#so instead of a reflection he gets the Red Void

[chopshajen]

10-14.

Ok I saw a photo of Tyler that grabbed me by the brainstem so I decided that doing a painting/value study of that photo would be a good idea. It was certainly an idea that cost me much sleep, but I’m happy with how it turned out so?? Worth?? I eyeballed everything, no tracing, then painted in grayscale as I always do before placing it in Mx. Gradient Map’s capable hands LOL

[pedroscurls]

stranded (one-shot)

summary: your car breaks down on the side of the road and a stranger decides to help you out... and you have no choice but to accept his help.

pairing: no outbreak/dark!joel miller x fem!reader content warnings: EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), DUBCON - please read at own risk / heed warnings!, stockholm syndrome, unprotected p in v, rough sex, manhandling, oral sex (m receiving), orgasm denial, begging, creampie, joel ties you up, spanking, light choking, fingering, age gap (reader is in 30s, joel is in 50s), no use of y/n. word count: 5.1k a/n: and here's yet another story where i'm stepping out of my comfort zone. i've always wanted to write dark!joel, but felt like i couldn't do it justice... but then ali's (@pedgito) hosting a writing challenge (spring fever) and i figured... why not? i chose backwoods horror #1 STRANDED/SIDE OF THE ROAD. please heed the warnings, y'all. this is gonna be very dark and filthy, so if you're not into that sort of thing, that's ok!

You had no idea what you were thinking—taking a solo cross country road trip after quitting your job. Maybe you thought that you’d find yourself, find some kind of purpose that was lacking in your life, but instead, you’re stranded on the side of the road. Gas empty, no cell service, and phone already on its last battery. 

This is where you’re going to die—you’re sure of it. It’s how all horror movies start and despite the sun still high in the sky, you’re increasingly getting worried about what could happen when night falls. You scream at the top of your lungs, the sound echoing through the vast empty void. 

God, no one would hear you scream for help if you were in real danger and that thought simply frightens you. Your friends had all but praised you for this trip—this journey to self-discovery and reflection. Your parents, on the other hand, had already been concerned when you said you would be alone on this trip. A woman, traveling the world by herself? Well, that’s just asking for trouble, they said. 

And now you understand their concern. You understand their fear about you traveling all alone because of where you are now—in the middle of fucking nowhere. You should have refilled your gas when you had the chance, should have charged your phone while you were driving. Should have, should have, should have. 

10%—your phone reads. You try to send a text to your parents, to send them your location, but every attempted text just comes back with the message in red text and an exclamation point next to it: NOT DELIVERED! You raise your phone in the sky, hoping that maybe you’ll get one bar of service, but no luck. 

The trip had been successful, up until this point. You were in Texas, that you were sure of. But where in Texas? You had no fucking clue. 

You lean against the side of your car—the sun glaring down at you and you can feel a thin sheet of sweat on the side of your neck. Why did you think this was even a good idea? Traveling cross country without a plan—how fucking naive. 

Your battery drains fast and your phone finally shuts off. You let out a quiet sigh of frustration and open the passenger door of your car to toss your useless phone inside. Just as you’re about to climb in, you hear a faint noise of a car engine. Suddenly, you feel hopeful—maybe you won’t die here after all.

The sudden excitement that you feel overpowers the possibility that what you’re doing is absolutely dangerous. You’re waving your arms in the air, trying to track down the person in the car who’s making their way in your direction. It’s possible that this person whose truck is slowing down as it nears you could very well be a serial killer, but what choice did you have? 

The truck pulls up behind your car and quickly, you run over to your savior. Your hero. 

“Hi. My car’s dead, my phone’s dead, and I just need a lift to the next gas station... Or any place where I can use a phone to give someone a call,” you blurt out, breathing heavily. 

He turns his head slightly in your direction—eyes gazing at your face, then down to your shoulders and the rest of your body that he can see from the driver’s side. You’re leaning against the opened window of the passenger side of the truck. You don’t belong here, he knows that for sure. 

“Next gas station is in the next town over,” he finally answers. 

“Could you give me a lift there? I can pay you. Let me just grab my things and—”

“No need,” he interrupts, voice low. “I’m headin’ in that direction anyway. Get in.”

You grin and Joel’s jaw ticks briefly. God, you’re beautiful and it’s truly been a long time since he’s been with—

“Promise you won’t kill me?” you laugh, climbing into his truck and interrupting his thoughts. 

Joel finally takes in the rest of your frame and can immediately feel his length stirring beneath his dark jeans. His hands grip the steering wheel to ease some pressure, but you’re still talking and you’re laughing and it shoots straight to the center of his pants. It must be his lucky day. 

“If I were to kill you, I don’t think I’d be confessing that, darlin’,” he answers—the corners of his lips lift slightly. Oh, you had no idea what you just got into by climbing into his truck. 

“Right,” you reply. “That’s a good point.” You look at him—taking note of his damp hair that’s slicked away from his face, his broad frame, salt and pepper patchy beard. You realize that he must be in his fifties, but you can’t help but notice how handsome he is. That’s a good sign, you think. He won’t hurt you. He’s going to drop you off in the next town and hopefully, you’ll be able to head back home in the morning. 

“I’m guessing you live around here?” you ask, feeling the truck move back onto the main street. You glance out the window, watching your car become smaller and smaller as Joel drives further away from it. 

“Yeah,” he answers. “Guessin’ you ain’t from around here.”

“That obvious?” 

He just nods. Joel needs to focus on the road ahead of him. He has to make it seem like he’s not a threat, like he’s not just about to take you directly to his home. His secluded home. 

You introduce yourself formally, telling him your name and turning your body to face him. “What’s your name?”

“Joel.”

“You’re a man of few words, aren’t you?” you smile in his direction and Joel glances at you from the corner of his eyes. 

“Not much to say.”

“Well, how long is the drive to the next town? If you don’t have music, I’m gonna end up talking. I don’t usually like it when it’s too quiet on a drive and—”

“It’s about fifteen minutes,” he interrupts. “Radio is busted.” 

“So talking it is then.”

“No use in talkin’ if we ain’t gonna be seein’ each other after this.” 

“I guess you’re right,” you answer with a sigh. You try to remain quiet, fidgeting with your hands as you stare out the window. Every few seconds or so, you glance over at him and you can’t fully read his expression. He’s so stoic that there’s a part of you that feels like an inconvenience to him. Maybe he should have just kept on driving. 

“How long were you stranded for?” Joel asks. 

“About a couple of hours. Couldn’t get reception to call someone.”

“Yeah, phones don’t work out here.” Joel shrugs. “You eat anythin’ yet?” 

You shake your head. “Skipped breakfast this morning to get on the road.”

“My place is just a couple of minutes away,” Joel says. “I need to grab a few things. Got some food and water for you,” he offers. 

You smile and reach out to rest a hand on his forearm. It’s an innocent gesture, but it makes Joel shift in the driver’s seat. Your touch is so soft, so gentle and he flexes his arm underneath your fingertips. “You’re sweet, Joel. That sounds great. I am starving.” 

Joel bites back a smirk. He’s got you right where he wants you. 

Your hand drops from his arm and there’s a subtle frown that settles on his lips before he pulls off the main road. Within minutes, Joel pulls up to his secluded home. When he shuts off the car, he looks over at you and you’re still smiling. 

“This is a cute place, Joel,” you tell him, climbing out of the truck. 

He follows you and rounds the truck until he’s standing behind you. His fingers itch to reach out to touch you—especially when you raise your arms over your head to stretch, the ends of your shirt lifting just above the waistband of your denim shorts. He wants to touch every inch of you and he lets out a quiet grunt when you accidentally fall back against him. 

“Sorry,” you say, looking over at him from over your shoulder. 

“S’fine,” Joel mumbles and then walks past you to walk towards his front door. He unlocks it and opens it for you, watching you step across the threshold as you look around with curiosity. 

“It’s very dark in here,” you point out, walking further into his home. You see a light switch on the wall and flip it on, illuminating his entire home. Surprisingly, Joel’s large hand encompasses your wrist in a tight grip. You let out a quiet gasp and turn around to look up at him—eyes wide, lips slightly parted. 

“You always like to make yourself comfortable in a stranger’s home?” he asks with a threatening tone. 

“S–sorry,” you whisper, trying to pull your wrist away from his grip but he doesn’t budge. His grip just tightens. “Joel, you’re hurting me.”

“Pretty little thing,” he mumbles, stepping closer to you. “It’s like you were waitin’ f’me out there,” Joel says quietly. 

“Joel—”

“Shh.” Joel brings a finger up to your lips and his eyes drift down, moving his thumb to brush against you. “Shh, baby.” 

“I think I want to leave now,” you answer. “I think I just want to head into town and—”

“Oh darlin’,” he grins. “Ain’t no town for at least another fifty or some miles.” 

“B–But you said—”

“Guilty,” Joel interrupts, turning you so that your back presses against the wall. He cages you in, hand still gripping your wrist as the other comes up to rest gently over your throat. “M’sorry I lied to ya.” 

Your eyes widen in horror, the realization finally hitting you like a freight train. You had spent most of the drive admiring him—his broad frame, his quiet and mysterious nature, his large hands that gripped the steering wheel, his husky southern accent—that you ignored the feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

This was a bad idea. 

Getting into his truck was a bad fucking idea. 

“I just want to go home,” you whisper. “Please just let me go home and—”

“Shh,” he repeats. Joel steps closer to you, his nose brushing against your own. “Gonna keep you here all to myself. Been a while since I had a little plaything like yourself.” 

You shake your head. “Please, I’ll give you all the money I have back in my car.”

“Don’t want your money. Want you.” 

“Joel—”

“Love the way my name comes out of your mouth, darlin’. Say it again.”

You shake your head, closing your mouth shut. You know you’re in danger, but you’re not sure why you feel a familiar wetness pool between your legs. Your body is responding to him—to this stranger… this handsome fucking stranger who can easily strangle you if he wanted to. 

“Say. It. Again,” he repeats.

“Joel,” you whisper. 

“Good girl,” Joel grins proudly. He drops his hand from your throat and releases his grip around your wrist. He stares into your eyes, searching for any hesitation or any inclination that you’re going to run and leave. He sees your eyes flicker to the front door and he narrows his eyes—his large hand once more coming up to splay against your throat. Joel applies just a bit of pressure and he watches your eyes go wide again. “Wouldn’t think about it, if I were you.” 

You beg with your eyes—apologetic and pleading for him to just let you go. “I’ll be good,” you mumble against his grip. “I promise. I–I’ll be good.”

“We’re gonna have a lot of fun,” Joel nods, releasing his grip around your throat. “And I bet if I were to reach between your legs, I’d feel just how fuckin’ wet you are f’me, won’t I?”

You shake your head in defiance. “N–No…” 

Joel lets out a chuckle. “Mmm, that so?” He tugs on the waistband of your denim shorts and pulls you to him. He’s so rough and there’s an excitement that courses through your veins. He tugs down your shorts and panties down your legs, looking down at your white lacy thong with a grin. He can see a blotch of wetness and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he lets out a contented sigh. “I bet you taste fuckin’ good too,” he whispers. 

You suddenly feel self-conscious and your hands immediately move to try and tug down the end of your shirt to cover your lower half. Joel just shakes his head and grabs your wrists to pin them above your head against the wall. You squirm against his grip and he kicks your legs apart, stepping in front of you to keep them spread open. His free hand comes down and immediately runs the pads of his fingers across the length of your sex—your body betrays you because you let out a quiet whimper as you arch your back against his touch. 

“Wet,” he points out. “You like this, don’t you?” 

You shake your head. 

“Liar,” he chuckles. Joel wastes no time in sliding two of his thick fingers past your folds—your warm, tight, and so fucking wet that a large grin spreads across his lips. 

You squirm against him at the sudden and rough intrusion, eyes gazing up at him. His eyes are dark, filled with lust and more than likely sinister thoughts, but you can’t help but notice his grin and the cute fucking dimple that appears on his cheek. You shouldn’t like this, but your body is yearning for more. Yearning for him. 

Joel’s thick fingers plunge into you repeatedly—his other hand gripping your wrists so tight above your head that you’re sure there’s going to be bruises. You shut your eyes tightly, keeping your lips in a thin line and forcing yourself to stay quiet because you know that if you make a sound, it’s only going to fuel him further. 

His eyes stare deeply at you and you’re so wet that Joel’s fingers pump into you with ease. He can see you struggling against his grip and he leans closer, lips near your ear as he whispers huskily. “Lemme hear you, baby.” 

You shake your head in defiance, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. You suck in a breath when his thumb brushes against your clit and a quiet—almost inaudible—moan escapes your lips. 

“Ah, darlin’,” Joel grins, gently nipping at your earlobe. His grip around your wrists loosen just slightly and he’s distracted, yearning to pull more sounds out of you and it gives you just the right moment to push him away. You miss his fingers immediately, a loud squelch echoing the walls when his fingers slip out of you. 

With as much strength as you can muster, you shove him so hard that he stumbles backwards with a grunt. You look around haphazardly, eyes wide, heart beating out of your chest. You’re very well aware that your lower half is bare, but you think maybe you can make a run for it—you just need to grab his keys, run out the door into his truck and drive away. 

You glance over your shoulder and Joel chuckles. He fucking laughs at your poor attempt at running away because he takes three strides in your direction and takes a fistful of your hair. You let out a loud yelp and he’s already quick to bend you over the back of his couch—the edge of it digging into your lower abdomen.

You’re already trying to squirm away, but his grip in your hair tightens and pain rushes through you. You’re about to beg him to stop, to beg him to let you go, but you feel his free hand connect with your backside. The slap reverberates through your entire being and the sound of his hand coming in contact with your ass echoes through his quiet home. 

“You just got here, baby,” he growls—he doesn’t let up, your skin already reddening with each spank. “You can’t leave me yet.”

“I–I–” you mumble and your body reacts automatically, pushing back into him. “Please!” 

“M’gonna have to tie you up, I think,” Joel grins. “Just to make sure you don’t pull that shit again.”

Your ass is beginning to sting and you try to scramble away, but Joel pulls you upright against him. His large hands move to your hips, fingertips digging into you as he uses your body to rub his bulge against you. 

“I think you’re gonna feel real good around me,” he whispers into your hair, hand sliding over your abdomen and down between your legs. “You’re actin’ like you ain’t enjoyin’ this, but you’re so fuckin’ wet f’me.” 

He begins to circle your clit with the pads of his fingers and it causes your back to arch against him, hands darting out to rest on the edge of the couch. A loud moan finally escapes your lips and Joel lets out a low growl at the sound—he wants to hear more of it, craves more of it. 

