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solardrop · 3 months

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mean drunk.

aaron hotchner x fem!reader.

summary: after a bau night on the town your boyfriend tries to get you to admit to being mean when you drink. But he can't seem to keep his hands to himself either... (or hotch says you're a mean drunk and you say 'nuh uh") tags: smut NSFW 18+ alcohol use. dubious consent because both parties are drunk but 'consenting'. oral m/f receiving. unprotected p in v. spitting. literally like 2 seconds of anal. word count: ~2.6k a/n: be nice to me you aren't allowed to be mean this is my first time writing a fic since the finnick odair x oc fic i posted on ff.net when I was like 12 LMAO. first smut in general too so. yeah. all divider creds. to @cafekitsune

The two of you stumbled into the entryway of Hotch's bedroom with your faces all but glued together. Thick hands grasped at the small patch of skin revealed as your shirt rode up your back.

You lean into his chest and grips a handful of your breast in his hand appreciatively before walking you backwards to the plush comfort of his bed. Suddenly, he pulls away from you completely and boyishly smiles down at you perched on the edge of his bed.

His lips and neck are covered in a glittery brown sheen from your lip gloss. Black hair spiking in unnatural directions. The powder blue dress shirt he wore haphazardly wrinkled from your efforts to untuck the crisp fabric from his now tightening dress pant. You could eat him from the top down. But he was just standing there. Smiling at you instead of stripping.

"Aaron, I swear if you dont fucking touch me I'll kill you-"

He giggles as he unbuttons his shirt, "Very mean drunk."

A successful case led the entire team to a night of drinks at O'Keefe's. Penelope was all but pouring shots down everyone's throats; she somehow even managed to get Hotch to down a few extra glasses of scotch than his typical. Unsurprisingly the result was everyone being absolutely sloshed. Everyone was giggly and free, playing stupid drinking games before the topic of 'drunk personalities' came to the table.

JJ declared herself a sleepy drunk, while Derek, Garcia, and Emily all admitted to being more flirty. Spencer and David started going back and forth about the psychological implications of the human personality traits while intoxicated. So their categorization as chatty drunks went without saying. You were starting to agree with JJ on being sleepy when your annoying man decided to cut you off and say you were mean when drunk.

Sure, liquid courage did loosen your tongue a bit. You were guilty of causing few hurt feelings after a night out. And maybe Aaron had to whisk you away from a few bar fights with people you couldn't take without your handgun. But you were not a mean drunk!

An uncharacteristic back and forth bounces between you for the remainder of the night. Only ceasing when he smashes his lips against yours in the taxi home.

His calloused hands flip you around roughly. Propping your hips up towards his face. Your face heats as he presses his face into your wetness, inhaling deeply and moaning at the scent of you.

"So pretty.." He spreads your lips apart with his thumbs, the moisture there almost holding them together.

Your head was spinning, now from more than just the alcohol. The position was just embarrassing. You were almost completely upside down and your back arched shamelessly. Hell, you couldn't even see Aaron's pretty face like this. His strong thighs and thickening length weren't bad to look at either but you wanted to see him.

you crane your neck around to tell him as much when he closes his lips around your clit and sucks greedily.

"Aar-" you gasp.

You squirm in the grasp he has on your hips. He tightens his hands around you, preventing your from escape. the warmth of his lips travel up from your nub to lick a few long stripes against your slit.

"Oh fuck off-" you start.

He was going to kill you like this. Your face and neck were too hot, your back was starting to ache. The alcohol and your arousal swirling your mind into a fog. Hotch continues his attack on your sex. Sucking and licking with whatever intensity he pleased. His words slur together as he praises you. The sound so intelligible you're convinced that they're more for himself than you.

When the warmth of his tongue prods at your entrance, you fall forward. The wiry hairs along his thigh press into your cheek as your face is squished there. The invasion has you moaning and wailing, bucking your hips closer to him now; begging for him to delve deeper. Your desperation must amuse him because you feel a short puff of air and the semblance of a smile against you. What an absolute drunken ass.

With a renewed burst of energy, you lean over without warning and suck the head of his length into your mouth. The strong, salty flavor of him spreads along your tongue as you circle the muscle around his tip.

"Fucking hell-" he rips his mouth from you and yelps out.

He jerks at your stimulation. His hips thrust into your mouth reflexively, the erratic movement causing his shaft to slip deeper into your mouth. You allow it, pressing your face closer and closer to him until the coarse patch of curls above his length pressed against your chin.

He's always been so thick. But being held like this, he felt even heavier and stiffer in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks to pull off of him almost completely, the remaining glitter on your lips streaking up his shaft, before quickly pressing yourself down to the hilt. His tip taps against the back of your throat, you welcome the intrusion and swallow around him.

