gently moved from where you laid on the ground, shakily brushing off the forest residue on your bare body as you pathetically crawled over to Night and knelt at his feet.

Sure, his muscles were ethereal, but as you stared at his cock in awe, you couldn't help but find yourself salivating.

He was... perfect. You'd expected him to be uncomfortably large, and his cock was definitely bigger than any mortal's that you'd seen before, but it looked unfathomably perfect. The thought of having that inside you made you moan.

"Night, you..." you murmured, staring at him as he sat and leaned his back on the trunk of a nearby tree.

"I want you to show me your devotion," he ordered, the tone of his voice causing you to shiver slightly.

Sure, maybe you weren't actually a follower of his, but you definitely knew how to worship his physical form.

You kissed at his thighs, moving upwards- past his needy cock, you would pay attention to that later- and began planting open-mouthed kisses along his abdomen and his chest.

"You're...nngh...the most heavenly person...mmh...I've ever seen," you murmured in between kisses, causing a please hum to bubble up from Night's chest. From the precum that dripped down his length, you took mental note of how positively he reacted to compliments.

His hands suddenly pulled you towards him by your waist, adjusting so that you were straddling him as he lined himself up with your entrance.

Without warning, he pulled you down onto him by your hips, and you let out a booming cry of pleasure at the perfect mix of pleasure and pain as you stretched around his cock.

The feeling was almost overwhelming as he bottomed put inside of you, and you couldn't help but feel so goddamn fulfilled- as if you were made for his pleasure, and as if he was made for yours.

"Agh, star..." he moaned out, fingertips digging into your skin as he began moving you up and down his cock.

The feeling, mixed with how sensitive you already were from earlier, made you sob slightly, fresh tears running down your face from overstimulation.

The tears made Night moan out, and he pulled you in for a feverent kiss as the two of you rocked your hips together. Your moans were muffled by the deepness of the kiss, rolling your hips into each of Night's thrusts as he fucked into you.

Already so built-up from earlier, you felt the coil tightening in your gut in a flash, and you were barely able to stop yourself from cumming as you shook apart around Night.

The feeling caused his to shout in pleasure, biting down into your skin as he desperately bucked his hips into your entrance. You cry out, the feeling making your head spin as he absolutely ravaged you, and his tongue lapped at the marks on your skin gently.

"Star, I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," he growled, making you suddenly all-too-aware of how much his dick was twitching inside of you. "I'm going to fill you and make you mine- my star."

His mumbling was a bit incoherent at this point, but as he suddenly reached his orgasm, the feeling of his cum pouring inside of you made you gasp against his skin.

He rode out his orgasm, still moving you over him for quite a bit after he reached his climax, until your eyes were rolling back into your head from esctasy.

After what felt like ages, he pulled you off of him and stared at you for a moment.

Your brain was too fuzzy to process anything, but you let out a soft whimper as he used his fingers to push the droplets of cum that dripped down your thighs back into you.

"You have my mark, star," he whispered, gently brushing the places on your neck he'd bitten with his fingers. "If you need to show me your devotion again, simply call for me by name."

He was gone, suddenly, and you sat on the forest floor shaking as you tried to focus on how the fuck you were going to get home.

#sawyer is spicy #Star-Crossed Divorcee #god of night x reader #HOLY SHIT Y'ALL #READ THE WARNINGS PLEASE

[starclawz]

It is 12 am and I can't sleep

enjoy some nice pain

#tw suicide attempt #read the WARNINGS PLEASE #chonny jash #chonnys charming chaos compendium #the mind electric #the heart acoustic #the soul eclectic

[theimprobabledreamersworld]

A Study In Blue and Gold Ao3 Masterpost!

I’m a bit late on making this, but here is a masterpost for my big bang fic; ‘A Study In Blue and Gold’. I’m posting a link to every chapter on Ao3. Hope you like it!

Also, make sure you check out the amazing artwork by @korruptbrekker

Thank you yet again to all of my friends, but especially my incredible friend and beta @the-duke-of-nuts who never gave up on me and made this whole fic possible!

Writing Taglist: @the-duke-of-nuts @red-imeanblue @lost-in-thought-20 @psychedelicships @lily-janus @diamondwind99 

Chapter 1: The Thief That Brought The Nation To Its Knees

Chapter 2: The Case That Started It All

Chapter 3: What Could Go Wrong?

Chapter 4: The Game Is Afoot

Chapter 5: Some Things Can’t Be Hidden

Chapter 6: Case Closed...?

Chapter 7: I’m Not Getting Too Involved, Am I?

Chapter 8: Do We Have A Deal?

Chapter 9: Are You Up To The Challenge, Detective?

Chapter 10: Why Me, Hyde?

Chapter 11: The Duke

Chapter 12: It Will All Be Worth It

Chapter 13: Face To Face

Chapter 14: Family

Chapter 15: Remember What You’re Playing For

Chapter 16: The Great Game

Chapter 17: Closure

Chapter 18: We’re Lost Without Each Other

Chapter 19: Wait For Me

Chapter 20: Epilogue

#sanders sides fanfiction #ts big bang 2022 #fic masterpost #ts fanfic #ts logan #ts janus #ts roman #ts patton #ts virgil #sherlock au #read the warnings please #favourite fic

[written-in-sunshine]

Title: Let’s Go, Cum Junkie

Author: Keith

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Setting: Unspecified Club

Pairing: Vox/Valentino

Characters: Vox, Valentino

Genre: Erotic/Romance

Rating: E

Chapters: 1/1

Word Count: 4,593

Type Of Work: One-Shot

Status: Complete

Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, MLM, M/M, Blowjobs, Oral Sex, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Public Sex, Kink, Daddy Kink, Dry Humping, Drugging, Snowballing, Cum Swallowing

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Vox’s portrayal is based on my friend @/strangeandun-muse-ual

#Hazbin Hotel Fanfic #Hazbin Hotel Fanfiction #Hazbin Hotel VoxVal #Hazbin Hotel StaticMoth #VoxVal #StaticMoth #Dead Dove: Do Not Eat #Read the warnings please

[danpuff-ao3]

Self Recs: 2020

Self rec list for fics I posted on AO3 in 2020! 🧡

The Best Kept Secrets

Featured on The Fanfic Maverick podcast.

Harry/Snape. James/Teddy. Albus/ OFC. Ginny/Harry. E. 115k.

It was no secret that Ginny Potter favored her daughter over her sons. Only Albus knew this was because Lily was Ginny’s only child.

From Foes to Family

Harry/Snape. Lily/James. T. 1k.

James and Severus meet when the Potters return from the dead.

The Yellow Door

podfic by monarchyofone

Harry/Snape. Lily/Snape. M. 1k.

Severus can't decide which world he wants to be in, and risks losing them both.

Masquerade

Harry/Snape. T. 1k.

The Ministry of Magic’s annual Victory Masquerade was an event Harry Potter dreaded every year. Yet every year he attended.

Always Watching

Lily POV. Harry/Snape. M. 17k. (Afterlife Part 1)

Lily and James Potter might be dead, but that doesn't stop them keeping an eye on their son. They see more than they want to when Harry enters an inappropriate relationship with one of his teachers.

Casual Viewer

Eileen POV. Harry/Snape. M. 3k. (Afterlife Part 2)

Eileen Snape watches her son from the afterlife. She is not impressed.

No Signal

Albus POV. Harry/Snape. T. 1k.

Albus Dumbledore in the afterlife, thinking of what he's done.

Daddy Knows Best

Harry/Snape. E. 2k. (Yes, Daddy Part 4)

Harry and Severus make a baby.

Phlegethon

Harry/Snape. Draco/Snape. E. 4k.

Severus makes the same mistake twice (and he's definitely going to hell for it).

Daddy's Boy

Harry/Snape. E. 2k. (Yes, Daddy Part 1)

A first time for everything.

Breed Me, Daddy

Harry/Snape. E. 2k. (Yes, Daddy Part 5)

Harry & Severus make another baby.

The Mirror

Harry/Snape. Harry/Lucius. E. 1k. Non-con. (The Mirror Part 1)

Lucius Malfoy watches his guests through a mirror.