“From the way you’re squirmin’,” he continues, “Makes me wonder if you’ve been neglected.” 

You shake your head—lying.  

“Oh? Got a boyfriend back home, hm?” 

You shake your head again.

“Poor little thing,” Joel mumbles, head dipping down to the side of your neck as he presses his soft lips against you. It causes a shiver to run through you—his soft lips and his rough beard. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m here now. I’ll take care of ya.”

You’re an absolute mess by the time Joel’s done with you. You’re lying on his mattress, hands bound by rope and attached to the headboard. You’re completely bare for him and he’s brought you to the edge of orgasm too many times to count that you’re practically begging for some release. 

His hands are surprisingly gentle when he settles himself back between your legs and it causes you to flinch. His fingertips brush against your hardened nipples, dark bruises already forming around it from his love bites—he liked to call it. 

“You’re soakin’ my sheets, honey,” he grins. 

“Then let me fucking come!” you retaliate with a huff. Your eyes go wide the minute it leaves your mouth and you’re already trying to scramble away from him, despite being all tied up. 

Joel laughs again. “You’re cute when you’re angry, baby… but let’s not forget who’s in charge here.” 

He finally pulls the ends of his shirt over his head and you lift your own head off the pillow to get a good look at him. There’s no way this fucking man is in his fifties—you shake your head of the thoughts that begin to fill your mind. He has you here held captive and you’re sure that he’s going to kill you once he’s gotten what he needed. 

But you can’t help it. 

Joel’s fucking gorgeous. 

Is this what Stockholm syndrome is? Attracted to your captor? Whatever the fuck it is, you’re squirming impatiently. There’s a dull throb between your legs, an ache, a need for him to give you what you need. 

And he smiles. The same fucking dimple that appeared earlier that day is now in full display because Joel knows he’s got you right where he wants you. 

“Gonna be a good girl f’me? No more fightin’ back?” Joel begins, reaching down to tug his boxers down his strong legs. Once the fabric is gone from his body, your eyes widen once more at the sheer size of him. Girthy. Leaking at the tip. You’re not sure if it’d fit inside of you and Joel notices a flicker of uncertainty flash across your features. “We’ll make it fit, baby. Don’t you worry.”

You whimper quietly in response, feeling him brush his rounded tip against your opening. You try to wiggle your hips down, yearning for more, but he just pulls back and shakes his head. 

“Please,” you plead. You bat your eyes at him, gazing at him under the rim of your eyelashes. It’s a poor attempt at begging, at looking innocent because you look anything but that. 

Joel just lets a small smile line his lips before he pulls away and mounts your upper half. You clear your throat—the size of him this close almost threatening. 

“Don’t be gettin’ shy on me now,” he growls lowly. “Been pleasuring you for a while now, so it’s only fair that you return the favor.” 

“I–I haven’t come yet. Please just let me come and I’ll do anything—”

Joel clicks his tongue and runs the tip of his manhood across your mouth, smirking at the sight of his precome now on your lips. “You ain’t the one in charge here.” He pushes his tip past your lips and lets out a low groan. One hand moves to grip the headboard ahead of him as his other hand keeps a steady grip around the base of his length. “Open wider f’me,” he whispers. 

You have no choice but to obey—parting your lips wider and feeling more of his manhood slide into your mouth. You can feel the corners of your mouth stretch due to his girth. It isn’t long before he pushes further into your mouth, feeling him hit the back of your throat and you gag almost instantly. Tears sting your eyes and he only gives you a few seconds to breathe before he pushes back into you. 

You squeeze your legs together, trying to alleviate some pressure that has been building and building between your legs and the pit of your stomach. You glance up in his direction only to see Joel with his head tilted back, chest and neck exposed, and his eyes completely shut. A quiet groan escapes his lips as he begins to move his hips forward and backward—you swirl your tongue around him, hollow your cheeks and it causes him to moan loudly. 

And fuck, it’s a beautiful sound to come out of him. 

He’s moaning. He’s deep in his own pleasure. 

And it’s all because of you. 

By the time he pulls out of your mouth, Joel’s eyes snap open to look down at you. Lips swollen, tears streaking down the corner of your eyes. You’re so distracted by your desire to come that you don’t realize what could possibly happen once he’s done with you. 

You’re going to die. 

Joel is going to fucking kill you. 

And this cross country road trip you had originally planned was a stupid fucking idea. 

Joel sees a look of fear flash across your features and it only makes him smile, makes his cock jerk at the sight of you. He moves down your body and settles himself between your legs again. 

“Gonna fill you up now,” Joel nods. “And you’re gonna lie there and take it like a good girl.” 

You nod. 

His hand comes up to grip your chin roughly, staring into your eyes. “Say it.” 

“I–I’ll be good. I’ll take it like a good girl and—”

Without warning, Joel pushes fully into you in one stroke. You feel your body jerk upwards at the sudden intrusion and you’re lucky that you’re so wet because while he slides in so easily, you can’t help but feel the painful stretch to give way to his size. Your hands try to wiggle out of the bondage, but the rope just digs further into your skin—it’s like he expertly tied you in a way that the more you struggle, the tighter it gets. 

Joel’s hand moves from your chin to cup your breast, thumb brushing against your nipple as he remains still for a moment. “Feel so good,” he whispers, head dipping lower to brush his nose against yours. He can hear you panting heavily, lips parted slightly. “Like you were made f’me.” 

Then, Joel pulls out to his tip only to slam himself back into you. He repeats this movement multiple times and your moans—the ones that you’ve tried so desperately to hold back—finally escape your lips and mix in with the sounds of his skin slapping against yours. 

The bed rocks against the wall—his thrusts are so rough and you’re sure that your entire body is going to ache for the next few days. 

That is if you’re still alive by then.  

One hand moves to your hip as the other moves to wrap around your neck. He applies a bit of pressure to cut off your oxygen and you gasp, eyes wide as you stare up at him. 

Begging. 

Pleading. 

Not for him to stop… 

…but for more. 

Joel grins at that and continues his thrusts, the sensation of your walls sliding along his length only urging him closer and closer to release. He can feel the tightness in the pit of his stomach begin to unravel and he pulls out, not yet wanting to be done with you. 

When Joel does pull out of you, he releases his grip around your throat and hears you take one deep breath. You’re breathing heavily and he looks between your legs—so fucking wet, so swollen and he taps your clit gently with the tip of his manhood only to see you squirm. 

You’re sensitive, he thinks to himself with a grin. 

“Joel,” you whisper. At this rate, you don’t care if you die. Having him bring you on the edge of an orgasm only to stop is worse, you’re sure of it. 

“Gonna keep you here forever,” Joel says with a dark gaze. “You’re mine now. You understand?” 

You clear your throat and nod slowly—anything to get him to make you come. “Y–Yes, yours.” 

“Doesn’t sound too convincing.” 

“Fuck, Joel! Please,” you beg. “I don’t care what you do to me, please just let me come…” 

Joel chuckles—dark, sinister. He leans down and lightly pecks your lips before he climbs off the bed to look at you from top to bottom. “Like I said, you ain’t the one in charge here.” 

Your eyes stare at him and you notice the way his manhood stands fully erect, glistening with your arousal. He follows your gaze and smirks, reaching down to tug on it. “This what you want?” 

You nod. “Please.” 

“So if I untie you, you gonna be a good girl and obey?” Joel contemplates, still stroking the base of his length. His hand doesn’t feel as good as being inside of you and he almost loses his resolve. 

But he doesn’t. 

Joel’s patient. 

“Y–Yes, please,” you plead once more. 

“Love hearin’ you beg, darlin’,” he grins. Joel slowly reaches over and begins to untie the rope around your wrists but he makes sure that his attention is focused on you. He needs to make sure that you’re not going to run again. 

Once the rope is finally undone, you roll your wrists and touch the bruises around it. You flinch and then look up at him—eyes still pleading. 

“One wrong move and I’m tyin’ you up again. You hear me?” Joel growls, seeing you move to sit up. You nod in agreement and he tugs on your ankle, pulling you to the edge of the bed with such force that you let you a quiet yelp. 

Joel flips you onto your abdomen and grabs your hips, lifting you up so that you’re now on all fours on his mattress. He comes up behind you and slides into you with warning—again. 

A loud moan escapes your lips and you fall forwards—cheek resting against his mattress, eyes fully shut tight, and your hands gripping the sheets so tightly that your knuckles turn white. 

“Feel even tighter this way,” Joel points out with a grunt. 

Your toes curl at his rough assault against you. It’s like he’s possessed, so territorial and so animalistic that his thrusts drive you further into the mattress. You wanted this, but you can’t help the pain that shoots through you at his size. Joel’s by far the biggest you’ve ever had and it wasn’t like you had a healthy sex life before this. 

“Fuck!” You scream, now trying to scramble away from him because it’s too much. He’s edged you for too long that you’re sure you can’t even get there—your body is humming and you can feel the familiar sensation in the pit of your stomach. You’re close and Joel knows. 

He laughs and grips your hips, pulling back onto him with such force that you arch your back. Joel grabs your arms and pins them at your lower back as he pulls your body forward and backward against him. He glances down and sees just how wet you are—the hair at his base completely damp from your arousal. 

“You wanted to come… then fuckin’ come,” Joel groans, pulling you up against his chest. He grunts into your ear as he keeps your arms pinned at your lower back. His other hand reaches around and dips lower to begin circling your clit against the pads of his fingertips. 

You moan so loud that it echoes throughout his home. Your head tilts back against his shoulder and he drags his teeth across the side of your neck—both your bodies now covered in a thin sheet of sweat. 

“J–Joel, I–,” a loud sob escapes your lips when you finally reach your orgasm. Your body shakes against his own and his thrusts don’t let up—still hammering into you from behind and using your slickness and tightened walls to bring himself closer to his own release. 

“Fuck,” he groans against you, releasing your arms and pinning you back onto the mattress. His hips sling against your own—Joel is literally fucking you into the mattress and you’re already so fucking sensitive that you try to move away. 

Fuck him. If he wanted to deny you of your orgasm, you can do the same to him. 

But it’s no use. Joel’s so much stronger and his large hands grip your hips so tightly that you feel pain from it. 

“S’cute,” he says in between thrusts. “Thinkin’ you can run away.” Joel grunts lowly, chasing his own orgasm. “Can promise you one thing, baby…” He slams into you once more and releases his warm seed into you—paints your tight and wet walls with his come. He leans forward, pushing further into you as his tip kisses your cervix. “You ain’t ever leavin’ me.” 

He presses soft kisses along your shoulder before he pulls out, watching with a smirk to see his come trickle out of you and down your legs. 

“You’re stranded, darlin’. Ain’t no one comin’ to save you,” Joel grins. “And I ain’t even done with you yet.”

[sqgeism]

Omg i just read your touch starved! reader with anaxa, mydei, and dan heng and loved the way you characterized themmm!

could you please do one with anaxa (and anyone else you like), maybe theyre comforting their s/o (reader) when theyre so stressed they kinda go nonverbal? maybe curl up somewhere comfy

plz dont do if this makes you uncomfortable in any way!! please and ty

keep up the great work!!!!!

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐢 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝'𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 | various hsr men x gender neutral reader

love mail — hiiiii anonnie!!!! thank you thank you so much (o´▽`o)ﾉ ♡ i'm more than happy to do this, gosh i've missed writing for hsr ! mydei's a bit forced since i wanted to do jus anaxa and phainon, but i tried regardless (*´∇｀)ﾉ posting this at 1am i'm going crazy.. when was the last time i posted four times in one day.. inspo for the song is zombie girl by adrianna lenker. characters in order: anaxa, phainon, mydei

anaxa knows there are times where words can fail a person, and there's no real way to express the way one is feeling in a moment. he's spent so long grieving in silence, he'd understand that feeling better than anyone.

so when you're sitting alone on the couch, just laying there, staring at the wall.. anaxa doesn't try to immediately get you to talk. instead, he sits on the floor by your head, leaning his back against the couch and looks at you. "bad day?" he watches you nod, and continues. "is there anything you need? blankets, water, anything?"

you shuffle on the couch a bit, making enough room for him to lay with you as you pat the free space. his one good eye shows hesitance in his reflection, however he slowly makes his way and slides up next to you. the best he does is one arm wrapped around you and the other is used as a pillow underneath his head. (he figures you need all the couch pillows)

"i don't mind the one sided conversation, i.. i know what it's like, just wanting to be understood without speaking." anaxa already knows, rubbing your sides since your back is pressed up against the backrest. he doesn't care that he's about to fall, just as long as he hasn't. "if you need me to do anything to help you feel comfortable, i'm.. here. research can wait."

with those words, it's followed by you reaching out to him and having your fingertips halt, just before touching the edges of the star-shaped hole in his chest. he stares down at where you're about to make contact, then he looks back at you — with trust never seen in him before.

you slowly trace the outline of the galaxy-like void, and anaxa can't help but feel his heart race. he's never been vulnerable like this before, even if he was your lover. it was all slow, steady steps as you both navigated your relationship.

but in this moment, consumed by delicate touch of your fingertips and completely yours, he can't help it. he can't stop his heart from racing and he can't stop the undoubtedly, ever growing love for you.

he loves you, he loves you so much. and in that moment, he's slowly realizing he'll be ready to do anything for you. anaxa just needs to come to proper terms with that, in his own time.

phainon knew something was wrong the moment you walked through that door, and he immediately started calculating in his mind what to do. get you good food? make you a bath? do all your chores?

he's found a solution when you practically toss yourself at him, catching you in his caring arms as he feels his heart melt. he always knew you as — not exactly a ray of sunshine — but definitely not as gloomy as this. the silence is new, but he pays no mind to it, letting out a subtle grunt as he begins to carry you to the bedroom.

he slips off your shoes for you, clumsily tossing them to the shoerack while giving you a smile; promising to fix it later. "was that red bastard giving you a hard time again, asking you where i was?" phainon tries to joke, not minding the fact you don't answer, and relish in the way you lean your head against him.

it isn't long till your boyfriends warmth is replaced by a comfy mattress, but it also isn't long for it to come right back — as he positions himself between your legs, and has his head pressed against your stomach — head tilted up to you like a lovesick puppy.