He stutters your name out, the syllables melting together as you bob your head along him. You giggle at his lack of articulation. The mean, pristine, crime-fighting machine Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner. Reduced to nothing but a gasping mess from a moment in your mouth and a few glasses of whiskey. A hum vibrates from your chest when you pull of to stroke him with a taunt. A string of saliva still connecting your lips to his swollen pink tip.

"See honey? if I was such a meanie drunk," a bead of precum weeps from his slip, you tongue darts out to collect it, "I would take such good care of you like this. Right?"

You slip back down to bask in your self-proclaimed victory. Savoring the heady taste of him before Aaron abruptly drives two thick fingers into you.

Your eyes snap open and the sound that rips from your throat reverberates around the room, even muffled by the length of him. He picks up a rapid pace. The wet sounds of your pleasure winding you up even further than you thought possible. His girth slips with a pop. Moaninh against his calf as your body slides from its arched position to lay almost flat against his outstretched legs.

"Aar- '' you cry. "Aar this is so- Baby I- I don't think I can-"

You jump as he spits on your lips and grinds a thumb into your nub. As if you needed to be any slicker. The tight circles he makes are punishing. His saliva cooling against your folds doing little to waver the heat building between your legs. His fingers slam into you over and over, sometimes curling down and brushing that soft, sweet spot deep inside you.

"Uh uh. The gorgeous girl I know can do anything," he presses an additional finger into you, "isn't that right?"

You buck your hips back into him, the praise sending a shock to your core. You chance a glance over your shoulder at him, and you have to screw your eyes shut again and groan at the sight. The entire lower half of his face was covered in you. The bottom lip tucked between his lips shiny, red, and swollen. His eyes were low, hyperfocused on the movement of his hands between your legs. Pale face still red from the night of festivities. He looked absolutely entranced. Completely pleased himself and they way he was wrecking you.

"Aaron, Please just-" He wickedly pinches your clit between his thumb and forefinger and you squeal.

"Hm? That attitude" he says as he pinches you again.

"Fuck-"

"See?" Another pinch. " I told you, you're a mean drunk," he does it again.

Tears prickle in your eyes, sweat along your forehead clinging your curls to your warm skin. You thrash and cry as he continues his onslaught. He was sitting beneath you, pushing and twisting and gripping your body in any way he wanted while you cried and you were the mean drunk?

You try to slip away from him, the pleasure too much, yet not enough to send you over the edge. But he slips his fingers out of you to grab you by the hips, spreading the globes of ass apart to spit on you again.

Except this time the cold shock landed right on the pucker of your asshole.

"Aaron!" you whimper

"If only my baby was nicer to me," he has the nerve to sigh wistfully, "I'm so damn hard, if she asked me politely I'd fuck her so good she'd lose it..."

He rubbed his thumb over your hole, not pushing in, but applying enough pressure to have you keening in pleasure.

He sighs again, completely ignoring your pants and cries. "But I think I can finish without touching just like this, hm? Maybe in 30? An hour?"

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

If you had a lick of sense left in your brain right now you'd realize he was fucking with you. You'd recognize his words and the creeping smile on his face as the bullshit they were. But right now all your muddled mind was registering was the danger of being held shaking and pained for an hour without release. You would never finish like this, you couldn't. You needed to look into his eyes, feel his lips graze along your face as you came. You wouldn't get that, not like this, you'd be stuck like this.

"Pleaseplease Aaron- Aar- fuck. Please I need you, Aar. Please-"

He breathes out a laugh. Finally granting you mercy from his wicked hands. He grunts a little at the effort of pulling himself up around you, kissing your shoulder as his face finally nears yours.

"I thought you'd never ask" he smiles, "Where do you want me gorgeous?"

You twist to move on your back, and Hotch shifts to allow you more space. You face him for the first time in a while, and your heat clenches almost automatically when his eyes meet yours.

It was fucking sick how he had the nerve to call you gorgeous when he looked so positively delicious himself. His lids were still low and his cheeks were still tinged pink. But now you had a true view of the slick coating his mouth and chin. A crooked smile beamed off his face, smile lines deepening at the gesture.

"Like this," You hold his face in your palms, pulling him down to peck on the lips quickly, "I want to see you, please."

"Anything you want, legs up for me." He playfully taps his hand on the side of your ass. Your legs shoot up quickly, and his eyes crinkle with laughter at your desperation when he props your knees on his shoulders.

He presses his lips to yours again before shifting all his weight to one arm, the muscle there flexing while he reaches down to grip himself with his free hand.

He runs the tip of his length along your folds, every brush causing you to twitch with sensitivity. Special attention is given to your already swollen clit, nudging his hips forward to swipe against the delicate bundle of nerves. He pulls away and slots his lips above yours to kiss you fully.

You eagerly press yourself closer to him, deepening the kiss. His tongue presses into your mouth and you groan when the taste of your wetness mingles with the familiar bite of the dark liquor on his tongue.

He notches himself at your entrance, massaging but still failing to push inside of you. A whine bubbled from the back of your throat.