Worth the Cost

Harry/Snape. E. 3k.

Severus pays the Dursleys for a "visit" with Harry Potter.

Sleep

Harry/Snape. M. 900. (The Mirror Part 2)

Harry won't sleep. Snape tries to make him.

Vanilla

Harry/Snape. E. 2k.

A game of Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest.

Take Heed, Dear Heart

Harry/Snape. Harry/other. M. 3k.

Are you willing to die for the one you love? Are you willing to kill for them?

Midsummer

Harry/Snape. Draco/Snape. M. 1k.

A lifelong bond forged during the war - a bond to protect. A bond to strengthen. And the repercussions of what "forever" means post-war.

16 July 2020

Harry/Snape. T. 900. (Domestic Bliss Part 1)

Harry and Severus celebrate 20 years together.

Aesthetic

Harry/Snape. Draco/Harry. E. 2k.

Draco was born to bask in beauty.

Exposure

Harry/Snape. Harry/others. E. 3k.

Harry Potter's sex-capades are all over the news.

2+2=4some

Featured on the Snape Chat podcast.

Harry/Snape. Lily/James. Harry/Snape/Lily/James. M. 2k.

Lily and James spying on their son's intimate moments. And occasionally joining in.

The Gift of Love

Harry/Snape. T. 4k.

5 times Harry gives Severus a gift, and 1 time Severus returns the favor.

31 July 2020

Harry/Snape. T. 1k. (Domestic Bliss Part 2)

The morning of Harry's 40th birthday.

Daddy's Dragon

Draco/Charlie. Harry/Snape. E. 3k. (Yes, Daddy Part 3)

If Harry can have a daddy, then so can Draco.

Right Now (One Day)

Regulus/Snape. Harry/Snape. T. 1k.

Severus and Regulus have each other for now.

The Perfect Tree

Neville/Percy. T. 9k. (Christmas in Hogsmeade Part 1)

Percy is looking for the Christmas tree. Neville helps him find it.

The Christmas Prince

Harry/Snape. T. 13k. (Christmas in Hogsmeade Part 2)

Harry and Snape are (kind of) set up on a blind date. Romance and chaos ensues.

Holidate

Pansy/Ginny. Draco/Ron. T. 11k. (Christmas in Hogsmeade Part 3)

Draco and Ginny aren't ready to come out, so they decide to "date" for the holiday.

Who's Your Daddy

Harry/Snape. Draco/Charlie. E. 9k. (Yes, Daddy Part 6)

When baby's away, daddies will play.

Damn, Daddy

Harry/Snape. E. 4k. (Yes, Daddy Part 2)

Being with Harry isn't right. What Harry wants isn't right. But Severus can't stay away.

Safe

Harry/Snape. E. 4k.

Harry is sure of a lot of things, until he isn't.

Haunted

Harry/Snape. T. 1k.

Harry Potter haunts Spinner's End.

Romantic Notions

Neville/plants. Unrequited Neville/Snape. Harry/Snape. Draco/Neville. E. 8k.

Neville has feelings for Severus and no hope of reciprocation. At least he has his plants for company.

#danpuff fics #self rec #danpuff 2020 #harry potter fanfiction #snarry #perceville #dron #ginsy #dreville #read the warnings please #wow i wrote a lot in 2020

[throneofsapphics]

you really eat up every feysand fic you do, they’re sooo good!! do you think I can request one where it’s feysand x reader and reader gets assaulted by her ex when she’s walking the streets of velaris and she gets home and is in shock. Feysand immediately smells him on reader and they literally murder him. i’m literally projecting it’s ok if you don’t want to write this🖤

taking care of it 

Feysand x Reader

Summary: “We’ll take care of this,” Feyre told her, her voice gentle but she could sense the rage boiling beneath her skin - and Rhys’s. She’s glad they didn’t reach out to touch her. Y/n’s not sure if she could handle that right now.

Warnings: sexual assault, injuries, death blood, panic attack. these are heavy themes, please be cautious of the warnings

A/N: ah you’re so kind, thank you for the request, this was healing to write & for everyone who's been through something similar, you're not alone

She came in, hair tousled, lip busted, and a black eye forming. The events of the last hour rattled her. She’d barely gotten away. Nothing mattered to her now, only getting in the bath and washing his stench away. Washing away the blood dripping from her cut, burning these clothes, and sleeping. Maybe if she slept, she’d wake up to find it was a nightmare. 

She pushed the door open slowly, hoping to slip inside. 

-

Rhys heard the door open, the soft footsteps slipping in. Something was off … wrong. He met her in the hallways, Feyre closely behind him. 

His eyes took in every inch of her - the torn clothing, bruises, blood, the hollow look in her eyes and that scent … he knows that. On instinct, he slipped into her mind. 

A punch struck his - no y/n’s face, her head slamming against the brick wall behind her, an enraged male in front of her, he tore at her shirt, one fist in her hair. A commotion sounded from the other end of the alley, and she took her change, bolting and not looking back. 

Her eyes were wide when he came back out, and lined with tears. 

Rage filled him. Pure, unfiltered rage. “Mor,” he reached out to her, knowing she’s in Velaris. “I need you here. Now.” 

His cousin appeared moments later. One look at y/n, and she nodded, “do what you need to. I’ll take care of her.” 

-

“We’ll take care of this,” Feyre told her, her voice gentle but she could sense the rage boiling beneath her skin - and Rhys’s. She’s glad they didn’t reach out to touch her. Y/n’s not sure if she could handle that right now.

Mor guided her up the stairs, to the bath, and gave her some privacy - without leaving her side. 

“Can I heal these?” She asked with a soft voice, motioning to her bruised face. 

She gave a quick nod, and the female quickly took care of the small injuries. Mor didn’t leave her side the entire night, handing her water and some food, keeping watch in the chair next to her as she drifted to sleep. A tonic prevented any dreams or nightmares. 

-

It didn’t take them long to find the male - and find him bragging. 

He went straight to Hewn City, to the lowest levels - ones where enemies never left alive. Rhys and Feyre didn’t waste any time making sure he had a slow and painful death. After, it was time to feed the monsters living beneath. 

-

When she woke, Mor was gone. Rhys and Feyre were in the room with her. “You’ll never have to worry about him again, darling.” Rhys promised. 

She forced a half-smile on her face and a thank you from her lips. 

“I want to …” her voice trailed, her head pounding as the memories flooded back through her. Of what happened the night before. Her heart raced, breaths coming shallow and fast. 

A gentle caress against her mind helped her breathe, helped her bring her heart rate back down. 

She flinched as the mattress shifted, but it was Feyre. Just Feyre. She forced herself to exhale slowly, calmly. Her hand extended, there for her to take if she wanted to. Y/n eyed it warily for a minute, but slid her hand into Feyre’s. Her thumb ran soothing strokes over her knuckles. “We’re here my love, we’re both here,” she murmured, and y/n managed to drift into a peaceful sleep. 

#read the warnings please #feysand x reader #feysand x y/n #poly!feysand x y/n #poly!feysand x reader #rhysand x reader #rhysand x y/n #feyre archeron x reader #feyre archeron x y/n

[lygma-nygma]

Sometimes I try to live my life normally but then I remember that when Tim properly met Dick for the first time the man was in full clown makeup.

Theres a foreshadowing joke in that but I can’t quite put it into words.

#I don’t know if I want to make a circus joke or just call Dick a clown #Can’t say he didn’t warn Tim though #batfam #tim drake #dick grayson #please read A Lonely Place of Dying it’s lowkey hilarious #Like 90s Batman is so unserious and it’s trying so hard to be

[kzuhae]

𝓑𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝓕𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃’𝐒 𝓑𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑(𝓢)!