"i wonder what could've made you upset today," he wonders aloud, tracing patterns on your stomach as you close your eyes, just letting yourself drown in the sheets and the familiar weight of phainon ontop of you. "whatever it is, just know you're here now. i'm here and i won't be going anywhere, okay?"

he smiles at you, hands caressing your hips as he hums to himself. "if you need me, i'm all yours."

when a battle goes wrong, it doesn't tend to affect you. yes, you worry for comrades and the final outcome — but it's never been enough to completely make you freak out. after all, you know you'll win eventually.

that changes when you watch someone get close enough to mydei's weak spot, the only way to kill him for good. and the sight haunts you deep to your core, dropping everything to stop that blade from going through the last person you had.

and mydei understands that, he likely would've had the same reaction in your position. but the battle had taken such a toll on you, that you had just.. gone quiet on him.

he doesn't mind, not at all. he won't blame you for being horrified at the idea of losing someone you love. so he has you safely tucked in his arms, your back pressed against his bare chest and both his arms and legs 'cage' you. he's got a book infront of you, and he's been reading it out ever since you two got back home.

you once told him that despite being a man who yells out war cries, his voice is surprisingly.. gentle. like he could bring even the fiercest warriors to a deep slumber. so he's made it a habit, reading to you until you fall asleep. it's a deadly combo when he opts to hold the book with one hand, and decides to play with your hair using the other. which is what he's doing right now.

mydei can feel your head slipping against him, and although you've said nothing to him the whole day.. it's the most reassuring thing. that despite your stress and terror, he is yet again, your safe place. just as you are his sanctuary amidst a war.

as your eyes close and you're welcomed into the arms of a good nights rest, mydei drops the book completely and instead wraps his arms around you. falling asleep with you too in hopes to meet you in a better place, your dreams.

[burts-baked-bees]

One of a Kind

D&WGambit! x X-Men97!Fem! Reader

Warnings: Slight Angst, X-Men 97' Spoilers, Pining, happy ending, two idiots, hurt/comfort, mention of character death

WC: 1686

“Have you been watching the news?” Scotts voice came as Y/n entered the mansion. The mutant looked up at the team leader with a look of confusion as she placed her bag down on the counter. 

“No? Why?” Her brow furrowed as Scott swallowed hard. He moved quietly to the small TV on the kitchen counter and flipped it on; Y/n watched in horror as images of the aftermath of a full scale attack on Genosha flashed on the screen. She felt a chill run through her body as flames danced in her vision and ashes coated what was once a proud and new country. She gripped the counter as Scott watched the unfolding news with her. 

“We have people there.” Y/n croaked as she kept her gaze locked on the screen. “Scott. Rogue, Kurt and Magneto are there.” Her eyes moved to her leader as his emotionless sunglasses reflected her distressed expression back at her. “Scott.” She said sternly. “Remy is there.”

Scotts brows furrowed as he opened and closed his mouth, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t find the words. Y/n Felt her stomach drop as the horrors of the news broadcast played in her ears. 

“Are they okay?” She asked, her voice breaking as she gripped the side of the counter. The same counter that Remy taught her to make jambalaya at. The same counter she had sat on and shared a late night bowl of cereal with him just a few nights before. “Scott.” She practically snarled. He took a step forward, his arm reaching out, almost like he was looking for comfort as well, like he was trying to tell her he had lost something too. 

Lost something.

“Scott. Is Remy okay?” 

…

 “Eva’ since you wandered up in ‘ere, you been lookin’ at ole’Gambit like you seen a ghost sha.” 

Y/n was ripped from her thoughts as she glanced at the man next to her. She was suddenly reminded she was in the Void and not the kitchen of the Xavier Mansion grieving loss all over again. 

“What?” She asked horsley as she looked up at the tall man on her left. He gave her a small smile. 

“Sha, you been up in ‘ere a few weeks now, yeah? When you gon tell Gambit why you lookin at him like dat? Hmm?” The Cajun sat down across from her his gaze intense as he perched his elbows on his knees. Y/n couldn’t bring herself to look up at him, she kept her gaze on the floor, on his boots. His voice felt like a million knives in her chest as she fiddled with the frayed ends of her shirt sleeves. It wasn’t him; not her version of him anyways. He sounded like Remy, moved like Remy, laughed like Remy… His eyes were different though, clear green instead of a red iris surrounded by black.His hair was slightly different too, not red but a natural brown. He gave her a pointed look, as if to say he wasn’t leaving till she answered him. Y/n sighed. 

 “Don’t know what you mean…” She spoke softly rubbing her face; Gambit chuckled. 

“You don know? Or you jus’ don wanna’ say, sha?” He sat back slightly, fidgeting with his deck of cards like he always did. Shuffling in an endless loop just to keep his hands busy. She watched his hands intently, bile rising in her throat as she watched the dance of the cards, feeling that same emptiness she had when Kurt gave his homily at the funeral���. 

“Been tree’ weeks since you popped into da void, been known you was an X-Men from da way you fight. We had a lot of X-Men up in ere’, but not like you.” He sighed, hands still moving and shuffling, but his eyes never left her face. Y/n sighed again, swallowing down the lump in her throat. 

 “So? Why do you care?” She asked, finally looking up to meet his gaze. He gave her a small smile, almost proud of her for finally looking at him head on. She felt sick again. 

“Gambit cares. He always does, sha. ‘Specially when one of his own kind gets dumped in dis hellscape.” His words were soft, like he was speaking to a cornered animal. Her Remy never talked to her like that. He was always obnoxious and snarky, pushing her buttons and trying to get a rise out of her. She scowled before leaning back. 

 “I've got my own reasons to be apprehensive. Everything here, everyone, it's all very new… Very… real…” Her eyes drifted away again as Gambit nodded in an understanding way. 

  “No one here knew da Gambit when dey first seen him. But you? Toi mon amie, you took one look at da Gambit et, mon dieu thought you was gonna combust on da spot. You looked at me like you known me. But da thing is, sha. Gambit don’t know you.” 

Her eyes glossed over at that statement; he didn’t know her. He was intrigued by her, but he didn’t know her. She scoffed,

 “Guess I don't exist outside of my timeline. Everyone seems to have variants except me.” She spoke with a shake of her head. She had seen countless Deadpool’s in the void since she got here, a few other versions of her teammates and even some Avengers, but she had never seen another Y/n. She was the only one, and now she had been put here. 

The last thing she remembered was Charles and Magnus asking her and her teammates to pick a side. The answer was clear for most of them, Rogue went with Magneto and so did Sunspot. The rest stayed loyal to a cause that didn’t seem to have a point anymore. She had fled the choice, unsure how she was supposed to pick a side when the only person she had fought for was dead. Humans had killed him. And she hadn’t even been there to tell him she loved him… to tell her best friend that after all this time, she had loved him more than she had ever loved anyone in her life. 

That’s when the TVA showed up, spouting something about how she was a danger to her timeline and needed to be removed to ensure the survival of the true X-Men. She had been thrown in, against her will, to a hellish landscape that was fitting of a reject like herself. She had fought tooth and nail against bandits in the wastelands before she came across a face that she hadn’t expected to ever see again. 

“I lost you ‘dere, sha. Where you gon off too now?” Gambit’s voice cut through her memories like Logan’s claws as she snapped her eyes back up to him. He gave her a warm smile before shuffling his deck again. She watched his hands again and he chuckled. “People are like cards, sha. Different suits, but all made of da same material. I like to tink’ of myself as a jack of all trades-” He flipped the jacks of the deck out to face her before shuffling them back in. “You doe? You give da Gambit a very specific type’o vibe.” 

Y/n watched as he shuffled a bit more before the queen of hearts flipped from the deck. Her blood ran cold. That wasn’t her card. That was Rogues. It had always been Rogues. Never her. Gambit's smug smile fell as she stood up abruptly, her eyes flashing with a twinge of panic. He stood up with her hands out in a show of surrender as he chuckled airly.

    “Gambit done take things too far. I apologize, meant no ‘arm in it. Je suis désolé mon amie.” 

She shook her head before reaching forward and taking the deck from his hand. He protested but watched her as she pulled the Joker card from the deck and pressed it back in his hand, atop the Queen of Hearts. 

 “This card. You always said this was me.” She pressed the glossy paper to his palm, staring at the jester printed in black and white. “You would pull this card and laugh at the resemblance, saying I was a damn couyon.” She frowned as tears pricked her eyes. “That Queen was reserved for far better than me. Never for me. Don’t you dare.” Her voice sounded labored as she locked eyes with him; his green eyes flashed with sympathy and hurt as he slowly closed his hand around hers. She didn’t pull away, instead she felt her breath hitch as a wave of burning hot emotions flooded her chest and mind. 

“Comment une personne si belle peut-elle être si triste?” He spoke softly. “You did know me den? Where you come from?” 

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat before nodding. 

 “I did. But I lost you.” She choked out. 

He squeezed her hand softly. 

“And me and you? Was we…?” He asked softly, eyes searching hers. “Dis Gambit only ever known da Void. Pretty sure I was born here, neva known another way.” 

  “He was my best friend. My whole world.” She choked out with a sad smile. “But I was his couyon, never his queen.” She laughed, remembering the way he used to throw that word around with a charming smile running away from her playful wrath everytime. This Gambit gave her a sad smile.

  “He must have been blind ta not see da gift he had.” He spoke softly. Y/n shook her head. 

 “If you knew Rogue, you wouldn't say that. A Queen of hearts through and through. I could never blame him for picking her.” With that she dropped his hand, the lingering warmth fading from her skin. 

“Dis Gambit wants to know you more, sha. Dis Gambit don't wanna’ leave you lone.” His words were followed by him placing a card in her palm.

Y/n smiled softly before looking at the card he had handed her. “You aint no couyon-” He chuckled. 

Ace of Hearts.

“You one of a kind.”  

[futureplayboibunnie]

Aphrodesiacs Pt. 7

Miguel O’Hara x fem! spidey! reader

You and Miguel O’Hara were bitten by the same spider…what could possibly happen?

i bust my ass for this one. nuff said.

NSFW as always 18+

“Ay, por dios.” Miguel whispered under a strained whine of a breath.

Why? Why did he give in and go to a place he had no business going to? Every slip of the mind, every slip of the tongue, small-minded, aware decision led up to such a thing. He couldn't remember the last time he was ever this stupid that didn't have disastrous consequences. Miguel was a smart man but he wasn't thinking with his head, he was thinking with his dick, which was hardening with every second he spent in this small bathroom with you. It felt like the pale tiles on the walls were thickening by the minute, making it even more impossibly stuffy. Miguel hooked a finger in the collar of his compression shirt, the humidity of each other's company getting worse.

You on the other hand couldn't believe he would even show his face here. You thought that maybe if you were lucky, you'd find someone else to satiate your desires that were never really satiated. Every moment you spent attempting to pry open the door, the more you weren't sure you were handling this. You thought you could. Well, you thought .you could try and keep it to yourself at least, not letting an entirely lewd comment slip from your salivating tongue except for that off-the-record phone call. Maybe at least telling him would alleviate a light fraction of this. Your mouth was full of things you wanted to say, you were sure you were about to burst- so you groaned out instead, the resistance the door providing wasn't helping. Your fist indented into the metal handle, and you realized your strength doubled tenfold while he was in the room. You leaned back on the door and closed your eyes, slumping into the wood. Miguel was pacing before finally gripping his hands onto the sink and hanging his head down, occasionally stealing glances into his reflection. He looked pissed. He was pissed.

He couldn't be anything other than pissed and aroused when you were here, looking delicious in that tiny little bikini. He'd rip it off with his teeth if he had to.

“This is all your fault.”He snapped his unkind gaze back at you, his eyes beaming a deplorable void of blood red. His fangs ripped out of his gums as he stood up straight.

“Oh really?” You crossed your arms, scowling up at his sour expression. “Your 'higher authority' is really pissing me the fuck off right now. What are you doing exactly that's helping the situation?” You pointed an accusing finger at him, unable to control your bare feet inching forward.

“Who was the one that instigated all of this?” Miguel glared at you like you just caused nuclear annihilation.

His lips were split into an unreadable frown, his skin radiated heat and searing hot anger that you were desperate enough to let make your knees buckle and turn limp. It was obvious by the way your eyes widened and the way your lips parted. You paused for a minute to stare at him and it honestly felt like hours, like you could look at him for hours. The tension got thicker and thicker, your eyebrows tensed as your face formed into a desperate wince- whining out. You buried your head in your hands and sighed, rubbing the skin of your face in an attempt to try and compose yourself.

It wasn't working.

You peered back and him and the way he was leaning on the sink with those massive arms crossed, looking down at you with an equally desperate and vacant face he was attempting to conceal made you lean your head back on the door and bite your lip. Miguel was staring at your lips, he wanted to bite them and draw blood as you drooled.

He swallowed thickly. Miguel sighed and raked an impatient hand in his hair to try and stop ogling at you, but it was impossible.

His eyes were designed to stare at you only

His lips to be on yours only.

His hands to feel your skin only.

His cock to be in your pussy.

Only.

“I said don't look at me like that.” He demanded huskily, his eyes dilating beyond comprehension as your mere frame clouded his brain into a hazy yet wild sex-driven lust. Your nipples hardened under the thin fabric, he glanced at them and he wanted to roll his eyes back into his skull. You flashed him a teasing look, unable to control yourself.

“I'm sorry I never listen or do what I'm told.” You gave him a mischievous smirk, not feeling sympathetic in the slightest, sincerity was not evident. You were toying with him and Miguel an itching hungry slice of him was dying to play. “I expect all your women just...do what they're told. Sitting at the foot of your bed like a kicked animal, begging for a good fucking.” You chuckled lowly as you said the words, enjoying the fact that Miguel was starting to play along too, scoffing and smirking at you like you were stupid. His feet were mindless, inching closer and closer to you without even realizing it. Spellbound by your scent, he was wrapped in your game, your mesmerizing fantasy. How many rounds before he realized how near he was to eternal glory, heaven incarnate before reminding the safest place he could be was the void? God, he wanted your heaven though, to lose himself in you.

“What about yours? Your men.” Miguel retaliated but without the force, he usually would, this time he was curious, his voice was low and filled with traces of disdain.

“My men?” You flicked your tongue on your back teeth before presenting him with a faux pout. “Awh my men…”

Your confidence simmered a little when your eyes caught onto the fact he was so close, looming. He put his palms on either side of your head, trapping you and in turn trapping you in this little dance of death that never ended. Eyes widening a twinge, you could clearly see your glinting reflection in the black pits of his iris, his gaze was ravenous, eating you and fucking you with just that. You met him with a half-lidded expression, smiling lazily as his breath was fanning your skin. The way he was this close to you had to be illegal.

“The ones that mediocrely please you, thinking they did something but in reality you were desperate for me...whimpering my name in their ear, making them insecure and questioning who I am...hm?” Miguel smiled crookedly, presenting you with those pearly white fangs as he saw through your side pieces. You were about to start salivating, you wanted to stick your tongue out and lick them for him.