"Baby, I promise I'm already wet enou- Oh!" your murmuring is cut short by Aaron thrusting into you all at once.

He doesn't even move before your wretched body betrays you. the abrupt force and fullness pushing a white-hot pleasure throughout your entire being. Your thighs beg to snap shut, but the spread of your knees on his shoulders denies them. Your walls lock around him in a vice, causing him to grunt above you. You're saying something, probably some warbled nonsense, but you can't even hear yourself above the heartbeat in your ears.

Aaron presses his face into the crook of your neck as you come down from your high. Whispering your name and 'i love you', 'so beautiful's into your skin.

The fluttering of your core begins to slow when he pulls almost completely out of you, only the head remaining within your warmth. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly, when your breath catches.

"We're not done here are we? Best one of two?" He doesn't wait for an answer before pushing into you, this time much slower.

you mewl at the firm stretch of him. Your hands reach up to grip the back of his neck, pressing his forehead to your own. Your eyes bounce around his features, burning each one into every empty space in your mind like you could ever forget. The precious mole you loved to kiss on his cheek. The unruly hairs sticking up on his temples. His pretty jet-black lashes flutterinh as he struggles to keep his eyes open for you.

His pace intensifies as he gets closer to his own climax, ramming into you. Every push tickles your clit with the thatch of curls that crown his shaft.

"Such a good girl for me," he tries to hold back a moan causing him to stutter, " Y-you have one more in you I know it."

The rough sensation of his calloused hands running up your side makes you shiver. You feel it again as he continues to bully his way through your center, the intense warmth pooling in your toes before creeping upwards. You nod your head at him, begging him to keep going, go faster, fuck into you deeper, love you fully. He complies with every soft cry, kissing and biting at your jaw as he forces you over into your second orgasm.

You were almost completely gone for this one. Screaming into Aaron's mouth as he continues to chase his own release using your body. Your body shakes and you grip his biceps until the crescent marks of your fingernails are guaranteed to become a permanent fixture on his body.

The breathless whimpering in your ear is what helps slowly bring you back down from your own world. You could tell he was close, his eyes screwing shut and his hips bucking into you out of pace every few beats. Using the last of your strength you push your hips up to meet his thrusts, fucking him back. You press a kiss on his good ear.

"You treat me so well Honey," you murmur, "Come for me, you're so, so good to me, let me have you"

You suck the lobe of his ear into your mouth and bite down. He punches into you with one final thrust before you feel him twitch, bursts of his warm release spurting deeply inside you. He gasps your name out like a prayer as he comes down.

Normailly his hardness slipping out of you after a session would cause you to cringe, but right now you were so fucking tired you barely even took note of the sensation. Clearly he was just as out of it as he plopped unceremoniously next to you in silence instead of his normal bossy demands for you to get up and pee after he wore you out. Before you even realize it both of you are drifting off into the best sleep you've had in a while.

This had to be the worst sleep Aaron's had in a while. His mouth was dry, his head pounding, and his skin felt parched and scratchy despite the sweat that slicked off him. Not to mention the very obvious lack of clothes he was sporting under his bed sheet.

Before he could grab his phone to send Strauss a termination request form for Garcia (the one he kept saved in his files, yes for moments just like this) you burst into the bedroom and flip the bright lights on. He groans as the rays stab him in the back of the head. You giggle, his pain clearly amusing to you. You saunter over, place a glass of water on the nightstand and press a kiss to his beating forehead.

"I was wrong, you aren't a mean drunk. You're just mean." he sighs.

You throw your head back in glee

"I'm fine with being the mean drunk," you shrug, "at least we know for sure you're the horny drunk."

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fic #mine

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sourcherryandsprinkles · 9 months

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Coriolanus x commander's daughter!! I've never seen anyone writing this but that would be so hot and forbidden

Request: Getting manhandled by peacekeeper!Coryo or getting fucked while he's in uniform or both YES PLEASE

Note: Birthdays should be spent doing the things you like...so I finished this one today. Enjoy!!

Warnings: 18+, uniform kink, semi-public fingering + oral (f receiving), forbidden relationship,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Coriolanus Snow made a lot of stupid choices in his eighteen years of living, but having an affair with his commander’s daughter took the cake. The clandestine romance was risky and could, at extreme extent, get him executed for inappropriate conduct, but the fire that surged through your whole body every time you were together was addicting.

The first time you saw him, you were searching around for your father, having a message to deliver to him in person from the head commander. You kept your head high and stayed on your guard as you walked through the heap of peacekeepers in training, not wanting to look like a lost puppy among them.

You could usually find your way around the base, but today was scorching hot, so you decided to look for someone who would be kind enough to help you get to him.

A row of younger soldiers caught your eye. They were doing push-ups in their singlets, beads of sweat dripping down the side of their faces. As you were trying to pick which shaved head you were going to ask help from, one of them stood out near the end of the line.