── SANO BROTHERS┊TOKYO REVENGERS

premise. emma sano’s brothers are off limits, no matter how much you want them— or how much they want you.

content. sano brothers / f!reader. smut. dark content. best friend’s older brother(s) trope. mini series : three parts. age gap (1, 4 and 11 years). reader has known the brothers since childhood. dubcon. manipulation / coercion. virginity loss. car sex. drug use (cigarettes). petnames. drummer!izana. pervert / creep!sano brothers. penetrative sex. no protection. alcohol. band!tenjiku. corruption. possessive behaviour.

more specific tags found in each fic’s description.

interactions & reblogs are appreciated .ᐟ ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

¹new message from jia ෆ sano brothers have my heart btw

comment if you want to be on the taglist! (must be 18+)

── AM I YOUR TYPE, PRETTY? c. 2009

⌗ emma’s brother, manjiro sano : one year older.

content. smut. dubcon. alcohol. drunk / tipsy sex. car sex. unprotected sex. manipulation ++. coercion. virginity loss. fingering (f). pervert!mikey. marking. slight childhood friends. edging. reader is shorter than mikey. praise &&. a little degradation.

you told emma your feelings for her older brother weren’t anything serious— but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?

── LET ME HEAR YOU SCREAM! c. 2011

⌗ emma’s brother, izana kurokawa : four years older.

content. smut. dubcon. unprotected sex. manipulation ++. coercion. hair pulling. fingering (f). pervert!izana. slight vouyerism &&. exhibitionism. marking. mild choking. nipple play. degradation ++. praise. riding. improper use of instruments. izana has a tongue piercing.

after mikey, you swore you would never fuck another one of emma’s brothers— but maybe one time with izana is okay. . . ?

── WE’RE NOT SLEEPING TONIGHT. c. 2015

⌗ emma’s brother, shinichiro sano : eleven years older.

content. smut. dubcon. drug use. unprotected sex. manipulation ++. coercion. fingering (f). pervert!shinichiro. creampie. oral (f). doggy / prone bone. marking. praise. squirting. edging. overstimulation. service dom!shinichiro. tummy bulge. creampie / breeding kink. missionary.

shinichiro’s tactics won’t work on you now that you’ve been through his brothers, but who do you think they learned it from?

2024 © property of KZUHAE. all rights reserved. no reposts · plagiarism · ai usage · translations or promo outside of tumblr !! 𐚁

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers smut #manjiro sano #izana kurokawa #shinichiro sano #manjiro x reader #manjiro sano x reader #izana x reader #izana kurokawa x reader #shinichiro x reader #shinichiro sano x reader #mikey x reader #mikey smut #manjiro smut #manjiro sano smut #izana smut #izana kurokawa smut #shinichiro smut #shinichiro sano smut #tw dark content #tw dubcon #tw drugs #read all the warnings please!! #東京卍リベンジャーズ * ( tkrv ) #( k. ) ── zuhae. ˚◞✧ #after hours ಇ.

[youkissedareaderinthedark]

Coraline

Synopsis: Y/n’s childhood and history with her parents has always stayed a secret, and she likes it that way. Until a journalist reveals the truth, and everything seems to come crashing down at once.

young female driver reader x 2023 F1 grid

A/N: a few things for this fic: reader will be 20 years old, had driven for alpha tauri since the beginning of 2022, the 2022 is the same as the 2023 grid, and please look at the trigger warning below.

Trigger Warning: This fic contains abusive parents, talks of eating disorders, neglecting a kid, verbally abusing a kid, signs of depression, and a lot of hurtful comments in general. This fic is not meant to idolize or romanticize having abusive parents or depression. If anyone finds anything particularly disturbing with this fic, do not hesitate to let me know and I will fix it.

tagged: @treehouse-mouse

2023 was supposed to be a good season for Alpha Tauri. The cars looked good, your driver pairing was solid, and the hopes were high for your junior Red Bull team. You could only laugh at the naivety of it now.

Most of the season was exceptional; you and Yuki Tsunoda brought in points almost every weekend, your team was seventh in the constructors championship, and overall, you were having a great time traveling around the world.

This was your second year in Formula 1, and now that you weren’t a rookie anymore, you could have more fun now that you knew what you were doing.

Some people just don’t like others being happy, though.

With less than 10 races left, you walked into the paddock for the Monza Grand Prix Thursday afternoon feeling optimistic. This was the second race after the summer break, and Alpha Tauri was expected to do well in Italy.

Your press officer, Ally, greeted you in your garage, and after saying hello to Yuki, you followed her out of the garage and into the media pen for a press conference.

You walk in to see Lewis, Carlos, Lando, and Fernando and talked quietly with them as the press in front of you get settled. “Everybody ready? All right, first question please” One of the directors asks, as a journalists speaks up.

“Lewis, you’ve witnessed the infamous ‘Monza Curse’ multiple times in your career, do you think the theory is true and will it strike again this year?”

“Um, no” Lewis chuckles. “I don’t believe in the curse, but it would be nice to see someone new finish first today, and if a curse is what it’s going to take, then yeah, why not”

The five of you laugh, not noticing the second journalist beginning to speak. “Y/n, what do you have to say about the recent article published regarding your past with your family?”

You instantly stop laughing, hoping you misheard the man.

“Sorry?”

There’s no way

“The article? That was recently published concerning your past with your parents, what do you have to say about it?” The journalist stared at you curiously while your mind blanked for an answer.

You had no idea what article he was talking about, but if it concerned your past with your ‘family’, you knew it wasn’t anything that should be published.

Suddenly there’s movement in the midst of the media pen, and your press officer emerges from the crowd. “Y/n, come with me” She pauses, seeing one of the directors nearing out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s urgent, I need her” You’d take any excuse to get away from the current situation, so after exchanging a look with Lewis, you follow the woman into the paddock towards your garage.

Once you were both in the safety of your drivers room, you turned on her. “What article is he talking about? What’s going on?” You said, voice heavy with concern.

Ally hesitated, looking uncomfortable, before answering. “This morning, an article published a story talking about you and your parents, and the-um, harsh history you have with them” She hands you her phone, said article already open.

“I think it’s better if you read it yourself” The bold letters blink up at you, clear and sullen.

“F1 DRIVERS UNCOVERED: THE REAL REASON WE DON’T SEE Y/N L/N’S PARENTS”

Your heart falls to your stomach and your hands start to shake as your eyes skim over the words of the most invading and overwhelming article you’ve ever read in your life. Whoever wrote this, wrote it in hopes of exposing every secret of your past, and further tangles the truth of an already over-complicated background.

The real reason your parents are never around you is a reason you hate talking about.

You first realized it when you were around ten years old, the way your parents never looked happy around each other, and always tense around other parents. The way they never said ‘I love you’ or kissed each other goodbye. It confused you, as these were the things you always saw your friend’s parents do, but you were too young to understand at the time, so you mainly ignored it.

It wasn’t until one night when you were eleven that you heard an argument erupting from your kitchen, one about money and divorces and you. The shouting continued for ages, until you heard one statement, loud and clear.

“Think about this, she’s getting good in those karting competitions of hers, and according to other parents she could go really far in this thing and get money from sponsorships and mentors. So let’s just give it a little time, make sure she gets better and gets paid, and the money will go to us and eventually she’ll leave to Formula- whatever and we won’t have to worry about her”

You put your pillow over your head, turned around, and went to sleep sobbing that night.

From then on, there was no ‘I love you’s’ or kisses goodbye even to you, and eventually, no happiness in your house. The ‘other parents’ were right, the older you got, the farther you looked to go in racing. Just before you turned 13, the three of you moved to a city in England so you could pursue karting further, and that’s when it all got worse.

You competed in countless competitions, and every race you won, the more criticism you got from your mom and dad. The second you stepped off the 1st place podium, your parents were waiting to comment on your driving and the techniques you should’ve used to win.

They never let you focus on anything but karting, letting you go nowhere but the track and to school, and made sure you were always looking for ways to get better. They ruthlessly compared you to kids in other series that were performing better than you, and countered every compliment someone gave you with a complaint.

All of this seemed like a dream compared to the treatment you got when you lost. Whether it be second, or tenth, every race you didn’t come first in was a loss, and your parents simply didn’t accept this.

When you lost, they’d make you practice on track for twice as long, no matter the weather, and berated you the second you started to complain. They limited your diet after your losses, claiming you needed to be lighter if you wanted the kart to go faster.

Your mother and father gave you this relentless attention with anything regarding racing, but the moment the topic drifted, you were neglected. There were no family dinners or movie nights, if you wanted something, you were going to have to buy it with your own money, and if you wanted to go somewhere, you needed to walk or find a ride because they refused to drive you anywhere if it wasn’t for a race.