“You think too much of yourself.”

“Oh really? Don't let your ego lie to you.” Miguel chuckled, drinking in every moment of this little interrogation like a thirsting animal, he could do this forever.

“Did they suck your cock in your office, under your desk? How many pitiful blowjobs did you endure? Avoiding me really is shit, huh?” You were mocking him, brows tensing and ensuring he was about to sever a nerve. His nose flared as he breathed deeply, you were enjoying mixing his brain up with every single emotion anyone could ever experience. Miguel felt a chain break inside of him, one of his hands left the door and squeezed your cheeks, turning your head from side to side a fraction as if he was examining you, a whimper left your lips at the contact. He was properly touching you with his cold, apathetic hands. It felt like pure bliss combined with inexplicable torture.

“Such a dirty mouth for someone with such sweet lips.” He cooed, eyes transfixed on such a divine beauty. Your confidence was shattering in his palm, a helpless look swiped across your face and his fingers clutched onto your skin tighter- he felt the blush pierce his fingertips. 'Tell me…” He gritted through trapped teeth “Does it physically hurt when you think about me? How bad you want me.”

Miguel's face was unkind and exceptionally determined, darkened and ashen about all the things he's had to endure when he just merely thought about you.

“You want me to be honest?” You reaffirmed softly, flitting probe on his lips, biting your own to conceal a broken moan that would fall away at any unexpected moment. Miguel sighed raggedly and leaned into yourear, your scent surrounded him and he was hard as a rock. It was his favorite. So sweet. Euphoric.

“Yes.” His hot breath tickled your ear and made the small hairs on your neck stand up. You hummed in agreement, he leaned back and his hungry ogling landed back on your face.

“But I thought we were avoiding each other.” You quipped with that flirtatious smirk that could send any man up to the clouds searching for a paradise that they can't have.

“I don't care. You're mine. Only mine.” Miguel was washed over by a venomous possessiveness, his jealousy knew no bounds when it came to you. It didn't matter if you were on the other side of the world or in front of him, it didn't matter if you were actually together or not, you both wanted each other. You were his. His property. The toy that he could never play with.

“That's a little unfair don't you think?” You pouted again. “You avoiding me makes me mad when you know how much we're both unraveling. You could've cum on my face weeks ago but no, you wanted to stick to your moral code. That seems to be more important to you. ”

“Every time you look at me, I contemplateit.”

“Even now?” You took his hand in yours and placed a taloned finger in between the string that held your bikini at the front, you swiped it down and the string snapped with an unbridled ease. Miguel was following alone with your ministrations like a confused and lost puppy, his face switching between confused, aroused, and amused.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your tits fell free, nipples hardened and perky under his electricity glare. He was turning into a bloodhound as he saw what he had been fantasizing about in real-time. He swallowed thickly as he witnessed your chest rise and fall, completely hazy and blissed out. Very pleased with yourself. Very pleased. Miguel was enclosed in a state of hunger and itching pain. The more he told himself he wasn't able to do something, the more he wanted to do it, to prove it wrong. It was the hegemonic masculinity rearing its ugly head as always but he just couldn't help it- it was in his DNA. Miguel was a broken man, aching for release from the beautiful torment that your presence constantly provided, that your presence constantly reminded. You had finally done him in, finally made him crack. Tiny beads of sweat dot his forehead, it could be mistaken for dew drops that your soft lips could kiss off, maybe if this were photo season- but alas this was real life and it's been a real fight just to keep his mind from committing treason. But you were here, standing in front of him, you without even uttering the words. Miguel was battling demons, he didn't know how to deal with someone else’s. That's why he never let anyone get too close- except you. Now you were here, begging him to kiss you without even saying it.

“Now...my turn. Tell me...every single thing you've ever wanted to do to me.” You breathed, eyes glinting with a warm and inviting hue, bright and dim all at once, radiating sincerity. You leaned in slightly and poked your tongue out and licked one of his fangs slowly. It felt like his heart was being strangled and his dick was about to break. His blood was roaring. Any remaining shred of consciousness he possessed had disappeared the moment you did that.

Miguel didn't wait anymore, his breath hitched when he grabbed your face harshly and kissed you. His lips seeking to find yours, to taste the forbidden fruit that he longed for, that he tried so long to resist. But his resistance was futile, he wanted to be good but he knew deep down he wasn't. He wasn't a good man, no matter how hard he wanted to convince the world and himself he was, especially his society. Your body stilled and felt like it was about to evaporate due to the sheer heat that was pent up inside your body- now it had a semblance of gratifying release. His kiss was fiery and passionate, angry and desperate as he shoved his tongue in your mouth to taste the wet sweetness he was made to taste. Your lips reciprocated his actions eagerly, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him so close. You moaned into his mouth, eyes screwing shut as his tongue massaged against yours, diving into the back of your throat. A low rumble reverberated in his chest as you let out that pretty sound. The way you were reacting resembled that of a horny virgin that had never been touched. Any other man didn't matter because you weren't touched by him. The thought made him lose it.

Miguel grabbed your hips and held you up, allowing you to wrap your legs around your waist. His hands and fingers gripping onto your smooth skin, talons pinching. He grunted as he hurridly and unkindly sat you on the sink, standing between your thighs. Miguel's hands were rough and calloused, he buried his hands in your hair and pulled hard, your lips biting against his before he kissed the shell of your ear.

“You wanna know? Fine, I'll tell you.” He gritted out through clenched teeth, his jaw grinding together, if he applied more pressure, sparks would fly from his teeth. “You have no idea what I've been through. You think you do but you don't. I have denied everything. Every need, every desire, every urge and impulse I have ever had for you.”He breathed raggedly in your ear, his talons scraping your scalp. “I can't eat. I can't sleep, I can't control myself because of you. Control was the only thing I had left. I should give a shit about losing it but I don't. I can't. You're mine. Only mine. Got it? Any other guy even thinks about looking at you I'll put a bullet between their eyes.” His strained husky whispered taunts made your whole body shudder. You lolled your head back as he kissed and bit down your neck.

This honestly felt like a special event. Like a christening of sorts. Well, christening wasn't really the right word to use considering how filthy you both were.

“Oh, is that right.”

“My property.” He groaned raggedly. The way that word settled on his tongue made you melt, it was like he was made to say that to you.

“Your property? Even though you aren't actually mine and I'm not actually yours?”

The words slipped from your tongue, sending a sour note splattering through you. Why did you even say that? It didn't matter. Well, it didn't matter for now. Maybe it will soon. Miguel was a little stunned by it and he didn't want to think about it either, his stomach flipped and fluttered but he didn't even let a second pass before he suppressed the feeling

“No one else will see me this way. Only you.” He hoped that was enough.

You unhinged your trembling jaw to say something but then you heard a loud bang. You and Miguel both stopped in your tracks and turned your head like antelopes after grazing. You yelped at what you saw at the doorway. It was Peter and he finally got the door open. Miguel's face dropped to an anxious frown, embarrassment radiating off of him at Peter walking in on a scene like this. You immediately crossed your arms and contorted your body away so that he couldn't see the fact that you were topless. “Peter, what the fuck?!” Miguel bellowed.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Peter covered his eyes with his palm, slightly flustered at what he had just witnessed. “What the hell? I thought you guys would've been done by now. I locked the door like half an hour ago! That's more than enough time for you both to finally have the balls to fuck each other.”Alarm bells started ringing in both of your heads, he was the one that purposefully locked the door. What the hell was he thinking? He didn't understand how dangerous it was. Peter walked away as if he didn't see anything, leaving you and Miguel alone together in silence.

Miguel suddenly snapped back into reality, letting go of this mindless fantasy that tethered him to the danger he tried so hard not to give into. His face fell into a frown. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn't do. this. He couldn't have you no matter how much he wanted to. Miguel's mind was running rampant with so many possible scenarios that he may face if he gave in. He gave up too much to stop now. He needed to take into account his society, and his life's work. His mood darkened at the thought. He raked his hands through his hair, before giving you a vacant look, turning back to the normal snippy and angry Miguel everyone knows. It was like a switch was flipped inside of him- he turned back to cold and untrustworthy, looking at you like he didn't even know you.

You raised an eyebrow at his confusing change in demeanor. He shook his head and breathed out as if he was trying to shake the thought of you away from him. He needed to be smart about this, methodical. He couldn't leave you topless like this, your bikini was snapped in half and he most definitely didn't want any other guy ogling at you practically naked. He averted his gaze to show some form of respect and took off his compression shirt and handed it to you to wear and cover yourself up with. You just glared at him, scoffing at his confused actions. Miguel still didn't look at you when you shimmied it on and then as if by magic, he was drawn to stare at you again- in his shirt, ten sizes too big. For a second, Miguel eyed you like a lovesick fool.

Then, as usual, cold. He winced and then left you. Walking out of the bathroom, not even looking twice at you.

-

I DID IT AGAIN IM SORRY. (but if i tell you i have a suprise for you next chapter will u not hate me)

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[rainbowolfe]

Why Aym and Baal?

They were, according to Shamura, supposed to be Narinder's replacement family/companions. Narinder never really got that memo, but like, what did Shamura expect? Relationships don't work that way. You can't just throw two strangers at someone and have them fill the void of a millennia-long relationship.

But the question of the hour is, why Aym and Baal? I don't think it's because they're cats.

It's implied Narinder had his own family (made up of cats or whatever he is) and chose the Bishops, a goofy assortment of non-mammals over those blood relations. So he's not exactly inclined towards members of his own species. So that doesn't feel like the reason why Shamura chose them. And it doesn't feel like the reason Narinder kept them.

I noticed that this photo from Jalala's journal had to have been of pre-servitude Aym and Baal, cause they're much younger. Baal's hair is shorter, they're both just wearing basic tunics instead of their signature robes, and Forneus isn't wearing her hat. So Aym's always looked a bit scuffed, and it wasn't the result of his time spent with TOWW in the Realm Beyond.

Which means Shamura saw him and went "wow that's literally Kallamar". Scar over one eye? Check. Messed up ears? Check. It would also loosely confirm that the boys were sent after they sealed Narinder, since Kallamar's ears wouldn't be scuffed before then.

It would be really funny if what Aym's looking at is Shamura, and this picture was taken 5 seconds before disaster.

Now, my first instinct was that Baal would be Narinder, and what Shamura hoped to recreate was Narinder's relationship with them and Kallamar. But that doesn't quite make sense. The new "family unit" already has a Narinder, so why would Shamura give him another?

Baal can't be filling Shamura's role for two reasons. One, as the head of the family, Shamura would be more likely to be Forneus (the role they are now placing Narinder in). If not Forneus, then the unseen father presumably taking this picture. Two, Shamura does not believe that Narinder loves them. That's. Kind of why they're doing all of this. So they wouldn't give him a replacement-Shamura either, unless they were feeling really really egotistical.

Which leaves us with two options.

And the correct one is Leshy. Leshy, whose core item is the red camellia. And whose symbol becomes a black heart when he's cleansed.

While we don't get to hear much from Baal, Heket's core traits are that she's a shit-talker and likes to eat. Leshy's core traits are that he's chaotic, but has an appreciation for/focus on the world around him. Smells, sights (when he could see), and sounds.

Baal is actually the politer of the two and, based on his recruitment dialogue ("So much color... so many creatures") he too is the worldly type. Also, Baal thanks Lamb for helping them. Leshy and Narinder are the only Bishops who thank Lamb in the end.

And, you know, if you take the order Shamura lists the family in into account, Leshy and Kallamar are the first and second sons respectively.

...

Of course, this can be taken one step further in another direction :3c I can't just leave Heket out of this.

Although Shamura only gave him Aym and Baal, theoretically what they saw was a four-person family unit that reflected their own... before Narinder entered the picture. I mentioned before that if Shamura isn't a reflection of Forneus, then they're a reflection of the unnamed father. (Who I suspect to be Paean)

Which means they saw Heket in Forneus.

Do you see the vision??

Cause this is a found family, age order doesn't necessarily matter to the familial hierarchy. Even if Shamura wasn't the eldest, they would still be the head (whether matriarch or patriarch) because their role is as the leader of the other three. Heket would be below Shamura, but above Kallamar and Leshy, because she serves as caretaker. She's even the one who takes charge upon Lamb's return, as the matriarch would do if something were to happen to the patriarch.

((Traditionally, while the father is seen as the protector and provider, his purpose is specifically to rule/lead the family. It is the mother whose sole purpose is to protect. Primarily the children, as their (often only) caretaker. But in traditional circles, it's commonly felt that the mother should sacrifice everything for the father as well.))

It would be particularly fitting because a lot of Heket's side of things revolves around sacrifice. How she's burdened by it, and seemingly how much she tried to do to find a better/different outcome. She's characterized as particularly family-inclined.

...

This would suggest that who Narinder valued the most in the family were Leshy and Kallamar. At least, it would suggest that's how Shamura saw it. But I'm liking this line of thought, so let's say their read is accurate.

Shamura saw that Narinder. Could also be Forneus. And Shamura loved Narinder the most, so...

Narinder and Heket's disdain for each other stems from them competing for the same role in their family: The matriarch. Shamura's second in command, and the boys' caretaker.

Not in a "raise them" type of way, at least not in Kallamar's case. But to guide and influence them. To be the one they trust and rely on. Heket has been that. And, intentionally or not, Narinder intrudes on that.

Narinder's the 'other woman' lmao

As a bonus:

Baal is aligned with his father (you get Tears of the Vengeful Father in exchange for him). Aym is aligned with his mother (ditto for Tears of the Merciful Mother).

If Aym = Kallamar; Baal = Leshy; Forneus = Heket; and The Father = Shamura

Then that dynamic is actually reflected in this Tarot Card. It pairs Kallamar with Heket, and Leshy with Shamura. :3

[jo3ydr3w]

Stobotnk Week Day 6

Prompt 1: Flowers (I hyperfixated on flower language so much of my early teen years, it's not even funny.)

t started with a single flower on his desk.

Not a bouquet. Not in a vase. Just… one stem, deliberately placed. A foxglove, its bell-shaped petals pale and poisonously lovely.

Stone stared at it for a full minute. Foxglove meant insincerity. Or ambition. Or dangerous attraction. Depending on the book.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, then looked across the lab. Robotnik was at his console, face unreadable, goggles pushed up on his forehead, fingers flying across a touchscreen. Not even a glance in Stone’s direction.

Stone cleared his throat.

No reaction.

He touched the flower once more, just to make sure it was real. Then he sat down. Logged into his terminal. Said nothing.

The next day, Robotnik found a flower on his workstation.