Walking up to him, you couldn't help but silently admire the way his arms would flex as he continued the push-ups. Damn. Your stomach clenched at the sight.

‘’Excuse me?’’ You cleared your throat and he looked up, surprising you with the prettiest pair of blue eyes. ‘’Could you help me find Commander Hoff? I have something to deliver to him from the head Commander.’’

The blond cocked an eyebrow, uncertain if he should be helping you. It was his first time seeing you on the base. ‘’And you are to him..?” he prompted, staring you down as his mind embarked a sinful roller-coaster of thoughts.

‘’His daughter.’’

Although well aware of the dangers, Coriolanus couldn’t stop seeing you. And neither could you. You were addicted to his mouth and the way he could lift you up with ease and fuck you while standing, how his toned chest felt under your palms and attractive he looked in his blue uniform.

After you bid your parents goodnight, you changed out of your day clothes and ventured to where you knew all peacekeepers spent their nights at. You didn’t know for sure that Coriolanus was at the Hob, but the barracks were all empty and he didn't have many friends in District 12 besides Sejanus, so it seemed likely he would be there.

It didn’t take long for him to notice you in the bar, your dress brighter in color and certainly shorter than the locals. Your eyes met across the room for a brief moment, then you disappeared through the backrooms, confident that Coriolanus would follow suit.

You could hear his boots on the floors, slowly catching up to you. Your heart quickened its pace behind your chest, excitement building.

It wasn’t until you made it outside that he called you out. ‘’What are you doing here, Miss. Hoff?’’ he asked, his voice echoing in the dark alley.

Your feet came to a stop.

Coriolanus stepped forward, slowly closing the distance between you. ‘’The Commander wouldn’t want his darling daughter in a place like this.’’ Your back was now pressed against his front, an agreeable warmth in contrast to the night air. Coriolanus’s mouth moved to your ear. ‘’A place full of men who would like nothing more than dipping it in your tight cunt.’’

His words should have disgusted you, but they were speaking the truth. These men inside were drinking more than they should and no one was really stepping up for the women they were harassing. With the skirt of your dress hitting above your knee, some could associate it as provocative or inviting.

You turned to face him, biting your bottom lip when you noticed his uniform button up partially undone, revealing a glimpse of his white undershirt.

‘’I shall accompany you back to the base.’’ Coriolanus grabbed you by the arm, but you protested.

He was much stronger than you, so he easily grabbed both of your wrists with a hard squeeze and pinned you against the closest brick wall. You gasped, then quickly realized what game he was playing and you’d be damned if you didn’t play along.

‘’Are you going to arrest me, Mr. Peacekeeper?’’

Coriolanus’s grip on your wrists tightened, a stern command following. ‘’No talking.’’

You could feel your own wetness starting to pool between your legs, aroused by the unfolding situation. The game. The play of power.

His other hand moved from your waist to your hip, slipping underneath the fabric of your dress. He went over the curve of your ass before venturing between your legs to rub you over your panties, but he was met with a surprise. Coriolanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘’No panties tonight?’’

‘’I was hoping to run into you.’’

‘’Naughty girl.’’ His fingers started moving over your folds, coaxing a needy moan from you.

Your jaw dropped as he pushed two long fingers in, making you clench around them. Coriolanus did a scissor motion, then curled them inside, eliciting another moan. ‘’Fuck me.’’

Coriolanus shook his head. ‘’Sorry, darling. I don’t take any commands from civils.’’

‘’Please.’’

You could feel his smug smile behind your neck as the words left your tongue. ‘’What would your daddy say if he knew what his little girl was begging me to do to her?’’ Coriolanus pushed his fingers deeper, making you mewl, so needy for him.

He withdrew his fingers, letting you assume he was going to unbuckle his pants and finally take you, but Coriolanus turned you around and sank to his knees in front of you. The dirt on the ground will dirty his uniform, but he didn’t seem to care. Coriolanus looked up at you, then hooked your leg over his shoulder, leaning forward to kiss the inside of your knee.

You slipped a groan of approval when his mouth got closer to where you wanted him. Then, his tongue ran between your folds, circling your clit slowly. A loud, desperate moan echoed around the dark alley. Coriolanus pinched your thigh, a silent reminder to be quiet. He loved when you were loud, but the Hob was full of peacekeepers. If anyone were to see you together, Coriolanus would be in trouble.

His huge hands sank into your ass, squeezing at the same time he sucked your clit into his mouth. You reached to grab onto something, to keep you from being so loud, but found nothing other than Coriolanus’s buzzed head.

‘’Coryo…’’ you whimpered.

In the matter of minutes, he had turned you into a whimpering mess. Back arching away from the wall, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

One of his hands moved from my ass, and when you looked down, a pair of blue eyes was staring back at you. They stay burning into you, watching you closely as two of his fingers slide into you, finding that one perfect spot in less time than you need to say his name.