There was no other family to go to even when things go impossibly rougher; you had no other relatives in the UK, and you couldn’t exactly ask your friends if you could live with them.

So you endured these conditions, all the way through the F4 British Championship, F3 and F2. You turned 18 while you were in Formula 2, and the second you did, you took the little money you had, and rented an apartment in South England, where you’ve been living ever since.

Your parents constantly contacted you in whatever ways they could, but you very quickly made sure they didn’t know where you lived and were never given paddock passes again. No one knows any of this anyway; when people ask where your parents are or when they’d get to meet them, you just shrug and say, “they couldn’t make it”

You haven’t seen your parents in person since you were 17, and you’ve done everything in your power to keep it like that.

Though with a few thousand words and 4 hours, one nosy journalist has managed to unravel all your work and growth and release it into the world.

You’re broken out of your stunned silence when Ally puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve set up a meeting with Alpha Tauri and Red Bull’s PR managers so we could figure out what we should do next to keep the press off your back, okay? The meeting’s in fifteen meetings, so I’ll leave you for a while”

Ally takes her phone back and exits the room to leave you standing still in the middle of it, astonished and speechless.

The meeting goes as well as you expected it to go. You shared as much as the truth as you saw fit, and came up with a statement to post with the rest of the PR managers. You were confirmed to go back to the media pen to finish interviews an hour later, and while no one asked you about the article, you could tell it was the unanswered question they all wanted to raise.

You are able to avoid most of the press of the remaining of the Italian weekend, and stuck to answering race-related questions only, your safest and only option, Ally told you later. You finished the Grand Prix P10, and flew home still sullen.

You spent the two weeks in between Monza and Japan in your apartment, regretfully thinking about all those years you had to spend under your parent’s treatment, and trying to forget them with simulator work.

You arrive in Suzuka, quiet and unsmiling, and try to ignore the shouting of the press that greets you on your way into the paddock. Ally guides you away as two new voices greet you.

“Hey Y/n, how are you?” Lewis asks, pulling you into a side hug and stepping into place beside you.

“Are you okay? You seem off” Charles says concerned, meeting you in a handshake.

“I’m fine, my flight just got in late last night so I’m tired, that’s all” You half smiled in response, hoping it was believable enough.

“Sure?” Lewis presses father. “Yeah, I’m okay” You nod.

“Okay, well, we’re still going into the city after media today?” Lewis asks. “Of course, I’ll meet you guys at my hotel after” You assure as you near the Alpha Tauri garage.

“See you then, and try to sleep a bit, yes?” Charles says before the two men walk off together.

Your friendship with the two drivers started because of the Spanish and British Grand Prix’s, the two races that gave you your two highest race finishes, and ended with two of your closest friends. Spain was a great race for both you and Lewis, yourself in P4, him in P2, and after non-stop talking in the paddock, you flew back to the UK together, effectively starting the friendship existing today.

You’d been friendly with Charles previously, but after his P9 finish in Silverstone and your P5 finish, he realized in a conversation before an interview that you were undeniably good at cheering people up, and you guys have been close since.

You’ve talked with them since Monza, of course, but not about the article. They want to talk to you about it, you can tell, but Charles and Lewis aren’t the type of people to just come right out and ask if you’re feeling okay about your history with your abusive parents being exposed to the world.

They also don’t want to pressure you into talking about something you clearly don’t want to talk about, so if all they can do is help distract you from the media, they’re going to.

Your night out with the Mercedes and Ferrari drivers does distract you; Lewis leads you and Charles to different shops and restaurants all over Suzuka, talking and laughing the entire time. You take a few photos along the way, and you go back to your hotel still smiling.

You kept your good mood until qualifying on Saturday, and are brought back into the reality of racing when you only manage P11. It’s technically not bad of a result for your car, but P9 or P8 would’ve been better right now, because all you can think about is what your parents would’ve said if you finished P11.

They’re paying you millions of dollars to race for them and the best you can do is eleventh?

You think you deserve to be here?

They are hundreds of other drivers that would do so much better than you

You are nothing compared to the other drivers

You’re lucky if you keep you seat next season, I know I wouldn’t let a P11 driver on my team

You go quiet at the thought, and get through post-race media stoic. You leave with your trainer as soon as you can, avoiding Lewis and Charles’s eyes on your way out. You have a week before you have to leave for Qatar, and spend a countless amount of hours on your simulator, hoping this time it’ll make a difference.

You flew into Lusail not knowing what to expect other than hot weather, and unfortunately you were right. You felt the heat as soon as you got in your car for FP1 on Friday and was already dreading the rest of the weekend.

You qualify P11 for both the race and the sprint, and end up in P12 for the two. You felt terrible after Sunday’s race, both physically and mentally, and you’re already berating yourself for your performance by the time you get weighed.

Charles and Lewis are in your post-race press conference group, and you can see them exchange a look after every cold and detached answer you give. You only stop to talk to your friends for a few minutes afterwards before you excuse yourself to go cool down, and leave minutes later with the defense of needing rest.

You fly back to the UK with Lewis, and you’re glad the two of you are asleep for most of the trip so Lewis won’t ask you to talk about why you’ve been so quiet.

The 10 days you have until you fly out to Austin are spent mostly on your phone, looking at all the comments people have been making about you since the article came out, saying how you probably deserved the treatment that you got, and how Alpha Tauri needs a more “stable” driver if they want to advance in the championship.

You don’t do much except exercise and train on the sim in those days, finding neither the desire or energy to do anything else.

Even though everyone is happy to be in Texas that week, you can’t find the energy to truly smile once that weekend. Charles and Lewis are practically stuck to your side, and even though you can tell they’re dying to ask you to talk about it, they only ask a few times if you wanted to tell them something, and when you denied, and simply offered companionship through silence.

It’s another sprint race, and you only pull off P12 and 13 for qualifying and the shootout, and drop a place by the end of both races.

You feel more frustrated with yourself than ever; you don’t understand why you can’t work with the car like you once used to, and you can’t even figure out how to again. You were doing so well until that fucking article came out, and all the sudden you don’t know how to drive.

The worst part about it is that every race, more and more people are realizing how you’ve been under-performing, and how people are starting to question your ability to drive for the junior Red Bull team.

You aren’t stupid, you know how things work at Red Bull, so you know that if you don’t pick your pace up soon, you could end up without a seat for the 2024 season.

This thought alone starts to destroy you, and soon you can’t even deny how burnt out you are. You pick up on the forced habit of not eating much, and making yourself to do nothing but train and look for ways to be better.

You spend the days before Mexico with data analysts and strategists, looking for any and every way to go faster. You dedicate too much time looking at successful F2 drivers, hearing Liam Lawson’s name come up too much for comfort, thinking about how Dennis Hauger had been looking fast in F2.

It’s a terribly unhealthy time killer, one that makes you look sick and go quiet. Charles and Lewis aren’t the only ones exchanging concerned looks now; multiple other drivers on the grid, friends with you or not, notice the change in your behavior and quickly grow worried when they hear Yuki’s description of you.

The drivers aren’t stupid either, they all know about the article that was published in September, and most of them would be lying if they said they hadn’t looked at it in curiosity. They’d also be lying if they saw their eyes didn’t widen in concern or eyebrows didn’t furrow with worry when they read how terrible your parents treated you.

The grid saw how the comments got nastier and nastier under your lessening social media posts every day, and even asked your PR officer multiple times to make sure she was managing your accounts and making sure you didn’t see what people had to say about your background or yourself.

They saw how you got quieter every race, how you stopped hanging out with Yuki and Charles and Lewis, no matter how many times they offered. They saw the rumors of you and your 2024 seat, how apparently Helmut Marko was paying close attention to you and the clauses in your contract.

They asked a lot, if you wanted to talk or if they could help in any way. It was always the same response; a weary smile, a small shake of the head, the words,“No, I’m fine, just tired” and an excuse that you were needed in your garage or media pen.