Dog violet.

He picked it up slowly, examining the delicate purple bloom with the care of a man handling a grenade.

I’ll always be true.

Stone was elbow-deep in a wiring panel, pretending not to look. Waiting.

Robotnik turned, stared at him for a beat too long.

“…Hmph.”

He said nothing else.

But the game had begun.

The next was snapdragon. Left just so in the curve of Stone’s coffee mug.

Presumption. Deception. But also grace under pressure.

Stone responded with blue salvia tucked neatly into the strap of Robotnik’s goggles.

I think of you.

The weeks passed. Flowers bloomed between them in silence, no explanations ever spoken aloud.

Basil (hate, but also best wishes). Hellebore (we are both hiding something). Thyme (courage, or… strength through pain). Camellia japonica (I admire you… but in red, so: I admire you desperately).

Once, Robotnik left a carnation by the controls. Pink. Never forget me.

Stone didn’t speak. Just tucked it gently into the breast pocket of his blazer and moved on with the day.

One morning, after a long silence, Stone found nothing on his desk.

Instead, he found a flower pressed between the pages of his field journal.

Gladiolus.

You pierce my heart.

He stared at it, breath caught. Swallowed. Then went to work.

He didn’t speak of it, even when Robotnik passed right behind him close enough to brush shoulders.

But the next morning, a yellow acacia sat beside Robotnik’s keyboard.

Secret love. Constant. Loyal.

Robotnik reached for it. Paused. And for the first time in this silent ritual, he smiled.

Small. Barely-there.

But real.

Prompt 2: Motorcycle

“I fail to see the necessity of this,” Robotnik grumbled, arms crossed

. He eyed the motorcycle like it was a rabid animal. “We have teleportation pads. Drones. Crab mechs. Hover boots.”

Stone just grinned and patted the seat. “C’mon, Doctor. Live a little.”

“I’m plenty alive, thank you.” He stepped back as the engine growled to life. “This is a death trap. A two-wheeled projectile. A glorified blender with wheels.”

“Scared?” Stone said, smug.

Robotnik’s eyes narrowed behind his tinted glasses. “Scared? Scared? You dare accuse me, the great Ivo Robotnik, of cowardice? I have stared into the abyss, screamed into the void, won chess games against my own reflection. I have—”

“Then get on the bike, genius.”

A beat. Robotnik huffed. “Fine. But if I die, I’m haunting you forever and you’ll have to put up with ghost lectures for the rest of your miserable life.”

Stone offered a hand. “I’ll take my chances.”

It was, to put it mildly, a lot.

Stone drove fast. Too fast. The kind of fast that made the world blur and Robotnik shriek like a Victorian widow being carried off by pirates.

“STONE. STONE THIS IS—THIS IS—THE LAWS OF PHYSICS WEREN’T MEANT TO BE MOCKED THIS WAY.”

Stone whooped and leaned harder into the curve.

Robotnik held on for dear life, arms locked around Stone’s waist, his face buried in the back of his leather jacket. Somewhere

he started laughing—manic, unhinged, completely feral.

It was either that or scream again.

By the time they rolled to a stop outside the hideout, Robotnik slid off the bike on wobbly legs, sunglasses askew, hair windblown into something between mad scientist and electrocuted goose.

Stone took off his helmet, full of calm smugness. “So,” he said, straddling the seat. “How was it?”

Robotnik stood very still. Then he adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and intoned:

“I never want to ride anything else ever again.”

“…Seriously?”

“I feel reborn. Like a phoenix. Like a very fast phoenix. You didn’t tell me velocity could feel like revenge.”

Stone grinned. “So… another ride tomorrow?”

Robotnik glanced at the bike, then at Stone. Smiled slowly.

“I’ll build us a sidecar. With laser turrets.”

“Perfect.”

Prompt 3: Plushies (Robotnik stims with plushies 'cause I do, damn it!)

Robotnik didn’t notice it at first.

He was too deep in code, hunched over the keyboard in his usual goblin posture, eyes flicking behind tinted lenses. The only things that existed in the universe were neural net upgrades, Metal Sonic’s whining CPU, and the insufferable buzzing in his ear that Stone swore wasn’t a fly drone.

Then, at some point—hours later, maybe—his hand drifted absentmindedly to the side of the console and bumped into something… soft.

He paused. Blinked. Felt it again.

It was small. Round. Fabric. With stitched button eyes, a weirdly lopsided smile, and spindly little arms that stuck out like someone had tried really hard to make it “him-shaped.”

Robotnik squinted at it.

It was… a plushie.

A homemade plushie. Made of mismatched cloth, spare parts from Stone’s personal repair kit, and a little strip of red felt tied like a scarf.

He frowned. Looked around the lab. Stone was across the room, pretending very obviously not to look.

“…Stone.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“What is this.”

“A stim plush,” Stone said without turning. “For your hands. So you don’t keep chewing your stylus in half.”

Robotnik blinked. Looked down. The plush was already in his hand.

Damn it.

“Did you make this?”

“Mhm.”

“You made me a doll.”

“It’s ergonomic. And has weight in the limbs for sensory feedback.” Pause. “And it’s you-shaped. Sort of. I couldn’t find angry-enough buttons for the eyes.”

Robotnik opened his mouth. Closed it.

He stared at the little thing in his hand. Its arms flopped stupidly, one thread clearly already coming loose.

It fit perfectly in his palm.

“…The red scarf is a nice touch,” he muttered.

Stone smiled into his coffee.

Robotnik never admitted to stimming with it.

But the thread on the right arm had been restitched four times, and every now and then—especially during difficult coding—Stone would hear the soft whump of it getting squished rhythmically, over and over.

He never said anything.

But the next one he made had a teeny pair of goggles and a cape.

Just in case.

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

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

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

Enter: The creation of myth.

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

Rating: Explicit 18+

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

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

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

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

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

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

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

Mandalorian. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still no response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” he growls out.

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

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

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

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

“Are you?” He presses.

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

“Then what?”

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

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

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

“Oh, no?”

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

“You started–”

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

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

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

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems. 

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

And then he’s there. 

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

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

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

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

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt. 

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

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

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

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

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

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

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

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

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

“What? You can see?” 

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s a shame.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Easy – easy, settle.”

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

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

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

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

“No more than I wanted you to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter II

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[respectthepetty]

Episode seven of Break Up Service, and the man in the pink with the yellow lunch bag is on a mission to get his wife to stop flirting with all these office boys.

He loves his wife, hence the pink shirts. He is also the one the show wants us to root for which is what the yellow is for.

Because his wife just keeps giving all the yellow away.

So this is clearly a job for our resident Yellow Yal Jued.

But she resigned and is too busy trying to make sure her friends don't get back together before 45 days, so Boss can keep his job, no matter how miserable they are right now.

And, magically, her friend has a bull stuffed animal which reminds us that the company Jued worked for had a logo that resembled devil horns.

Because that company is evil, and Jued turned to the red side to break up her friends which guaranteed Black Brooder Boss would get to keep his job.

But her friends seem to be handling the breakup just fine, so she has nothing to worry about.

And Black Brooder Boss, in his red, already has a plan in place, so no need for Jued!

Except Boss is dressing in yellow with a red tie as if he is trying to fill the void of not having Jued by wearing her color.

In fact, when he brings someone else to his scheme, that other person is wearing red and yellow as they deliver a giant pink paper rose.

And Oat, who happens to be the person pulled into this weird (evil red) plan, knows exactly what Boss is doing. He knows that Boss misses Jued. He doesn't need the colors to tell him that since Boss, through his actions, is telling on himself.

Which means it's time for the Heavenly Humans to show up in the form of cupids.

Because if the demons work for Break Up Service, then the angels work for Destiny.

The angels are hired to bring the miserable couple back together in lovely bliss since the yellow tells us we should be rooting for them.

But much like the demons of the Break Up Service, the plan is elaborate and involves a hostage situation.

Yet Yellow Yal Jued in her yellow scarf is the only one harmed in the process in the form of the damage her bank account takes for paying for this plan.

Which causes her to ask Boss for a favor, and since he is currently dealing with a partner he doesn't want, he says yes in his red and black.

He has his Yellow Yal back, for the moment at least.

They immediately get to work on the mission, which means Boss embraces all the red evilness that comes with the job including ruining their target's career.

But his new partner and Jued think that's excessive, so Jued takes the Yellow Yal approach and simply speaks to the wife.

And all ends well with everyone's color intact and the A-team back together!

Except they aren't!

Boss likes Jued. He admitted it to Oat. In fact, he has been leaving Jued his color and protecting her from harmful elements, like by leaving her his umbrella.

He has been watching her to make sure she is safe, so he can be there at the exact moment she needs him.

But the problem is that these tactics are still a bit evil red. Instead of just confessing, he is scheming, lying, and creating moments.

Which means when he can be honestly there for her and help her in the form of a umbrella, he can't because he has lied, and if he gave her the umbrella now, she would know.

So the episode ends with Boss, hurt once again, standing in the rain with his red exposed, which hopefully allows him to reflect on his behavior and learn that to get Jued, he needs to leave the red behind, and just be honest. He simply needs to be his normal Black Brooder self.

Spoiler Alert: He does not get the memo and seems to be leaning harder into the red next episode, so . . .

Manipulate, Mansplain, Malewife it is.

[gurlwhaaa]

"and I still talk to you, when I'm screaming at the sky" pt.1 Geto Suguru x reader

BTW the title is a Taylor Swift lyric hehe Geto Suguru angst (ends with fluff ofc) AU- where Geto didn't get killed and was put under supervision. ______________________________________________________________ you never thought this would ever happen. Geto Suguru is alive. breathing the same air as you. after all the sins his hands committed, after all the promises of loving you till all the stars had burnt. turns out the stars were made of paper.

nothing was the same. when Suguru was gone, Gojo was the one who you spent late nights with. You had become his new best friend. You filled his void and he filled yours.

for Satoru, being the carefree person he was, nothing was different. He'd talk to Suguru like a normal person. It was like everything was back to how it was. except that it wasn't. how could it be?

It was a calm Sunday morning. Gojo had invited you to a café along with Shoko. why waste a good morning when the three of you were free? you were wearing a black skirt, dark red fitted shirt and your favorite dark scarlet scarf that Suguru had gifted you when you were together.

You were called the 'fashionista'. everything just seemed to fit perfectly on you.

as you arrived at the destination, you saw Shoko sitting by herself. you walked up to her and greeted her. "Satoru's late again" she said chuckling. as you both were catching up, you saw the late-comer entering.

except, he wasn't on his own. beside him was a dark haired man. the one that had left everyone. the one that had left YOU to miss him, to think about him. to yearn.

you weren't here to deal with this. if there was any self-respect left in you, you would immediately excuse yourself for good. you couldn't see him this soon. you didn't want to see him this soon.

as he walked up to you, you felt Suguru' s gaze on you. he was inspecting you up and down. you weren't going to back down from the unofficial staring contest. he looked so foreign, yet so familiar.

instead of walking away. your body stood up. greeted Satoru. smiled a little. every time you thought about him, you felt this lump in your throat. hell, now there he was standing before you. everything was silent. the tension was reflecting on Satoru and Shoko.

Everyone sat down. Satoru and Shoko were engaged in conversation with Suguru occasionally joining in. You were the one who hadn't spoken since Suguru had gotten here. after things got a little dry, there was silence. Satoru was scanning the menu for the next sweet to order, so was Shoko looking for new things to try.

"long time no see, [name]". Suguru had broken the ice. the ice was thick and sharp, the force used to break it could hurt. you were startled. but, you still had dignity in you. you wouldn't give in.

"certainly not long enough" you replied. your words were hurting your own self. you weren't used to being this rude. you couldn't blame yourself though. no one could blame you.

you let out a sigh. "uhh- I should get going. I still have pending work." you said. "but you haven't even eaten anything" Shoko and Satoru tried to stop you. "I can eat after I'm done with my work. I'm not that hungry anyways." was your excuse.

as you walked away. you could feel tears building in your eyes. your vision blurred slightly but, you could wipe them after you were out. what you couldn't show was that you were crying, as they watched you leave. as Suguru watched you leave. you didn't care if the others saw you cry. but, you couldn't possibly show Suguru that you still cared.

[tojisfourthbiatchoftheweek]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* asking sukuna if you can paint his pretty nails 𝓹𝓲𝓷𝓴

✧.* 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪 takes a certain liking to having his long nails painted black. he says it reflects the darkness of his soul, but in reality he likes to stare at himself in the void of his nails, as he lays lazily on his throne. they are long, sharp, almost like tiny glades attached to his body. why carrying any weapon when his nails can do the job pretty well? it’s a waste of time for 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪.

black also helps the red of the blood of his enemies stand out, but he proudly admits such. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

so when one day, as you carry your pretty self around his majestic manor, you see sukuna- sukuna having his nails done?!

as the king of curses sits rather.. casually, instead of his usual stoid, cold, and arrogant facade, he now has two slices of cucumber on his eyes, hair still wet from his bath, as his robe is of a satin texture. his bunny slippers- which he stole from you, even though they’re far too small for him- hiding his black toenails, that have already been taken care of. his right hand is extended to uraume’s care, as they carefully put layers upon layers of black nailpolish on each of 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪’s precisely sharpened nails.

since that afternoon, you made it your mission to paint 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪’s nails… pink.

one day, as 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪 is seating, alone, on his throne, you dare to take a seat… on his lap. not that he will say anything to you, the apparent frown on his face speaking for itself.

“so, ‘kuna… it appears that you… don’t naturally have black nails…”

you begin foolishly, intertwining his hand with yours, as the whetted nails gently graze your palm. sukuna hums, although his facial expression remains still.

“and how do you know of it?”

he asks, wondering how you discovered his guilty pleasure. not that he’ll ever admit he likes it. he knows he can trust uraume-not that he doesn’t trust you- but.. if you were to know he enjoys his nails care time, he’d never hear the end of it. he already thinks you’re a talking machine, gifting you a shirt written on it “professional yapper”, he’d rather avoid giving you a reason to tease him.

“i might’ve seen you with uraume a few weeks ago, getting your nails done. i didn’t know you engaged in such… self loving activities, 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪. a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do to feel confident, and if for you that is getting your nails done..”*

you admitted sheepishly, as you couldn’t resist teasing him a bit for it.

from that point on, started this.. little argument.

“c’mon, lemme paint’em pink.”

“no, you brat. and stop nagging me with these dog eyes. it’s not cute.”