His pace increased as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, perfectly coordinated with his tongue. If the wall wasn’t holding you up, you would have toppled over by now. The feeling kept building, the heel of your shoe digging into the hard muscles of his back as you desperately tried to move your hips to ride his fingers.

You were wound so impossibly tight you couldn’t breathe. ‘’Coryo, I’m going to cu—’’

You didn’t even get the words out as every part of you spasmed, everything tingling and throbbing as you tightened around him. Below you, Coriolanus moaned, the taste of you welcomed on his tongue.

When he removed his fingers and mouth, he leaned back so he could look up at you properly. He grinned like a devil, his lips glistening with your juices as he sucked his fingers into his mouth.

—

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#coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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dark-fics-4-you · 8 months

Text

Keeping the Peace

credit to @jadiwrites for helping write the blowjob scene

dark!Peacekeeper!Coriolanus Snow x f!Reader with a side of dark!Sejanus Plinth (only one scene for Sejanus)

Warnings: smut, noncon (dead dove do not eat), forced sex, forced oral (m!recieving), reader is held up at gunpoint, unprotected sex, degradation, slight spit kink, kidnapping, violence, misogyny, free use themes, abuse of power, power imbalance

The sky over district 12 was cloudy and grey the first time you ever took notice of Coriolanus Snow.

Growing up in the aftermath of the districts’ rebellion meant that you had barely known a life that wasn’t ruled by Peacekeeping grunts. Your memories before then were murky, you could remember a difficult life without many pleasures or much to eat, followed by periods of war, when food was even harder to come by.

You could remember countless faceless Peacekeepers blurring together, all of them looked the same to you. Just a bunch of capitol brutes who struck fear into the heart and souls of everyone in your district, yourself included. You had learned at a young age to never talk to, or talk back to, a Peacekeeper.

Even making eye contact with a Peacekeeper was never a good idea, any facial expression that implied dissent could be punished. After all, who would question the word of a Peacekeeper over some district scum, as they often liked to call you.

However, as you made your way across the market, trading some leather for food and purchasing several jugs of water and any medicine you could, you couldn’t shake the burning feeling that you were being watched, maybe even followed.

You glanced around the crowded market, trying to catch the eye of whoever might be watching you, but you couldn’t figure it out. You had convinced yourself that you had to be paranoid, that you were just working yourself up over nothing, when you finally spotted him.

He was standing several yards away from you, and despite the many people in the busy market, his cold, blue eyes were trained on you. This Peacekeeper seemed on edge, like he was hoping for a fight to break out just so he could break it apart.

You felt a shiver pass through your body, averting your eyes immediately to avoid any suspicions from falling on to you.

It had to be a coincidence, you catching him staring at you once didn’t mean anything really, but something about the look in his eyes made you feel profoundly anxious for reasons you couldn’t identify.

You spent the entire walk to your house glancing over your shoulder to make sure you weren’t being followed, and when you finally got to your house and closed the door behind you, even the safe walls of your home couldn’t calm your nerves for hours.

The second time that you took notice of Coriolanus Snow was a week after the incident in the market, but this time he got much closer to you.

You had been on a nighttime walk in the woods, trying to clear your head after the stressful shift you had just worked at the bar.

Your boss had yelled at your several times, threatening to cut your already measly pay if you messed up another order, but it wasn’t your fault that all the men who came into the bar harassed you so much that you could hardly remember if a certain order of beers went to the table where the red-faced pigs called you a whore or to the table of rowdy men that kept smacking your ass every time you walked by.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t quit. You and your family were barely surviving as it was, your mother too ill to work and your brother was too young.

You were so consumed in thought that you didn’t hear the rustling of the branches nearby.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be out here this late, young lady.”

You spun around, fear shooting through your body when you came face to face with a familiar pair of blue eyes.

The peacekeeper towered over you, and your heart skipped a beat when he took a step closer. His helmet was gone now, allowing you a glimpse at his blond buzz cut.

“Don’t you know there’s a curfew right now? You could get into serious trouble if I reported you to my superiors.” The man’s voice was low and threatening, his eyes sharp and determined.

“I’m sorry,” you replied quietly, trying to make yourself sound as non-argumentative as possible. Fear was pulsing through your veins. You had heard about the kind of things Peacekeepers would do to the districters that pissed them off, and you were terrified of something bad happening to you when you knew no one else could take care of your family.

“I just wanted to take a walk. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

He took a step closer and your fear rooted you in place. Coriolanus studied you for a moment, his lips twitching into a scowl.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N Y/L/N, sir.” Your heart was hammering in your chest. “Am I in trouble?”

“Depends, Y/N. Turn around and put your hands on that tree.”

“What?” Your eyes widened before nervously glancing around. You were still a 10 minute walk from the town, and 15 from your house. An area this remote was not one anyone would be visiting for hours. There was no one else around this late at night, and the cool breeze now gave you chills.