So they try to help in more discreet ways; when Yuki is asked about your position on Alpha Tauri or your future with Red Bull, he calmly assures that you are working hard with the team, and is doing everything possible to understand the car.

Charles, Lewis, and a few other drivers make a routine of coming to your driver’s room, most of the time just to sit with you as you look at data, or talk with you when you’re feeling up to it.

Mexico goes somehow worse than Texas, and you finish with your lowest result in F1 yet, P15. You try to be as approachable as possible in post-race media, but your sullen face gives you away.

You leave with Ally and your trainer to catch your flight to Brazil mere hours after you passed the checkered flag, and spend most of your time in Sau Paulo alone in your hotel room, replaying every hurtful comment either your mother and father or fans have said about you, and debating whether or not it was true.

You walk into the Brazilian paddock Thursday morning more grateful than you thought possible that this was the third-to-last race of your season.

And according to over twenty media sources, your third-to last race of F1.

After a public statement made by Marko talking about how Red Bull was “considering your future with their junior team” every journalist in the F1 community has decided that it means this was your last season in F1.

And honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Whether you raced in 2024 or not, you just wanted to go home and avoid the press for three months.

It was another sprint weekend, and another terrible qualifying and shootout. You placed 15th in both sessions and kept your place in the sprint, and spent a quiet Saturday evening in your hotel.

You could feel almost every journalists eye’s turn to you as soon as you walked into the paddock on Sunday. You arrived early that afternoon to get some extra data-stuff done, only now realizing that it gave the growing group of reporters behind you more time to ask you questions.

“Y/n! Can you tell us about your future in F1?”

“Will you have a seat next year?

“Y/n, what does Helmut Marko think about your decrease in performance?”

“Does your past with your parents have anything to do with your recent race results?”

You try to keep your face emotionless as you make your way into the Alpha Tauri garage and to your drivers room. You prepare for the race with your personal trainer and look over the arranged strategies for Sau Paulo while you wait for the go-ahead to get in your car.

Due to all the crashed-out cars, you ended the race in P12 in front of Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo. Statistically speaking, it was one of your better 2023 races, but everyone knows if it wasn’t for all the DNF’s, you’d finish in the bottom five.

You know that everyone knows this because just before you walked into the media pen after your race debrief, you saw Christian Horner and Marko speaking to your team principle, and after Yuki’s P9 finish today, it didn’t take you even a second to understand who they were talking about with disappointed faces and multiple shakes of the head.

Sure, this could mean nothing. This could just be a conversation between the three people that control the top team and it’s junior team. But you also like to think you’re a bit smarter than that.

You walked deeper into the crowded area before the three could see you, and walked to the first open journalist you saw, in hopes of leaving early.

“Y/n, hi! Not too bad of a race for you today, I guess?” The man asked, pointing his microphone towards you

“Yeah, not too bad. The car felt pretty okay and there was a bit of pace, but not enough to overtake or anything, clearly” You reply.

“Can we expect more race pace from you in Las and Vegas and Abu Dhabi?”

“I mean, it’s a bit too early to tell, but we’ll hope and see what comes out out of the practices” The man nods before looking down at his notebook.

“And your seat for Alpha Tauri next year, we know you’re apart of the confirmed driver lineup for 2024 but Helmut Marko states that there are attainable clauses in your contract, what do you think about that?”

You’re caught off guard by the question, but right when you’re about to respond, the man continues.

“Surely, Alpha Tauri isn’t really considering keeping you for next season, are they?”

You’re standing in front of the man speechless now, your brain barely comprehending what’s being spoken.

“Because I know the last thing a team wants is an incapable driver that is too emotionally effected by her “traumatic” childhood to race,” the volume of his voice starts to increase, and other drivers are starting to focus on your one-sided conversation.

“I mean, c’mon, no one even believes that even happened to you, and if it did, your parents were probably right for doing it-”

Your hands are shaking, eyes are wide with shock, body suddenly freezing, and you don’t even think you’re breathing. All you can do is listen as this man goes on and on about how you’re a shitty driver and deserved how your parents treated you.

You’re only broken out of your trance when an arm clad in red wraps around your shoulders and pulls you through the paddock. You’re not even aware of the yelling from a certain Mercedes drivers gets quieter and quieter as you’re brought into your driver’s room.

You’re being sat on a couch, and suddenly Charles Leclerc’s face is right in front of you, hands on your shoulders and eyes filled with concerned. “Y/n? Y/n, look at me, please, Y/n-” Your eyes dart to him and in an instant, everything from the past five minutes comes rushing through your head, and you can’t stop the tears that start to fall down your face.

“Oh, Y/n” The Ferrari driver moves to comfort you, but stops as you begin to cover your face and move away.

“No, Y/n, it’s okay, please, let me help you, Y/n” Charles wraps his arms around you in a hug as your body begins to shake with uncontrollable sobs.

“I can’t- I can’t do this anymore, Charles” You say in between breaths.

“I have to quit or something, I can’t keep doing this Charles, I can’t” You let your head fall on his shoulder, as the man tries to calm you down.

Charles’ heart is breaking as he comforts his friend; he remembers loving his first few years in Formula 1, how everything was so new and exciting to him, he could never not want to race, not then and not now. But to hear one of his closest friends breakdown because of how much she hates being there, makes the man’s heart shatter.

The door abruptly opens, and for a moment, all you can hear is the low angry cursing of Lewis Hamilton, until he sees you and Charles, and his face immediately softens.

“Love, I’m so sorry. That guy is a complete arsehole, don’t listen to him” The British man says as he takes a seat beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, I feel so stuck in this place where everyone is always talking about what happened and I don’t know how much longer I can go through it” You say, your voice breaking off with another sob.

Charles hushes you once more, exchanging a worried look with Lewis as you pull away from him again. “I’m sorry, I know I should be doing better and everything but I just can’t-” You say, voice shaky through the tears.

“Don’t for one second be sorry that you’re not competitive right now. Y/n, thousands of people are talking about the one thing that hurt you the most, and I understand why you feel this way, just please, love, for your own good, let us help you. I promise it will make you feel better” Lewis assures, grabbing your hand.

So for the first time, you do. For over an hour, you tell Charles and Lewis everything that happened when you were younger, and how the article has made you feel since then. They listen quietly, nodding once in a while to let you know they understand, and gave you a hug when you stopped talking.

“Do you feel better now?” Lewis asks.

“Yeah, not entirely, but better”

“Good, that’s all I wanted to hear,”

“Are you ready to go home now? There’s a plane waiting for us, if you want”

“Definitely. I need to go home” You say as Charles helps pack up all your things and Lewis makes sure there’s a car waiting for you two outside. As you’re all walking through the nearly-empty paddock, Charles turns to you.

“I have to go back to my garage, but please Y/n, if you ever need to talk, call me? I want to help you, I don’t want to see you like this again” The Monegasque brings you into a hug.

“I know, Charles, I will” You promise.

“Okay, I’ll see you before Vegas, yes? Feel better!” He calls as he moves backwards and further into the paddock.

“You promise?”

Lewis asks you hours later in the front of the airport in England, just about to get into separate cars.

“Yes, Lewis, I’ll call when I need” You say to the older man in a hug.

“Alright, text me when you’ve made it home and make sure you get some rest. Don’t be too hard on yourself either, you don’t give yourself enough credit for everything you do” You smile at him.

“Okay, I’ll see you before Vegas?”

“See you before Vegas!” He shouts from his already-closed car door.

When you do see the two next, they make sure you’ve made an appointment with a therapist and are setting up a meeting with your PR manager to put together a statement in regards to your well-being the past two months.

Charles and Lewis make sure the media inside the paddock is severely monitored and checked before being allowed near the drivers, and help you fall back into healthier habits.

These changes don’t happen overnight, and they don’t take affect overnight, but you do use the winter off season to make sure these changes are helpful and working.

The three month break is utilized to mentally and physically prepare yorself in time for your 2024 seat at Alpha Tauri that was re-confirmed after your P8 finishes in Las Vegas and Abu Dhabi.

The media still knows everything, and you haven’t completely forgotten your childhood, you never will, but dealing with it still gets easier.