“first of all, it’s puppy eyes. and it’s very cute. now stop being annoying, and quit fighting.”

as 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪, unamused, rolls his eyes, you chant in victory, grabbing your nail kit. you tend to the king’s nails meticulously, making sure not to hurt him or to cut his cuticles, or to not sharp them too low… as sukuna still remains in his throne.

as you apply the last layer of top coat, you stare at your artwork: hello kitty nails on the king of curses. as disgusted as he appears to be by the rather childish appearance of the nails, the twitch of his lips transmit the actual emotion he’s feeling. he’s actually quite amused.

“you did a mediocre job, brat.”

“i know, you’re welcome 𝓼𝓾𝓴𝓾𝓷𝓪.”

since that day, you became his assigned nail artist. not that it bothers you, it gives you more time to be close to him. and as much as he dislikes it… he loves these bonding sessions with you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ pls don’t make this flop 🙏🏾

[hazbincalifornia]

Give Me More

Summary: One thing that Blitz had realized over the course of his pregnancy was that carrying a giant fuck-off monster baby also meant that you had giant fuck-off monster hormones, and right now he probably would have ground his dick on sandpaper if it had looked at him the right way.

Blitz, carrying a baby from a beast Stolas, wants to get plowed, and what he wants, he gets. For days 2, 3, and 5 of Monsterfucker week, Size Difference, Animal Instinct, and Eldritch Form. My Chained Mates au.

Warnings: Explicit content, pregnant sex, brief mention of animal death, large size difference, a pussy with teeth.

Ao3 link

One thing that Blitz had realized over the course of his pregnancy was that carrying a giant fuck-off monster baby also meant that you had giant fuck-off monster hormones, and right now he probably would have ground his dick on sandpaper if it had looked at him the right way.

Unfortunately, the bigger Blitz got (and by now he was pretty sure he was long past a ‘normal’ size for an imp pregnancy) and the more awareness that had started to trickle back to Stolas even between full moons, the more Stolas had started getting kind of nervous about fucking him, which was the last thing that Blitz needed right now. Blitz had started using his hand and grinding on some of the pillows in the ballroom nest, but that just meant that everything smelled like horny, which really wasn’t helping the problem.

The sun’s setting rays reflected through the windows and Blitz curled up with a shudder, looking up to see Stolas carrying something fuzzy in his mouth. The larger demon’s teeth rested carefully around the prize to keep it from either falling out or disappearing down the infinite void of the owl-demon’s gullet.

As if on cue, Blitz’s stomach growled, and he held out his arms for the offering- today, it was a rabbit already dead from one of the traps. Blitz stuffed it in his mouth without blinking- something about the trickling infection of the curse allowed him to open his mouth wide enough for at least the rabbits and rats, even though he still had to slice up any deer unlucky enough to wander into the palace grounds into pieces before having any of them. (Small mercies, since going down in one piece helped avoid the messy cleanup. At least he only had to eat to sate cravings now instead of needing it to survive, and Stolas’s half of the kid enjoyed the meat even more than the imp from Blitz did.)

“Thanks, Stols,” Blitz murmured, shifting his head to nuzzle against the glowing red and black of Stolas’s face as the other demon curled around him, the gentle pulse and ebb of his ruby glow more than familiar by now as Blitz rested against the space between eyes and teeth. One hand settled on his stomach to soothe the familiar nudges as the baby tried to get comfortable with what little space they had. “I’m sure the squirt will put it to good use.”

He paused, fingers shifting and tugging his makeshift skirt comprised of sewn-together fabric down. The slit was already soaked before his voice dropped lower, tail twisting against the nest. “Now, will you do daddy a biiiiiiig favor and help with a little problem? This pussy’s begging to be bred like the furball you just brought over as dinner.”

Stolas blinked once before scooting back a bit, and Blitz could hear a whine and a a low ‘oooooo’ as the head bobbed from side to side, the closest thing he could get to a ‘no’.

“I know you don’t want to crack me open, but Satan’s sweaty jockstrap, I’m going to lose my fucking mind if I don’t get something stuffed in me yesterday.”

Stolas’s eyes narrowed, claws gesturing toward Blitz’s stomach, and Blitz huffed. “They’re the reason I’m dripping like a faucet, so they should be able to handle some jostling around in there. Come on, I promise if anything starts feeling like it’d be too much, I’d let you know.” He tugged at the gold collar around his neck, familiar enough after the months that he’d almost stopped noticing it until he fell asleep at weird angles. “Besides, I don’t think this thing would let anything happen to either of us even if you impaled me good and proper. Please, Stolas?”

Blitz shuffled forward and reached out one hand to stroke the side of the semi-void that made of Stolas’s body. Everything between the claws and face wasn’t quite solid and wasn’t quite gas, the soft fluff of warm feathers just on the edge of the sensation even as his hand sunk in slightly to the swirl of black and red. (In response to the sensation, the patchy feathers that had sprouted on his arms earlier in the pregnancy twitched slightly as the muscles flexed underneath Blitz’s scarred skin.) Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It was like skimming a pond thick with oil, and with every gentle stroke, a gentle rumble vibrated the mass around Blitz’s arm.

“Just for now, big bird, you know you want to claim your mate…” Blitz practically purred, grinning as light flared in Stolas’s eyes. He dropped his free hand to his stomach, fingertips making circles on the tight, round belly. “You already filled me with your chick, don’t you want to enjoy your prize all horny and swollen and ready for another round?” He shifted his body just enough to nudge his belly against Stolas’s side, and that did it.

With a growl, Stolas rolled over to pin Blitz beneath him, the lower half of his body swirling as he decided which configuration he’d like to have today.

…Which turned out to be both. Blitz’s grin widened, a coo slipping from his chest as he settled himself on his back as the tip of Stolas’s ridged cock that was half his size oozed onto his chest, just above a pretty monster pussy lined with teeth that were already salivating for imp flesh.

“Good boy. Now fuck me.”

Stolas whined. He wavered for a moment before he began to grind, the bumps on the surface of his cock rubbing against Blitz’s swollen belly full of their shared child. Blitz’s fingers tightened on the blankets, the swirling void of Stolas’s body contrasted with the very, very solid mass of the dick using his body to thrust against as he was pinned down both by the pressure from Stolas and from his gut.

As pleasant as the the weight was, Blitz opened his mouth to point out that fucking on top of him wasn’t actually fucking him, but a gasp was punched out instead as Stolas had seemingly read his mind, tip brushing against his entrance before pushing in as the pointed tip sunk into Blitz with the shared lubrication of arousal between them.

“Fuck yeah, there is is, give it to me good, Stols,” Blitz said, one hand resting atop his belly now damp with precum as the heels of his hooves dug into the pillows below. The nickname drew a pleased rumble, and as a reward, the twitching cock drove in further, pressing against the sensitive inner walls with every additional increment. Ridges brushed against the sensitive flesh, but Blitz’s head just fell back, tongue lolling out as be basked in it. Thick, heavy, and all his, created just for him.

By now, Stolas had realized just how much Blitz could physically handle. The size and the power of the thrusts tipped just on the painful end of pleasurable, stretching Blitz as each one drove deeper, harder, hotter. If he hadn’t already worn the proof of Stolas’s conquest, it would have bulged out his abdomen. One hand pinned Blitz down so he could be used more effectively as a squirming fleshlight, but the moans and excited tail-snaps showed how eager he was for it as he was buried under the rapidly disintegrating composure of a full demon prince swept up in instincts while surrounded by the scent of a mate absolutely ripe with desire.

Stolas’s face and talons fuzzed around the edges on top of the fact that everything else was already barely clinging to this plane of existence, a loose bundle of mass stitched together by the extremities. At the same time, Blitz was chanting for ‘more’ somewhere deep within- if it was only inside his head or lost into the void, he couldn’t tell, but it seemed to be heard and obeyed. His body was worked open by a length that was splitting him piece by piece as he lost himself to the sensations, stomach squirming with the heavy mass of the monster child he carried and pussy pried open and stretched to the limit by the beast that had done it. Thoughts and words melded together. Breed him again, make him even bigger, make him yours.

“Mine.”

It was a command as much as it was a statement beamed directly into his brain, and Blitz moaned out agreement, desperately arching his back to fit in every speck of cock that he could. He craved it down to the marrow, drunk on need and hot with lust.

Talons impaled his skin, black blood oozing over glittering obsidian. The liquid shone as it pooled over the pillows and blankets as Stolas came, flooding Blitz with a roar that shook the walls. The cum pumped Blitz’s swollen stomach even higher and wider, before the cock phased through drenched skin and dragged itself up to splatter the remainder of the load atop his sweaty breasts and belly instead to make the claim even more clear as it splashed Blitz’s skin.

In response, Blitz’s own orgasm was triggered as he was filled in every way possible, reality shifting on its axis as Stolas’s form twisted and melted, the one filling Blitz barely coherent as any sense of reality was pumped directly out what approximated his lower half.

For a moment, there was nothing but the shifting of weight and heavy breaths as Blitz slumped back and felt the heat of the blood and the fire of the aftershock. Stolas curled around him as the mass of his body sank into the nest while a shimmer of sparks and stars surrounded the spent imp. Stolas took a moment before gingerly licking the wound, magic healing the worst of the damage while leaving just enough to bruise, just enough to remember.

Blitz’s chest rose and fell with each breath, blinking up into the beauty of the shimmering eternity to the cadence of a heartbeat that already felt like home.

“Mmmm…” A hum morphed into a purr as Stolas drew tighter around him, body better than any blanket. Blitz contented himself with his position for a moment before realizing that the shift had brought him within reach of Stolas’s formed genitalia. He leaned forward, quirking his head to the side slightly. Both types twitched as if living entities, smelling faintly of salt and metal and still dripping either from the tip or from the center. Blitz’s fingers wiggled for a moment before he traced around the outer lip of the slit, each tooth that rested there longer than one of his hands.

Stolas shuddered, but the low bassy tones vibrating through Blitz’s body were encouraging. He slipped his fingers between two of the teeth, palm resting against the sticky, thick mass of the inner walls. Blitz could feel the reaction with every stroke as he drew his fingers back and forth, Stolas whining as Blitz gathered up a handful and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Mmmm, is that good, big bird?” Blitz half-murmured, knowing that Stolas could hear each little hitch of his breath as he ground himself against the sticky softness of the nest while fingering his mate.

Stolas let out a half-broken warbling coo in reply. He curled himself up tighter until the temperature rose and more sweat dripped down Blitz’s skin, tracing itself down each muscle on the back and the dome of his belly on the front. Blitz dipped his wrist in and out, experimenting with the strokes- at least until one of the teeth snagged on the side of his skin, blood dripping into the midnight void.

Stolas howled, slick flooding the space between them as Blitz’s entire arm and a portion of his torso was drenched. At that, Blitz started grinding faster, the scent and taste of a trough’s-worth of cum all for him all too easy to draw him back to full arousal.

“F-fuck, Stols…” Blitz murmured, and the world shifted as Stolas’s claw scooped him up, shifting underneath until the nest disappeared and there was only Stolas to rest on, only Stolas and feathers and softness and bliss.

He gripped a handful of feathers just solid enough to get his fingers around and spread his legs, dragging himself back and forth on the cock that had remained formed just for him. He had to wrap his tail loosely around his leg to keep it from drifting downwards into the teeth, but Stolas's body gently rocked like ocean waves to help him grind against the surface. Up and down, up and down, up and down, until Blitz was soaked in slick and tearing up. Everything was too much and not enough, not enough, almost, almost, almost-

He came again with a cry before slumping forward, and Stolas’s cock melted back into himself as Blitz was dropped into comfortable darkness that he welcomed, his mate’s body molding to allow his body and his belly as comfortable a resting place as there ever was.

[absolutelynotsanebaby]

Reaper AU oneshot

so I wanted to share this one-shot however it is heavily context dependent so; basically at one point Grimm (cole) had taken up the mantle and transformed into a replacement for the cursed realm. Eventually his soul split in two leaving Grimm (cole) and “pree-em” to remain as the cursed realm.

Grimm, accurate to his nickname, is basically a grimm reaper, and has soul related abilities.

The space they’re existing in within this one shot is a dreamscape created by ‘Pree-em’.

Content warnings: blood, physical violence (in a weird ghost way), tentacles.

The blood was slick and warm under Grimm’s feet. It was just high enough to brush along the top of his toes, and clung to his skin in a way it shouldn’t. That, as he looked down, made him realize he wasn’t wearing shoes. The floor— if it was that— of blood spread out long and far enough you couldn’t see anything else. It was shiny and dark, the nothingness of the void Grimm found himself in reflected off it, disturbed only by the rippling of his footsteps. It was gross.

He’d never really liked blood, he’d dealt with it of course, as a ninja, but he didn’t like its sight. Or consistency, though the blood under him was weirdly watery, as if it'd never had a chance to clot. That, of course, was because it wasn’t actually real.

“Pre-em,” he called out, voice echoing and tired, “why am I here.”

Nothing replied for a long time. The silence was strung out, heavy and loud in its own right. He’d never really liked silence either, thought he’d become accustomed to that, too. Mom used to get quiet, when she was sick and couldn’t speak properly. Then when she was gone, the house got quiet too, no music and no voices, just the occasional sound of cleaning. Grimm’s thoughts drifted along, remembering various sounds to fill the silence. It was when his memory came along the sound of a baby crying that Pre-em showed himself. It started with ripples along the blood, seemingly with no cause. They made a slow path towards Grimm, as if there was some rock skidding along the surface. Maybe, Grimm mused, there was.

Finally, Pre-em was in front of him. Grimm had blinked and suddenly his own face was staring at him. Well, staring down at him. Pre-em had shoes, because of course he did. His face was flat, big eyes empty and half lidded. Unimpressed.

“So?” Grimm prompted, crossing his arms, “why am I here?”

Pre-em did not reply.

“Is Ms. D here?”

“No,” came too fast.

Grimm blinked, looking him once over. He seemed the same as before, long white kimono crossed the wrong way, long locs tied in the back, red lining the under of his eyes. There was no difference.

“Are they still mad at you?” Grimm asked, and Pre-em’s nose scrunched. As if he was offended by the very question, “what? It’s a fair question, last time I saw you, you nearly overthrew them and nearly—well.”

“They have forgiven me, by their word,” Pre-em said, “though they don’t trust me, anymore.

“I can’t blame them for that.”

“They say I am too much like my predecessor, their sister.”

Grimm thought back to the look in Morro’s eyes sometimes, and the stories Ms. D had told him. He looked back up at Pre-em, how green he was, “maybe you are, I mean, Pre-em,” they shrugged, “you did the same thing she did.”

“I did not,” Pre-em snapped, “I’m nothing like that old, dead hag. You ought to call me the Preeminent now, too.”