“Did I stutter?” He took another step towards you, crowding your space, and you backed away from him in fear. You didn’t miss the way that his hand came to rest on the pistol at his hip. “I said, turn around and lean against that tree, I need to search you for counterfeit goods.”

You had been searched by Peacekeepers before, but this was different. Before, it had always occurred in the market or the main square, but now you found yourself all alone in the dark, completely at the mercy of this stranger who held absolute power and authority above you.

You took a breath to calm yourself, trying to tell yourself that you were fine. That he was just going to search you and then let you leave. You turned your back to him and placed your hands on the large tree in front of you.

When he moved closer to you, chest practically pressing to your back before he had begun to search you, you took in a sharp breath. Why was he so close to you? Had the Peacekeepers always conducted their searches like this?

His large hands came to your waist, patting around the fabric of your clothes, circling your waist before returning to your sides. They trailed lower, grabbing at the cloth of your skirt before passing over your hips. His hands ghosted over your ass for just a moment before moving to your legs. It was so quick you weren’t even sure if it had actually happened or if you imagined it.

When he was satisfied with checking your lower body, his hands returned to your waist, climbing up the sides of your ribcage.

You yelped in surprise when you felt his large hands cover your chest, roughly squeezing your tits as he held his body close to you. This time, you felt no doubt at all about whether he knew he was doing. You couldn’t move, terrified of what he might do if you tried to break away from him.

You skin crawled when his lips pressed to your neck, smooth voice whispering into your ear, “just need to be thorough.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, giving your breasts one final pinch before pushing you against the tree and stepping back.

You spun around to look at him, back pressed to the rough bark and eyes fearful.

He looked amused as he stared down his nose at you and you were both quiet for a few moments before he spoke again.

“Don’t let me catch you breaking curfew again, Miss Y/L/N.” His voice was cold and hard. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and decide to write you up.”

You shuddered at what it might mean if he caught you again, but you didn’t have time to think about it, because when he stepped aside to let you past him, you ran the entire way home, bolting all of the doors when you got there.

You came to learn through passing that his name was Coriolanus Snow. Several of your friends had experienced run ins with him before, but nothing like what had happened to you.

After the night that he searched you in the woods, you started to notice him everywhere. He must have figured out your daily and weekly schedule, because even though you had started to try avoiding him, he was always at the market when you went shopping and you found that he had been stationed outside of the bar you worked at every night you were on the schedule.

You grew to expect the feeling of his eyes following you everywhere, although that didn’t mean it unnerved you any less.

One night, completely exhausted from your shift, you exited the bar in a hurry, forgetting to do your usual sweep to scan for Coriolanus lurking around.

Wanting to take the shortest route possible, you opted to head through the dimly lit alleyway behind the bar.

“Get any good tips tonight, Y/N?” The voice from behind washed over you like a bucket of cold water.

You turned to see Coriolanus leering above you, blocking the way you had came, a triumphant smirk plastered on his face. The sounds of the bar were muffled but still loud and raucous, although the only thing you could hear was your heart beating quickly in your chest.

You cleared your throat, trying to hide the shakiness in your voice, “No, not really.”

“Mm, tough night?” He asked, voice lighter now, but it didn’t do anything to make you feel better.

“Every night is here,” you responded, nodding your head to the bar behind you.

“I bet,” the taller man answered, inching closer to you as he did. “Why don’t you pull out your wallet, sweetheart?” Although it was phrased more like a statement than a question.

“My wallet?” You repeated nervously, reaching for your purse slowly.

He grinned as he snatched the bag from your hands and started to rifle through it. “I mean, you said you didn’t make any good tips tonight, so I figured you wouldn’t miss ‘em.”

“But I need that money!” You huffed with frustration. “My Ma’s sick! She needs medicine all the time.”

Coriolanus chucked darkly, starting to grow annoyed, “You think I give a fuck about whether your Ma lives or dies?” He grabbed the handful of cash that you had been saving up for weeks and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Hmm, seems like a lot of money, Y/N. I wonder how a simple waitress could have made so much?”

“That’s my money I’ve been saving! I told you, it’s for my Ma, I’m just trying to get her better treatments, please!” You pleaded with him, tears beginning to form at your waterline.

He just shook his head, tsk-ing like he was disappointed in you. “First you broke curfew, and now this, Y/N? You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight. I’m taking this money and letting you off with another warning. Unless of course, you wanna give me a reason to search you again.”

Coriolanus towered above you, drinking you in with amused eyes and enjoying the frustration written all over your face, “How does that sound?”

You bit your tongue, rage boiling inside you, “fine,” you answered through gritted teeth.

He threw your now empty purse at you, before moving to let you pass. As you walked by him, however, his hand shot out to roughly slap your ass, and you could still hear his chuckles echoing off the walls as you ran out of the alley with tear stained eyes.

Two days after that incident, you returned home from a double shift at the bar to madness. You needed to make up for the money that Coriolanus had taken from you somehow, and now you were working yourself to the bone to try to cover for the unexpected loss.