#formula 1 #reader insert #driver reader #f1 grid x reader #formula 1 driver imagines #platonic f1 grid #f1 2023 grid x y/n #f1 imagine #female driver reader #comfort fic #angst with a happy ending #angst #please look at trigger warning before you read #lewis hamilton #charles lecrelc #platonic lewis hamilton #platonic charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #lewis hamilton x reader

[embossross]

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: very very bad therapeutic practice; sexual harassment; references to masturbation; references to murder/drugs/violence

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, torture (not of y/n), and many more that I don't know yet

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~5k

A row of crude teeth marks mangles the shape of your pen. Do you nibble when you’re distracted? Agitated? Hanma waits for you to reveal the particulars of this tell. It’s Chekhov’s gun. Yet in the fifteen minutes since he first catalogued this weakness of yours, your pen has never strayed towards your menacingly, orthodontically straight teeth. It’s Chekhov’s gun but filled with blanks.

Hanma credits himself with a particular skill in reading people. He doesn’t worm his way into their head like Kisaki might or intuit how to inspire blind loyalty like Mikey. No, Hanma’s superpower is picking apart a person’s weaknesses. One. By. One.

You, however, are constructed so carefully, the gummy rim of pen is the only sign you have a beating pulse.

When Kisaki ordered him to see a shrink, Hanma obliged because obeying Kisaki is second nature after a decade as his number two. Time and again, Hanma has followed Kisaki blindly into battle or business. Nearly every time – especially in those early years – he was rewarded for it. So here he is.

Maybe filling the hours with the sound of his own voice in a sterile office is not going to relieve his demons, but orders are orders. Today’s order is to attend therapy.

While you explain to Hanma the particulars of your credentials – blah blah, top university, blah – he sizes you, his shiny new therapist, up and finds you lacking. You are young, probably overeager to prove you can rehabilitate one of Tokyo’s most wanted. An impersonal office to match your bland, impersonal clothing; conservative, probably to appease the sex freaks that frequent your office. Over-groomed with bobby pins digging into your scalp and threatening a migraine, nylons that would never dare tear, manicured nails with clear polish. You are pretty despite your best efforts to hide it. Still, there is something about the way you move, performative in your restraint.

You are either the most confident person Hanma has ever encountered or the most wildly insecure.

If you would just nibble on the damned pen, he would have his answer.

“I prefer to speak with the friends and family of my patients before sitting down with them for the first time,” you say – maybe the fourth time you’ve impressed this fact upon him in his brief time in your office. “And Kisaki-san told me that you haven’t been sleeping well. Have you ever visited a doctor for insomnia?”

“No.”

One-word answers. Just enough that Kisaki can’t accuse him of refusing to cooperate.

“Do you take anything prescribed for insomnia?”

“No.”

“What about self-medicating? Or…does your trouble sleeping correspond to the use of any stimulants? Maybe Methamphetamines?”

Hanma refuses to give you credit for a lucky guess. The meth could be classified as a pleasant mistake. The temporary brain bliss is almost as pleasurable as feeling his fist collide with skin, or the rush when a person’s skull turns concave under the force of his knuckles. It’s why he started using.

It also happens to make him trigger happy, neurotic and perpetually late to meetings. Hanma suspects the latter was the last straw for Kisaki. Overkill is one thing but tardiness? Kisaki is running a business after all.

“Mostly meth but also cocaine, Diazepam, weed, LSD. I could go on. I sell it by the kilo, might as well dip a finger in on occasion,” Hanma says.

You raise an eyebrow at his use of the word ‘occasion.’ The vast undersell of his drug use is visible in the effects from just last night’s bender. A suit and coiffed hair may fool the average person, but the telltale signs are there. Even now, he feels a stab of alertness from a popped Ritalin downed with vodka to dull out the edges.

“What about appetite? I heard mixed opinions from your colleagues. Some swear you should be dead from starvation at this point, others that you eat like a horse,” you say.

“You’re an educated woman, so you know the proverb: ‘eighth-tenths full keeps the doctor away,” Hanma says, only realizing afterward that he’d intended not to respond to your questioning.

“And methamphetamines suppress the appetite,” you say dryly. “How often do you drink?”

Hanma notes that you haven’t written anything he says down in the notebook resting on your knee. The pen is not just unchewed but unused. Paranoid, he does a quick scan for any bugs that might be recording this session instead. That would be a fatal mistake on your part.

“I drink as much and often as you think,” Hanma says.

You don’t comment at Hanma’s lack of answer or at his strange behavior as he pats beneath his chair to confirm a bug isn’t glued to the bottom. Satisfied that there’s no other place to hide in your practically empty office, he relaxes back in his seat.

“How would you describe your sex drive?”

The barrage of questions bring to mind a flood memories. Remembers his cheek bruising against a police desk and wrists chafed raw from handcuffs as his freedom is dangled like a toy. Hanma despises the arrogance and ritual of interrogations; the interrogator asking the wrong questions, smug on a god-complex that promises Hanma will break and spill his guts under glaring lamplight. Shut up and lawyer up is what Toman advises. Except, Hanma always leans into his interrogations, snapping and seething at the police and prosecutor until their questions trip frightened off their tongue and the power is thoroughly reversed in his direction. Therapy, it seems, will be no different.

Hanma adjusts his long legs wider, a manspread that immediately drew the eye straight to his groin and grins.

“Looking for a first-hand demonstration, doc?”

Your eyes flicker briefly to his crotch, and Hanma’s cock answers with a twitch. The victory arouses every part of him. It does not hurt that you are a meal for the eyes either. If he saw you at one of Toman’s many clubs, Hanma would not hesitate to press you to your knees for him. Cold as your eyes are now, Hanma suspects they would liven up when pooling with tears and panic.

“It’s a basic diagnostic question,” you respond coolly.

“See, but I don’t appreciate you wasting my time on questions when you know the answers. You spoke to Kisaki before, yeah? Which means you know full well that I fuck and kill and shoot up and all the rest,” Hanma drones, unfeeling even on the verge of speechifying. “You have a rulebook you’re following. I get it. You’re young. Maybe Kisaki should have found someone more experienced because I have better things to do than cry to you about how hard my childhood was. I was a bad boy, and now, I’m a bad man.”

“My age bothers you?” you say, glomming onto the question of your competency and leaving the rest behind as if it means nothing. Typical. “I’m only one year younger than you are. Do you believe you need another dozen years’ of experience to excel at your job?”

“I’ve left a trail of cold cases to prove just how good I am at my job, sweetheart.”

“And I’ve left a trail of happy patients to show how good I am at mine. Hanma-san, tell me, why do you think we’re here today?”

The clock above your desk shows another fifteen minutes in the day’s session, and Kisaki will be up his ass if he leaves early. None of the staples of a therapist’s office – bonsai tree, swinging balls, abstract art – are present to distract him. For the next quarter hour, Hanma will be trapped in a room as bland as a prison cell with a hot but painfully boring therapist.

And Hanma hates to be bored.

There’s nothing better to do than lean into the cat-and-mouse game, see if he can lure his sweet therapist into a trap.

“A trick question? The mind games are beginning already, huh, doc?” Hanma sneers. “I suppose I’m here so that you can finally put a diagnosis on what everyone already knows. Name what makes me such a monster to polite, tax-paying citizens like you.”

“Except, you’ve been working for more than a decade with Kisaki-san and never once has he suggested you see a therapist before, correct? I’ve heard in depth from your colleagues about your behavior. They call you belligerent, impulsive, manipulative, cold. Basically, they sing your praises. Say you’re a natural at your job, one of the best in Tokyo. Why would your boss decide those traits are a problem now?” you counter.

“I’m blushing,” Hanma says, mostly to save time as he thinks through your analysis. There is a reason he saw such immediate success when he joined the delinquent world, and even as Kisaki led Toman into the realm of organized crime, the skillset remained the same. “If you have all the answers, then share them with the class. What is wrong with me?”

“Wrong with you? Well, I suppose that’s a matter of perspective. It’s too early to diagnose you with anything, but informally, I’d say you’re a closed and shut case of Anti-Social Personality Disorder.”

“You’re diagnosing me with psychopath?”