“Pre-em, why am I here?” they repeated instead, dodging the ‘request’, “I know you didn’t bring me here just to—to talk. What do you want?”

Pre-em stopped, eyes snapping to Grimm’s face, eyes narrowing. Grimm could practically hear what he was thinking. Yada-yada, you cannot tell me what to do, yada-yada and—

“You don’t know a thing about me,” bingo, right on the money, “I brought you here because I—“

Pre-em paused, arms leveling to his side. His sleeves were long, touching the ground— the blood. Though they didn’t get tainted, when his arms were raised to press his hands against his chest, they were clean. Pristinely white.

“I am starting to— feel things.”

“Like—?“

“Like joy, I have— I’ve felt happiness,” Pre-em continued, a fix between his eyebrows, he seemed confused, “I thought I was incapable.”

Grimm was silent for a long time, a matching expression to Pre-em’s. If they had to guess, they’d guess Pre-em was scared.

“…You’re feeling— emotions? Then? Good ones?” Grimm questioned, and without thinking about it he reached out and grabbed a hold of Pre-em’s sleeves, “isn’t that good? That’s what you wanted!”

Pre-em yanked away from him and his hands, stumbling back. His steps kicked up blood, the blood landing on the top of Grimm’s foot.

“No! No this is— I do not want it!” Pre-em said, throwing his arm out in what seemed to be defense, “it’s too much! I was— content with feeling only what you say are bad emotions and now I am— stuck with this unfamiliar force!”

Grimm’s expression was confused, “but, Pre-em—“

“We split for this reason! This hurts! Take it back, all of it! I don’t want it!” He said desperately, grabbing Grimm’s wrists tightly, “take it!”

He shoved one of Grimm’s hands against his chest. Grimm flinched, trying to take a step back, feet stumbling under themselves, “I—I don’t—“

“Do it!”

Pre-em shoved Grimm’s hand through his chest, into the cavern where his ribs and his lungs should’ve been, or would’ve been if he was ever human. Inside of Pre-em was magic, wispy and thick, almost wet. Grimm tried to drag his hand out of it but Pre-em would not permit it. His grip was as strong—stronger than Grimm’s and so Grimm’s hand remained thick into that magic.

“Pre-em—“ Grimm gasped, “I can’t— I can’t do that. I can’t just take it out!”

“Yes you can! We’re the same soul—your abilities—!”

“They separated us! We’re two now!” Grimm yelled over his voice. Pre-em’s mouth clicked shut, staring wide eyed at Grimm. Grimm’s mouth felt thick, he swallowed before he spoke, “we’re two different souls, remember..?”

Grimm’s hand remained limp in his chest, where he could grab nothing, “ and your soul isn’t in your chest, you know that.”

Pre-em’s hand clutching his wrist slowly let go, fingers uncurling around Grimm’s wrist like a snake uncoiling from its prey. Grimm dragged his hand out, wincing at the feeling of Pre-em’s insides dragging. Once their hand was back against their own chest, he stared down at it. It was shaking, the same green-teal color as always, not even a trace of Pre-em.

Grimm stepped back from him, the quiet sloshing of blood the only sound between them. His feet were red, but his hands were clean. Pre-em stood still, hands hanging limply at his side. He was staring at the ground, and Grimm could not see his mouth. Quietly, tentacles began to poke out from beneath his kimono, obscuring his clean feet, slipping down into the blood like it was deeper than what Grimm stood on.

“Pre-em…?”

Grimm’s voice was quiet, and worried. Pre-em shook his head, and raised it to look them in the eyes. Tentacles slipped out of the blood by Grimm’s feet. They didn’t move away from it, wincing only once when Pre-em’s smallest once brushed their bare ankle.

“…Pre-em.”

“I hate you,” Pre-em spit, below his ‘breath’, “I hate you, Cole, you’ve never done anything right. I thought— I believed you could help, for once.”

The tentacle wrapped around Grimm’s ankle.

“But you can’t.”

The tentacle yanked hard and fast, dragging him off his feet and onto his back. Grimm gasped, kicking out uselessly once before he realized the blood was— he was sinking. Tentacles were crawling up his legs and spinning around his arms, one curling around his neck—

Pre-em stood above him, glowing in his white. It was almost wispy, the way the white glowed and traveled into the black. Pre-em’s eyes were flat, again, and had they been one, maybe familiar. He was a teethed thing, even with his mouth closed. Grimm breathed heavily, lungs not expanding.

Pre-em leaned down into the blood, sinking with it on his knees. Two hands slipped to cradle Grimm’s face, almost lovingly, “why did you make me.”

Grimm’s eyes were wide, the hands were burning on his face, “I didn’t— I didn’t make you.”

“Yes you did,” Pre-em hissed, “you told everyone that I hated you, those memories, so badly that I split us in two but that was a lie! You hated being me, you couldn’t stand it, being so— being cursed.”

He leaned down until his forehead hit Grimm’s, “you hated me, so you made me.”

Blood slipped into Grimm’s mouth, it tasted like copper.

“I don’t want this.”

Grimm wondered distantly— why blood? Neither of them bled red, and Pre-em never had. It was a foreign substance to the both of them, at this point. Grimm tugged against one of the tentacles squeezing his wrists, and surprisingly it loosened. He tugged the rest of his hand free, it was stained red, the only bit of it remaining green being the palm of his hand. He led his hand up to Pre-em’s cheek, cradling it like how Pre-em held his face.

He dug his nails into Pre-em’s cheekbone, smearing blood along his cheek, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not.”

Grimm’s nails cut into his skin, digging into the magic there. Pre-em had no muscle, and when Grimm ripped into it, all they saw was thick, wet, color.

“…I’m not,” he admitted. His eyes were empty, eerie in their wideness, “I hate you. I never want to be you again.”

Pre-em stared down at him, expression blank. His hair hung around them like a dark curtain, but there was no light to hide from in this place.

He pulled back finally, Grimm’s fingers sliding and tearing out of his cheek with a wet, gross sound. His hands left Grimm’s face, gently almost. One hand settled along Grimm’s forehead and then began to push down. He tipped their head over into the blood, the column of their neck in an arch.

Grimm’s head sank beneath the blood, the red becoming black behind his eyes, and when he sat back up in his own bed. The lights were off, and their blankets were on the floor.

There was a mirror across from his bed and when he looked into it, he was clean.

Meeting over, he guessed.

[knightobreath]

various s4e1 rewatch thoughts

part 1

jack's voice sounds SUPER familiar, but I looked up his VA (Joey Sourlis) and didn't recognize any of the works. Either way I really like his voice.

I also love tapey, her deisng is very cool. I love it when characters incorporate their object into the design instead of just popping on a face and limbs and calling it a day.

The basketball game is...weird to me. We have 3 examples of the red line game being a race, why is it different now? Is it because MePhone is composed differently? Did someone in the void figure out a way to change it? How come they couldn't before? I doubt it'll ever be explained, and I'm going to opt to ignore it unless it becomes relevant later.

If I were to choose an explanation, I suppose it could come from MePhone being now aware of his mind world, and the environment shifting to reflect that. The basketball challenge is easier than the hallucination mental breakdown race.

First permakill of the season, can't wait to see if they do more. According to a friend of mine, they probably will!

The characters getting generated without MePhone didn't make much sense to me at first, but now that I think about it, it's probably due to the shimmer energy thingy that powers the island. I guess recovery is now set to that shimmer thingy instead of MePhone?

bot, i don't think you need to be that tall, but also if i had extendable legs id be towering over everyone and everything too. i understand them.

Okay, theater time.

So...are the springtoys alive? Or are they just WT's way of moving about? I'd accept either but I like the idea of them just being WT's remote limbs, i quite like unconventional body make ups like that. the WT hivemind.

also, WALKIE TALKIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

the mephone costume doesn't have a hole for bot's head. *cinemasins ding* BUT..it is fun and glittery. I can imagine the characters coming together to hand make all of the play stuff. Endearing, if way too much work for little reward. i think they just like theater.

"Children of a Lesser Cob", good title. Clocked it as a play on another play immediately, and so I looked up what it could be and while there is a play called "Children of a Lesser God" I can find literally no connection to ii by looking at it's wikipedia page. I also know nothing about theater in general so I'm just going to let what I don't understand pass.

"In the beginning, there was nothing. Then Cobs said..." "Let there be MePhone!"

The Biible... real...

I think Walkie Talkie makes a great narrator. Perfect for her. However, I don't think Toilet playing Cobs is a great idea...

You're perfect for this role.

Is Desperate Houses the only tv show these objects know?? Toilet couldn't have told them about another one?? Lol?

"It's not a phase, DAD!" Is it bad that I find the play funny. I know people are on about how it trivializes MePhone's trauma, which is true, but it's also the story of how he fucked everyone else up. i give them a pass

CURSED!!!

Okay I actually don't think any of these people should be doing this

"What kind of a MONSTER creates a whole PERSON just to make them do his bidding?!"

bot...something tells me you aren't just talking about cobs and meeple here. the use of "them" instead of "him" when supposedly talking about mepad? therapy. I had to look at a leak to be clear on that, as subtitles are frustratingly absent from the upload.

when i saw this thing i had to pause the episode to laugh for 5 minutes straight. hes so fucking ugly. what the hell. i was crying. i need to own one

"You could quit your job, raise a family, quit THAT family, and get a new job!" 😭

sorry mephone abandoned you for a while s2

toilet youre a fucking disaster can we get this guy some professional help PLEASE. CAN WE GET ALL OF THEM THERAPY??

Oh right, leaving the island would have a lot of consequences considering how they're all involved in a high profile murder and not hiding it.

i REALLLYYYYY want to know how these two's first interaction went. this is awful. give me more

okay im going to stop here and write more laterrrrr. would have to break this all up into parts anyways

[falling-star-cygnus]

i started writing this right when my ear infection, my first one, was getting reeeally bad. then i got really into Etoile

anyway, what y'all are ACTUALLY here for:

Pause for Credits [they'll roll without me] <- {ao3 fic link} <- SUMMARY: Lu Guang meets the original Cheng Xiaoshi again, the one this whole loop started for. They have a conversation, maybe a hug, and Lu Guang maybe gets some goddamn comfort

+=+=+

This was wrong.

Sort of- maybe not wrong, but not.. right either. Everything was... bleached in a way. Fuzzy around the edges, to the touch. To the taste.

Overexposed.

Lu Guang ghosts his fingers over their [whose?] counter on his way in, only vaguely taking in the way they seem to mesh with the marble, the way they overlapped just slightly.

Maybe he was just seeing things.

Is this what it felt like to jump into a video? [see, into a video. Why would he jump?]

Everything was.. floaty. Untethered. Like his head was filled with cotton and warm memories and his tongue with familiar flavors of milk tea.

It felt nice. Too nice.

Too nice for someone like Lu Guang. Lu Guang, who clung to things until they bled. [but clung to what-?]

He keeps going, further into this daydream, until he makes it to where they've hung up snapshots of their life [whose life?]. These are fuzzy too, like sketches, but he feels a little like a sketch himself. So- it's fine.

They're even.

Red light seeps out from under their dark room door.

He keeps going.

Farther still around the corner, where the sun starts to leak onto tile. This room is more familiar, real, with its plants and comfy furniture. His hand leaves the wall.

This space wasn't real.

Lu Guang could tell that much, even with the fuzz in his head tempting him to sit down for a moment and drift. Their couch was too clean. Lacked the lingering patches of blood.

Unless...

He doesn't sit, but he does drag his fingers along the yellow cushions.

Perfectly soft, with just a hint of lemon. Warm.

It's instinct that draws him to look at his watch next, for the countdown he knows must be there even if he's not sure why. Only it's not. The numbers are jumbled, warped, into something unintelligible. Surreal.

Tapping at it doesn't help.

He moves on, much like a ghost, to the green chair. This is clean too.

Everything is clean, with no dust or tears or dying leaves or death. Even the tiles and window panes are sparkling.

Lu Guang tries not to dwell on how his reflections have no face.

His fingertips feel raw from trailing along the different materials, only exacerbated by the rough brick he feels up on his way to their stairs. Raw like they could split open and leave a line of blood.

Up and up, the stairs seem to stretch forever. Longer than what should be possible, than what he's used to. What he's counted.

1, 2, 3.. 4, 5, 6, 7...

There were still more to go.

When Lu Guang glances behind him, there's nothing to return to. A void.

He keeps going.

8, 9, 10, 11... 12.. 13... 14..

thump.

His legs don't burn, oddly enough, for having had to repeat their stairs twice. And bit by bit by the fuzz recedes, near completely gone by the time his foot hits solid wood.

My clothes have changed... Lu Guang thinks, almost idly. And they have, for the most part- he's wearing pants now, instead of shorts. Black ankle socks instead of the knee high ones. And this black shirt is his, but the white throw over is...

...huh. He can't remember..

Most of his shirts and sweaters belong to someone else, now that he thinks about it. But who?

The person he lives with, maybe? The reason he keeps referring to all this furniture and warmth as 'theirs' instead of his? Why can't he remember?

Maybe he just hasn't gone far enough yet.

A majority of the fuzz in his mind has cleared, allowing him to recognize that something is still being hidden from him. Maybe multiple somethings. Multiple people.

beep

A girl with choppy black hair.

beep

A model.. blond on top and amber-eyed.

beep

A man with a gun... he didn't like him.

beep

"I was wondering when I'd see you again," someone calls, from somewhere vaguely in front of him, "Lu Guang."

He looks up, hadn't even realized his head had bowed in the first place and there's a boy sitting right there. Right on the bottom bunk, with a smile so kind it stabs at something fragile in Lu Guang's chest. Something guarded.

He knows that smile. He'd know it anywhere.

So how could he have forgetten?

The boy, with silky black hair tugged in possibly the world's smallest ponytail, lowers his phone to beside his bent knee- his other leg dangling off in front of him. Lu Guang's watch reads 00:00.

"Cheng Xiaoshi?"

=+=+=

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?"

Cheng Xiaoshi cradles his catatonic best friend close to his chest, jaw twitching with both anger and venom. Lu Guang was completely out of it, limp as a fucking ragdoll-

"Relax..." their client soothes, her dreamy voice exactly not what he needs right now, "He's completely fine."

Fine!?

"He's unconscious!"

Lu Guang's breaths puff against the underside of his jaw, from where he's got one hand supporting his neck and the other brushing his hair up and away.

They never should've taken this stupid job, Cheng Xiaoshi knew something was off about this lady. Knew and he didn't say anything and now Lu Guang was dying-

Dying from what he's not entirely sure yet, but no one who's healthy's eyes just roll into the back of their head!