You were shocked to find the place swarming with Peacekeepers who were tearing your home apart. You entered slowly, not wanting any trouble from them, but needing to check on your ma and little brother.

“What’s going on?” You demanded of one of the Peacekeepers, but you got no answers.

Well, not until an all too familiar face emerged from your room with something clutched in his hand. His piercing blue eyes found you immediately, but his face remained hardened. Your mouth dropped in surprise when you realized what he was holding.

“This room is clear,” he announced loudly, not breaking his eye contact as you watched him stuff a pair of your panties into his pocket.

A horrible chill passed through your body and you felt like you could be sick. Why of all people was he choosing to target you? What had you ever done to him to warrant any of this?

Your brother began to cry when they entered his room, and you hugged him tight, brushing your fingers through his hair and quietly singing a lullaby to calm him. You nervously glanced at your mother, who was seated in the kitchen with you.

“Y/N Y/L/N?”

Your head snapped to Coriolanus, who gestured for you to come over to him. You pressed a kiss to your brother’s head before standing and crossing over to him, making sure you kept your distance.

“What do you want, Coriolanus?” You hissed quietly, trying not to draw the attention of the other Peacekeepers.

“Got some reports of possible rebel activity taking place here. We have to check out any tips we get.” His cool response made you want to scream. You knew that he was lying through his teeth, the only people who even came to your home were you, your brother, and your Ma.

“You and I both know that’s not true!” You hopelessly pleaded with him. “Please, can’t you leave my family alone? It’s hard enough for them as is.”

He chuckled at your desperation, clearly pleased with the panicked response he was receiving, before barking at the men in your brother’s room to get out.

When he pushed you into the doorway of your brother’s room, your ma and brother cried out in protest, but Coriolanus yelled at them to shut the fuck up before he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Maybe you didn’t learn your lesson the first two times. And since the other Peacekeepers haven’t gotten the chance, I think I should search you myself.” He pushed you up against the wall that you were facing, roughly pressing your cheek to it while the hand at the back of your neck clenched down.

This time he didn’t even pretend to properly search you, the hand at your neck immediately clamping over your mouth to muffle your protests, while the other groped your chest, plucking at your tits while you struggled in his grasp. He slid his hand under your shirt and bra this time, sighing into your ear when he finally squeezed the soft, tender skin of your breast.

“You’re so beautiful, y’know that, Y/N?” He whispered, and you wanted to be sick at the feeling of his fingers tweaking your hardening nipple. “With a little make up and some better clothes, you’d fit right in with the rich capital girls.”

A tear escaped, trailing down your cheek and you blinked more away. You felt impossibly trapped, frozen in fear and trembling in his arms. His hands came to your hips, pulling you closer and holding you to him as he rubbed his hard on against your ass.

His lips were close to your ear, “if you want to protect your family, you need to stop trying to avoid me.”

“Fuck you,” you whispered, against your better judgment.

At this he chuckled, and one of his hands left your hips, grabbing onto your chin, forcing your head to the side and holding you still as his lips smothered yours with a rough kiss.

And then he backed off, walking out of the room before he called off the other men.

You were still in shock as you caught your breath, staring at the space he was just occupying as you tried to collect your head.

Lips still burning from his kiss, you shuddered as you thought about what you might need to do to keep your ma and brother safe from him.

After they had all filed out and you took a moment to adjust your clothes, you finally left your brother’s room and took in the wreckage they had left behind. The house was trashed, furniture knocked over and papers scattered about everywhere.

Your room was the worst of all though, everything had been pulled out of the drawers and piled on the floor, your mattress was up against the wall, your desk had been toppled over, leaving anything on top of it to scatter across your room, and they had shattered your mirror, leaving a jagged piece reflecting your misery back at you as you stood in the door.

Your ma was a mess, crying and hugging you and your brother for an hour afterwards, repeatedly questioning out loud why they would do this to your family.

Unfortunately, the answer was all too plain to you now, although you were still too freighted to fully admit it to yourself.

For whatever reason, Coriolanus Snow had decided to stake his claim on you, and based on your previous interactions with him, you knew that it was only a matter of time before he would take what he wanted.

For a week, you were terrified to leave your house alone, always calling on your friends to ask them to walk with you too and from work or the market.

In those days, Coriolanus’ presence always weighed heavy on you, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. Even having your friends nearby couldn’t stave off the fear that clutched your heart when you noticed Coriolanus stalking behind your group, always a good deal of distance away, but you knew that he made himself visible to you on purpose.

The feeling of safety became something of the past. Everywhere that you went, he was there, although he hadn’t spoken to you since he and his other Peacekeeping brutes tore your home apart. But that didn’t make him any less terrifying.

Even your house, which had felt secure and safe for so long was no longer sacred. It had taken days to clean up the place, and much of your furniture had been broken in the frenzy.