“I’m leaning sociopath based on the interviews I conducted with your colleagues. But the distinction isn’t as relevant as the TV shows pretend. I’d say you meet the criteria if ASPD, just about a text-book case,” you say, matter of fact in a way that other patients might appreciate hearing bad news.

The label followed Hanma throughout the years. A rotating retinue of losers have called him a psychopath and then met the unlucky side of his gun or the punishment of his knuckles. The appellation doesn’t offend him, but neither does it resonate with him. Hanma never did care for TV or movies, but the serial killers and stalkers that haunted the public’s collective imagination are familiar to him, and he can’t relate. He has never once considered dismembering a civilian just for the sake of it or stalking a co-ed for the thrill of her screams. What he loves most is a fight against an opponent worthy of him, the risk to his own life that gets his blood rushing.

Still, Hanma knows that he sees the world differently than other people. It is almost like he walks through life wearing sunglasses. He and the average person see the same shapes, same sizes, but there is a distortion to the color, something only Hanma can see, and others miss. In his darkest hours, he admits it could be the reverse. Maybe he is missing what others find so obvious.

“The clinical definition of someone with ASPD has changed significantly over the years. How I like to think of it is sociopaths have a muted ability to empathize with other people. Not necessarily a complete inability – and in fact, your colleagues seem to believe you do hold care for a select few – but you don’t feel it as intensely or in the same way as most people. As a result, you engage in behaviors that make you struggle to fit into society. That’s actually a part of the diagnostic criteria. Criminality, manipulation, risk-taking or other behaviors that make you struggle to become say an office worker but make you excellent at…whatever you’d call your job. The destructive becomes constructive. We could spend weeks in this office trying to lessen your violent impulses, but for what? So you can be slower to kill for the Tokyo Manji gang? I don’t think Kisaki-san would thank me for that.”

Broadcast news and preschool teachers delude the masses with the promise that violence and criminality are the playground of a small, chronically ostracized group of poors and crookeds. The button-ups that go to the office every day, the housewives, and store clerks, they all trade in empathy and love and rainbow kisses or some shit. Hanma knows this is a lie. He has seen time and again the sadism of the everyman.

So, your mercenary assessment of sociopathy does not surprise Hanma, but it does intrigue him. He wonders how you would score on a psychopath test. Whether there is any feeling harbored behind your icy veneer.

If he slid his hand beneath your blouse and kneaded his finger over your breast, would you have a heart?

“So, I’m a high-functioning sociopath, and you wouldn’t change a thing about me. I’m flattered. That still leaves us with the mystery of why I’m here.”

“Is it really a mystery? You seem to have an idea.”

“Well, there was an…incident four months ago. I don’t want to sully your pure ears with the details,” Hanma purrs. He hopes your imagination fills in the blanks with the most savage scene imaginable. Even then it probably wouldn’t be as gruesome as the damage he left behind. It was sloppy and cost Toman a fortune to bribe the right officials to ignore.

“Anything you say to me here is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality. I am mandated to report if you present an immediate danger to yourself or others, so I would prefer you not tell me if you intend to leave her and commit a murder presently. That said, these walls don’t talk and neither do I, regardless. It’s just a preference,” you say, pointlessly.

Hanma knows full well you won’t talk. He will personally make sure of it.

“I’ve heard of mob lawyers, now get ready for mob therapists! How very new millennia of you,” Hanma guffaws. “Without going into the details, I saw an opportunity to win a negotiation with a powerful business partner. They had offered a deal that Kisaki accepted. The terms were set. I saw an opportunity with a little candid discussion to further sweeten the terms. I was right, of course. Our deal today is far more generous in our favor. But the aftermath of the conversation was a bitch to clean up and attracted some unwarranted attention from our friends at the Tokyo police department.”

To your discredit, you don’t react with a hint of fear to this confession. So far, his only success provoking you was when he questioned your credentials. He won’t forget that useful information.

“Impulsivity and risk-taking are typical in people diagnosed with ASPD. The research is actually interesting on the subject. It suggests that you could feel regret for the choice, especially if you face negative consequences, but you likely couldn’t use that regret to prevent yourself from making the same mistake again.”

“Like a toddler that burns his hand on the stove Monday and is dumb enough to do it again on Tuesday?” Hanma demands.

You don’t realize how closely you’ve danced to the edge with him. He meets people like you every day. You aren’t half so interesting as to excuse an insult, and he would have you crying for your life before you insulted him again.

“In over-simplified terms? Sure. There are two primary theories to explain the impulsivity and risk-taking behaviors of someone diagnosed with ASPD. The first is that your brain is just wired differently. The same brain rewiring that damages your empathy is also dampening your self-control.”

Hanma scoffs.

“I see you don’t care for that theory. My feelings exactly,” you agree. “I think there’s a simple explanation, and it’s why we’re here today. I think people diagnosed with ASPD – I think you, Hanma-san – are bored.”

Eagerly, you lean forward. Here, at the big reveal, you tip your hand and show your excitement. Your eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them. Professional victory has thawed you and revealed the young woman, the human.

“Bored…is that a professional diagnosis?” Hanma asks.

“Funny,” you say, and it sounds like you mean it. “The other side of the boredom coin is depression. We’d need to run through the diagnostic criteria before I can diagnose you officially, but I bet you qualify. In fact, I bet that when you wake up on a lazy day, one where you have no morning appointments, nothing to organize your morning, you lay in bed for minutes at a time, unsure what to do. Should you take a shower? Watch porn? Make breakfast? Shoot up? Call someone? Who? How do you decide what to do with your day, when every option promises the same yawning boredom as the next? How am I doing so far?”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Follow me, Kisaki had promised. Follow me and I’ll make your life exciting. At fifteen years old, Hanma had almost given up on life. A high school dropout, he watched boys his age jerking off to cartoons and crowing over the trials and tribulations of their school club, and wondered what universe they were living in. Hardly anyone could reach him. Even the other delinquents offered only the occasional challenge.

Kisaki entered his life and presented something valuable: stimulation. He taught Hanma to slow down and appreciate the build up to the big moment. The calculated staging of a plot to destroy someone else, culminating in the delicious high of battle, the last-minute pivot as your enemy reacted in ways you couldn’t predict. It kept him alive and entertained for years. But now…

…Now, Toman sits atop the criminal world as the uncontested conqueror of Tokyo. All of their enemies have long since been crushed. The occasional upstart contender is defeated within a month of entering the ring. Their work is focused on fine-tuning an already smooth criminal operation, optimizing profits.

What is the point?

There are so many hours in a week, in a day! And there are so few activities that bring the rush he needs.

Hanma doesn’t care for money. Stealing something feels better anyway. He doesn’t stake his pride on the success of Toman. Time has made him fond of a number of the top executives – Kisaki and Hakki particularly – but their company only interests him for a few hours a week.

Sex helps. Drugs help. Underground boxing rings help. But none of these things inspire him to get out of bed every morning.

He is unanchored. He is an addict whose supply is dwindling. Or, more accurately, who has adjusted to the product and can no longer achieve the same highs as before.

Sitting across from your pretty, blank face, and confronting the truth, Hanma feels split in half. He wants to slap you for seeing him so clearly when no one else has ever dared look.

Yet another part roars in celebration. He feels hyper-present. The fog of boredom is in retreat.

“Well, I’m certainly not bored now,” Hanma drawls with a smile. “You know, I’ve read in the papers tragic stories of some poor sap falling out of bed, bumping his head, and waking up a full-blown psychopath. Is that true? Do you think that’s what happened to me?”

You shrug. “Have you ever suffered a traumatic brain injury?”

“Sure, dozens,” Hanma smiles. His fighting style is all offense. Getting concussed is a non-event to him.

“Has there ever been a significant change in your behavior, personality, or perspective following one of these brain events?” you clarify.

“No.”

“Well, then, I’m inclined to put this more on your childhood,” you say.

“Spoken like a true shrink, though you might be onto something. Mommy was an alcoholic, Daddy was a diddler, and all the neighborhood kids picked on me. It was real said,” Hanma intones in a tragic whisper.

“We can save your childhood confessions for when we’ve built up more of a rapport,” you say, leaving the bait untouched.