"He's resting," the lady corrects, frustratingly collected.

"What did you do to him?" Cheng Xiaoshi asks again, the slowly growing cold weight in his arms the only thing preventing him from lunging at her.

Gentle, he had to be so so gentle.

She must know this too, because all she does is tut softly at him. Amused. He wants to punch her.

"I told you already.. I gave him the gift of closure."

"But what does that mean? Couldn't you just pay us in yuan instead? You know, like a normal client?"

Seriously, who just went around knocking people out as payment!? Okay well- the Triad families did, but that was a more... 'you cross us and you pay' kinda payment.

Lu Guang hadn't done anything except find her stupid cat.

Which, of course, was purring away on her owner's lap without a care in the goddamn world.

"You'll see when he wakes up.. probably."

Something cold weighs down on his chest, like a brick made of ice, one that pressed its blunt corners against the inside of his skin and tried to stretch him out.

Her hand reaches out for his best friend's forehead, like she had any right to touch him.

He tries to smack her hand away- but she apparently can't take a fucking clue because it doesn't deter her. Lu Guang didn't like strangers touching him, didn't even like them looking at him, so goddamn it Cheng Xiaoshi wouldn't let her do it again.

"Oh thank you! Thank you so much," the client sobbed, taking her cat in her arms like a baby.

That was cute. When people treated their animals like humans.

Lu Guang had done that with Elizabeth, in the short time they'd had her. That cat had lived the HIGH life. Well- anyone that got to cuddle Lu lived the high life.

He wanted to cuddle Lu Guang. If that- if that wasn't obvious. Was that obvious? Probably.

The satisifed client spoke up again, after maybe two straight minutes [Lu liked specific numbers] of petting her cat's tummy: "Thank you, truly... let me give you a gift."

"That won't be necessary," his pale friend tried to decline, but the lady was already up in his space. Cheng Xiaoshi rushes forward, even as something in his gut told him he wouldn't make it in time.

And he didn't- because she'd already pressed two fingers to his forehead.

"My gift to you is one of closure," the lady's voice was weird as she said it, layered and echoey. Her fingers drag down Lu Guang's nose and pull away.

He'd dropped like a stone. Granted- Cheng Xiaoshi would never let him hit the floor if he could help it, it was dusty and cold and awful and Lu didn't deserve that, so really he fell more like a damsel but.. you know.

Semantics.

Point is, he couldn't stop her from knocking his best friend out, but he can stop her from touching him further.

So he does. Cheng Xiaoshi pulls Lu Guang into his shoulder with one hand and uses his other to grip her grabby wrist. It's not tight enough to hurt, of course, but it could be. If she didn't back off-

"What do you mean probably," he demands, fraught and angry.

"He doesn't seem like the sharing type, s'all. Like he's got lots of secrets."

Which is an infuriatingly unbothered response from someone who just put the most important person in his life in a coma.

But ...ugh..

She's also not wrong. Lu Guang was not, in fact, the sharing type. And he did have a lot of secrets.

She could've phrased it better though... his mind whispers, like a petulant child needing the last word.

"When he wakes up, you better be gone."

"Fair enough."

+=+=+

"That's me~!"

Cheng Xiaoshi, because who else could all that warmth possibly belong to, looks at Lu Guang like he's something worth seeing. Like Lu Guang hadn't killed him with his mere presence and forced him to relive the loop over and over-

Two warm, calloused palms cup his face. When had he gotten so close?

"You look... so tired." his best friend breathes out, mournfully soft as his thumb brushes the peach soft skin under his muderer's eye.

Lu Guang can barely swallow.

"Let's catch up," Cheng Xiaoshi prompts, gentle gentle gentle.

Too much, too much. toomuchtoomuch-

Numbly, the pale-haired boy can feel himself nodding. This Cheng Xiaoshi, the first- the original- is more filled out than the one he has now. Burdened with smaller scars Lu Guang had learned to avoid.

Softer with love Lu Guang didn't let himself feel. [that was a lie. no matter how much he forced himself, loving this man might as well be a node]

His touch was warm on his face, alive, and constant, and fuzzy, and-

"I'm sorry," he sobs, unbidden and raw and abrupt because he might not get another chance, "I'm so sorry."

As kind as ever, as forgiving as ever- even to the undeserving- the photographer cocks his head to the side. One dark brow rises playfully.

"You always blamed yourself for the weirdest things, Guang Guang," he laughs- laughs- and bumps their foreheads together, "What are you apologizing for, huh? Living?"

What? No- maybe?

If he had died then maybe-

bonk

Lu Guang reels back as far as Cheng Xiaoshi will let him, gripping his sturdy [sturdy- sturdy, not dying] wrists, "Ow-"

"Don't you dare," his best friend snarls at him, thrusting their heads together again- somehow even harder, "Do you hear me, Lu Guang? Don't you dare-"

But how could he not? How many times now had he held Cheng Xiaoshi's dying body now?

How many times did he have to keep doing it?

Why couldn't he understand? If Lu Guang had just died in instead-

"There's not a single timeline where I would've been better off without you!"

"YOU HAD A FAMILY WAITING FOR YOU!" Lu Guang has never been one to raise his voice if he could help it- that had long been beaten out of him- but he needed his friend to understand.

More than anything, he needed Cheng Xiaoshi to understand that he wasn't not alone. That he'll never be alone if the time traveler could help it and-

"AND YOU'RE A PART OF IT!"

Cheng Xiaoshi seems to lose his wind at the same time his words punch it out of his friend's chest, his gentle hands sliding down to to rest upon scrawny shoulders. Around a wartorn upper back.

Until their chests are crushed together, until the time traveler can cling tight enough to bleed.

"Please, Lu Guang.. you're a part of it." he says again, so so softly, "You've always been a part of it."

"How can you say that!?" it was infuriatingly on brand, infuriatingly the man he loved- "Do you even know what I've done-"

There was more blood on his hands than in their couch, than in their floorboards or hair or history. Or veins. Blood he doesn't regret spilling.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't let him wriggle far, but their eyes meet once more. Grey and warm warm brown. A scared animal meets its home.

"There are pieces of myself that I can't bring back."

Pieces of himself he can no longer remember, faces he'll never again be able to identify. His name is not his, but rather something he learns each loop. His age.

His original hair color. His favorite foods. What lies within a good book.

The noose around Cheng Xiaoshi's neck is bright red, and Lu Guang holds tight to the other end.

He clung to things until they bled, until they became one under his nails and until it was time to cut into himself and offer his own meager bones.

"You haven't lost anything," the photographer says firmly, offers without the kindness of refusal.

His hand is no less gentle when it raises Lu Guang's head.

"...what?"

"You haven't lost anything!" Cheng Xiaoshi says again, thumbing away tears the pale-haired boy hadn't realized begun to fall, "Every 'piece' you don't think you have.. I'll always know them!"

"You really are an idiot," bubbles out of his chest hysterically, "what are you-"

"You're the idiot!" he snaps, and Lu Guang's mouth snaps shut, "Suffering alone when I'm right here- when I can help."

Lu Guang finds he can't say anything at all to that- and even if he could, Cheng Xiaoshi barrels on before he has a chance to anyway.

"Your name is Lu Guang," he says, as sure as the sun rising, "You're twenty years old, twenty-one in October. Your hair used to be black, just like mine."

Slowly, the photographer walks them backwards- towards the stairs with the blurry portraits.

Red is not a color to dread anymore, not here, and instead it's reminescent of long nights painting nails and short lived hairstyles. It's the color that ties his heart to Cheng Xiaoshi's, even as this false world splinters around them.

"You hate spicy food," his soulmate says, his laugh wet on the edges, "You always switch our plates when you get it."

Red is the color that spreads over his cheek and ears and nose.

"You love mangas that have sweet endings, where no one dies, and I get why now."

Their time is coming to an end, Lu Guang knows. He can feel the fuzz from before creep back in, and he can feel the warmth of it flicker.

But this time..

"Lu Guang, I can't promise to stay by your side forever.. but I'll stay as long as I can. As long as you want me. I promise." it's not so different than what'd he himself had promised, and that stings at something in his ribs.

This time the warmth on his lips is sweet, as it bids him farewell. It's kind.

And it's goodbye. And maybe it's something new.

Lu Guang doesn't know if he'll ever be able to skirt death's premature clutches, or if he'll ever make it to an eternity of tranquility at his best friend's side.

But he knows, he's learning, that it will be okay anyway.

Because he's not carrying these pieces alone anymore, he's not losing them to cling to Cheng Xiaoshi.

He's intrinsically known. And he is loved.

And maybe he's earned it.

+=+=+

The body Cheng Xiaoshi holds is as cold as a stone.

It's terrifying, frankly, considering it's his best friend and he's still not responsive and he's only getting colder. Shit, shit, shit. Lu Guang hated the cold.

He thinks it has something to do with his very obvious lack of body mass and general... lack of vitamins. Or maybe it was just instinct to hide his bony frame from leering eyes.

Either way, the cold sucked and that's why Cheng Xiaoshi found himself wrapping the pale boy up in his jacket.

And rocking him gently against his chest.

Alright, he didn't want to let go!

The dreamy lady from before had taken off before things had really taken a turn for the worse. Smartly, because if she had kept talking him in circles he thinks he might've claimed one of her teeth as a trophy.

Weren't superpowers supposed to be rare? Why did everybody and their mother seem to have them lately..

'Gift of closure' what the hell did that mean?

Lu Guang was still so cold.. like a corpse. NOT going down that rabbit hole! Nope! Like a normal, cold, alive human!

Heh... heh.. he clears his throat.

Maybe Cheng Xiaoshi should move them to the downstairs couch? It would be more comfortable, and maybe warmer. But also you weren't supposed to move people that had brain injuries, he thought.

Or was that- spine injuries?

Was it all injuries!?

AGH, what was he supposed to do!?

Lu Guang was the one that dealt with this stuff. Or Qiao Ling. But neither of them were here right now.. and his phone was out of reach. So what was the next best step?

Turns out, the next best step is staying on the floor.

His best friend rouses slowly, but he rouses and that's what it's important. Sleepy, kitten grey eyes carefully blink open- around the same time he'd resorted to try rubbing warmth back into catatonic lanky limbs with his bare hands.

"Lu Guang?" and that's all he gets out before his lapful of best friend turns into an armful.

Lanky arms wrap around his shoulders like he's trying to hide from rain- shaking to match as his fluffy white hair tickles his nose.

And what else can he do but hold on just as tight?

"Why are we on the floor?" his best friend mumbles, very characteristically he might add. More in character then say- curling into his arms.

"Uh- because you passed out?"

Did he forget...? DID HE HAVE A HEAD INJURY!?

"Oh." Lu Guang sighs, "Right... you caught me..?"

Cheng Xiaoshi tucks his nose into that soft cloud of hair, and tucks his arms around a skinny back- burdened by too many secrets.

It's amazing, how he can literally feel the tension melt out of him.

"Of course I did."

[multifandomgirlie357]

A "little" about me✨️

// EVERYBODY LOOK AT THIS MADLAD ISTG CAS I LOVE YOU @immastealyourfood >>

(//Moodboard also done by Cas, banner by @arcaneavenger 🫶🫶)

(Check the comments and look for mine for any other important posts that I would've pinned if I could pin more than 1 post. They're numbered)

Don't ask about donations and commissions

Full name: Yekaterina Camilia Romanoff-Barnes

Nicknames: Katya, Kat, Маленький волк (мама and папа are the only ones allowed to call me that, though)

Red Room codename: the Зимняя вдова

Age: 14 (chronologically, but born in 1964 :) (I know, I'm old as hell))

Birthday: November 30th

Gender and pronouns: demigirl, she/her/hers/they/them/theirs

(//)Sexuality: asexual (or somewhere under the umbrella lol), apparently bi curious now??????

Backstory:

FAMILY

Mother: @natt-romanoff-barnes

Father: @official-buckybarnes

Siblings:

• @moon-barnes

• @little-penn-penn-barnes

• @fox-barnes

• @not-dead-apparently

• @thescarleteevee

MULTIVERSAL FAMILY:

• @lukyan-james-barnes (brother)

• @natalia-reflecting (adoptive mom)

PETS: @official-alpinebarnes (//and a dog and pigeons irl)

BESTIE(S):

• @lizziewiththeapples

• @itzzkaylaaa

• @foxherder

• @r1c3c4kesx27 / @l-xwx-z (they're the same person lol)

• @ladybugfandomfantasy

• @moon-x0

• @l0uis-e

• @m3vl0vesu

• @v3ggyqu33n

• @hydra-failure

• @artsty33

APPEARANCE

Height: 167cm (5'5ft) (//172cm irl)

Skin: Caucasian

Eyes: somewhere between light blue and green (//they deadass change colour based on the angle of the light)

Hair: dark brown

Appearance in original reality and now:

(//)LANGUAGES:

•Slovak (and Russian and most slavic languages 'cause almost all of them sound almost the same ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

•English

•German

•Still learning more

(//)LIKES: Movies, food, Kofola (//best drink ever//), Harry Potter (but man, FUCK jk rowling), Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss, the Hunger Games, music, books, writing, those diamond painting thingies where you stick little stones to their place, escape rooms, etc.

(//)DISLIKES: Homophobes, transphobes, misogynists, racists, kidzbop songs (I don't even know how to spell it), my classmates (honestly, fuck you guys (//especially Jared, Patrick and Thomas)//), school in general, politics, Walker and Zemo (fuck you guys too) etc.

(//)HOBBIES: Writing, drawing, dancing, staring into the void instead of writing, letting my dogs bully me, doing the diamond painting thingies, watching movies, etc.

(//)FEARS: Clowns, John Walkers face (//he looks like Carl from 'UP' in the helmet 💀 (no hate to the actor tho)), the dark, heights

(//)DISABILITIES OR DISORDERS: None, but I'm pretty sure I have ADHD because it would be too suspicious if I didn't with what I do sometimes lol

(//)BE RESPECTFUL TO EVERYONE ON THIS ACCOUNT OR YOU'RE PROBABLY GONNA GET BLOCKED <3

//This is a safe space for all the closeted and uncloseted (is that even a word?) peeps, disabled or POC peeps, peeps who should probably be writing rn but aren't *cough cough*, and pretty much everyone for as long as you're nice and respectful (unless you're my classmates Jared and Thomas).

//Please try not to DM me if we haven't interacted before in reblogs, it makes me anxious 🫶

//SIDE BLOG:

@kats-requested-stuff

//I'm also a Christian, I just don't feel like fitting it somewhere in the post anymore