“Boo! Who’s boring now? Actually, going back to that brain injury thing. I think that would be pretty entertaining. Could I take a decent citizen, no a step beyond, a monk, bonk them on the head and turn them into a violent psychopath? That would be pretty fun to watch. I may just have to try it out.”

Hakkai’s sister owns a spa outside Tokyo, in the mountains not far from a shrine. There ought to be one or two stray monks he could abduct for an experiment. All in the name of science, of course.

Again, you prove unbaitable. You don’t chastise him for his evil ways or wiggle in your seat. Instead, you ponder the logistics of the scenario every bit as seriously.

“Hmm…let me think about that for a moment. The challenge is it’s common for people to change dramatically after a traumatic experience, not from brain injury but from the adrenaline and the psychological impact. So, if you attacked a temple of monks, you would expect drastic behavioral changes, even if their brains weren’t rewired to psychopathy. You’d have to know about their daily patterns beforehand as well for comparison, so you’d have to surveil the place for weeks if not months. And even then, it’s more of a one in one thousand chance.”

“That’s not a problem. One thousand monks it is!”

“I’ll be on the lookout for that headline. One thousand monks mysteriously bashed on the head,” you banter.

Hanma isn’t joking. In fact, he’s trying to unbalance you, but you laugh like what he’s said is genuinely hilarious. In that brief moment, everything about you relaxes. Your posture slackens, ankles crossing to reveal a scandalous sliver of ankle. Modestly, your hand flutters to cover your mouth, but he can still see the stretch of your lips. Best of all, you tap your pen briefly to your lips, a second short of a little nibble.

Hanma sees the real you in a burst of unrestrained honesty. The same way you saw him earlier.

There is a temptation to let the moment linger with this foreign version of you, but your momentary flash of vulnerability is too valuable to pass up. Hanma leans forward to mirror your posture.

“Let’s say I agree with your hypothesis, and say yes, I’m bored. What then? Do you teach me how to appreciate the little things in life?”

You sober, resuming the professional veil.

“No. There may be some medications – a mood stabilizer or anti-depressant – that help. And, we could certainly work on developing some tools for when you are bored, so that you don’t do something destructive to break the monotony, but the main priority would be to help you find things that stimulate and entertain your need for an adrenaline high. That way, you don’t wake up wishing yourself or others dead. Instead, you would go out and stimulate yourself. Something like…car racing maybe? I will have to think on it a bit.”

How…droll. Disappointment crashes into Hanma like said racing car – of which he already owns two. After teasing him with your uncanny insight into his brain, you followed up with mundanity.

He despises you. Yes, he hates people like you. You could offer him no more than a monkey dancing on a string. Well…you were pretty. You could have one additional use.

Vindictive at having his hopes dashed, Hanma snaps back, “Car racing? Your cure for me is car racing? You know there are plenty of other ways I could start getting my kicks. What do other sociopaths do to get off? I could start stalking women, maybe start with a pretty, little therapist? That could keep me plenty entertained. I wonder how you’d scream when I’m breaking through your window.”

“Loudly. I live on the eighth floor. Regardless, you already get the thrill of holding power over others as part of your job, and you have plenty of sexual stimulation. I don’t think terrorizing me would offer you much novelty. My scream would sound no different than anyone else’s,” you say, brutally dispassionate.

“Spoil sport,” Hanma mutters.

There are a handful of people in the world who could rebut him so casually. He senses no fear in you, and against his better judgment, his interest piques once again.

“You wanted to scare me, and you didn’t. How does it make you feel when you don’t get the reaction you want?” you ask.

“Hard.”

For good measure, Hanma thrusts his hips up. Your eyes dart down before you remember yourself and redirect your gaze to your notepad. You scribble something down. Maybe too ashamed to meet his gaze?

“Our time is up,” you say. “I think this was a strong start. We’re agreed on the problem, which is always the first challenge. Now, it’s just a matter of coming up with a therapeutic solution. Can I show you out?”

Something hisses through Hanma’s brain, not quite angry but close. With the session over, he realizes how effortlessly you controlled the tone and topic even as he tried to disrupt or stonewall you at every turn. He had been reduced to a naughty schoolboy throwing paper airplanes at the teacher’s back.

Hanma can’t let you end this session on your terms as well.

“You’re just going to throw me out into the cold after making my cock hard like this? You’re in the services industry. My service should end with a happy ending,” Hanma mocks.

He palms his own thigh, drawing attention to the magnitude of his person. The threat is ninety percent air, but Hanma thinks he might cum immediately if you watch him touch himself. Or better yet, if you jerk him off with your delicate, moisturized hands. He loves putting a woman’s manicure to good use.

“I need to speak to Kisaki-san for a few minutes about your therapy anyway. Feel free to sit here as long as you like,” you say dismissively.

“You tease.”

As your heels click out the door, Hanma sinks further back into the plush of the armchair and thinks. He has always been excellent at picking out others’ weaknesses. So, while it could be his imagination, he believes his gut when it tells him your parting expression at his antics…it was fond.

When you close the door behind your office and Hanma, it’s not like you breath some great sigh of relief, but you can’t deny your breathing comes easier. The air in the room had been oppressive, like Hanma took three great gulps of oxygen for every one you managed to steal.

There is no time to celebrate, however, because in the waiting area awaits yet another predator.

“Kisaki-san! I apologize for keeping you waiting. Can I offer you anything to drink?” you say in your softest voice. You pegged Kisaki as a man with limited expectations of women and no appetite to expand his worldview.

Possibly the most dangerous man in Tokyo sits in a narrow, plastic chair in your waiting room. It feels wrong to greet him from a position of height, and you wait for him to stand before drawing closer. Like Hanma, he is dressed well, though with less flare than your potential patient.

“No, your receptionist handled that,” Kisaki waves away your drink offer. “You’ve had the opportunity to meet him now. Will you take on his case?”

Unbeknownst to Hanma, that had been less therapy session than interview. Work like this pays well but presents particular risks, and you never rush into a potential mistake. You would rather gather information until you saw every angle, and then act accordingly. Today’s meeting with Hanma is the final step in your risk assessment.

“I think I understand him and how to help him. That said, he showed more aggression towards me as a person than I expected,” you said, taking special care in your choice of the word ‘aggression.’

“He can be intimidating,” Kisaki says on a ghost of a smile.

“If I’m going to take on his treatment, I’ll need double.”

There. The final piece in your negotiation. Naturally, you intended to raise your prices at the last moment, but double is a legitimate reaction to Hanma.

You hadn’t expected him to be so…charismatic. His voice did half the work, deep in a way that made your gut clench and teasing in a way that made your pussy clench with it. He showed less of the superficial charm you expected from sociopaths, likely because he didn’t seek your validation. He toyed with you, yes, but like you were still on the shelf, a toy he hadn’t committed to buying. In his disinterest, he held nothing back, bantering so fast you struggled to keep up the entire session. Clinging to your professional script, you could barely keep up with his questions.

It excites you.

Then, there is the threat from the end of the session. Even now, he remains in your office. Is he actually jerking off? Or was that a taunt to strike fear into you? Probably the latter. If the former, you ought to hire a locksmith to add a third set of locks to your door.

Transference is always something you guard against and shut down at the earliest signals. You are not a friend, lover, or mother to your patients, and you can be callous in knocking that reminder into the deluded.

Yet with Hanma, how are you supposed to make any progress if you can’t engage his attention? He repeatedly tried to introduce a tit-for-tat into the conversation, showing the most interest when the conversation turned back on you. A little transference, just a little, might make him more susceptible to therapy.

All of this plays out in your head as you negotiate terms with Kisaki. Finally, he concedes to your price.

“I expect results,” Kisaki says. Unlike Hanma, he doesn’t need theatrics to make the threat heard loud and clear.

You hold his murderous gaze unflinchingly and reply, “My professional career would be destroyed if word ever reached the psychiatric board that I took this case. So, you have collateral in the event you’re unhappy with my work. But you won’t need it. You’ll see results.”

“I better.”

When you fall asleep rereading your case files that night, Kisaki’s words echo in your ear and invade your sweetest dreams. Failure is not an option.

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