After Coriolanus had assaulted you in your home, you bartered with some friends to acquire a large lock to place on the front door of the house, but it still didn’t provide much protection when the peacekeepers could just break the door down.

Unfortunately for you, having that lock also didn’t do you any good if you forgot to use it.

After waving goodbye to your friend as you walked up to your door after a late night shift, you pulled out your key and turned the lock, leaving it hanging on the door and closing it behind you.

The first thing that you noticed when you stepped inside was how unusually quiet it was. Usually your brother would be at the door to greet you, even at this late hour, but he wasn’t there this time, and when you called out for your ma and brother, you only heard silence in response. Where were they?

Alarm bells started ringing in your head as you ventured further, and you had just stepped into the doorway of your room when you heard a heavy click and felt cold steel press against the back of your head.

You froze in place, staring ahead into the broken mirror across from you that confirmed who was behind the trigger.

Your eyes locked in the mirror, the cold resolve set in his icy blue gaze made you shudder.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop trying to stay away from me, Y/N?” He was angry, a lethal poison infecting his voice.

You couldn’t speak, your mouth was dry, and your mind was racing a million miles a second, but you needed to know that your family was safe.

“Did you hurt them?” You whispered.

“Not yet. Your Ma and brother will be fine. As long as you do what I say.”

You let out a shaky breath at the confirmation that they were safe, but your stomach still turned at his words. You were terrified of Coriolanus, and now that he had you completely at his mercy, you knew that he wouldn’t let you go until he took exactly what he wanted from you.

“You understand, yes?” The gun pressed to your skull harder and you quickly nodded.

“Yes.”

“Get on your knees, slowly.” You felt him move the pistol away from your head for a moment, and you turned around, meeting his eyes fearfully before lowering yourself to kneel before him.

Coriolanus unbuttoned his blue shirt, dropping it on the floor behind him. He looked at you expectantly and you realized he wanted you to unbuckle his belt. Your trembling fingers fumbled with the belt before reaching forward to unbutton his pants and slide down the zipper. He pushed his pants down his legs before removing his boxers as well.

He smirked down at you as you took in the size of him.

“Such a pretty girl,” you flinched when you felt one hand twist into your hair while the other brought the pistol to your temple. “But I think you’d look better with your lips wrapped around my cock.”

The hand in your hair tightened, pulling at your scalp and dragging your head forward.

Reluctantly, you lifted your hand to wrap around the base of his thick cock, nervously wetting your lips before parting them and taking the tip into your mouth.

Coriolanus pushed himself deeper, nudging the back of your throat and groaning lowly when your eyes flitted up to meet his.

You pressed your tongue flat to the bottom of your mouth, trying to make more room for him as he sped up his pace.

You closed you eyes, bringing every thought to controlling your breath as he pushed his cock to the back of your throat, in and out between your lips. The cooling metal of the gun barrel was still taut against your skin, trembling slightly as Coriolanus gritted his teeth above you.

"Look at that, you're relaxing for me, good girl." But where did your pretty eyes go? That wouldn't do, he needed all of your attention. The nails of his fingers dug into your scalp, and tears sprung into your eyes. Your muffled yelp reached his ears.

"You'll keep," a groan interrupted him as your hand tightened around his cock, "your eyes open, and on me.”

“Do....you...understand?" Each word was punctuated by a harsh thrust into your throat, pushing past your tongue and slamming against the back of your neck.

You pathetically hummed around his cock in agreement, nervously keeping your eyes on his, not wanting to give him any reasons to hurt you.

By the time he was coming down your throat, your lips were puffy from his brutal pace, and your tears made your cheeks slick and shiny. You gagged at the sensation, throat closing around his length as he spilled his seed down your throat. He held your head in place, choking you with his cock until you had swallowed every drop of his salty cum.

Coriolanus’ grip on the gun had tightened as he came and you fearfully glanced at it before meeting his eyes again.

When he pulled his cock out of your mouth, he was quick to drag you to your feet before tossing you stomach first onto the bed behind you.

Coryo finally holstered his gun, turning back to you and easily pushing you against the bed as he bunched your skirt up at your waist. He let out a low whistle as he admired your ass, reaching out a hand to grope you before giving the soft flesh a sharp smack, earning him a whine from you. You could feel your hips digging into the hard mattress that you had had for your whole life.

You struggled in his arms, but when his hand found it’s home around your throat and you felt his cockhead start sliding past your lips, you realized there was nothing you could do to avoid what was coming.

Coriolanus pushed all of himself into you in one slow, punishing thrust. You didn’t have any time at all to adjust to his thick length before he was gripping your ass tightly, canting his hips back and thrusting into you again.

Your gasps and cries were muffled by his large hand at your throat. The way he tightened his grip combined with the feeling of him stretching you out had you seeing stars.

His pace was brutal. Coriolanus had been imagining this for weeks, and after you kept yourself away from him the past few days, he wanted to make the most of the first time he fucked you.

Each time you tried to escape from under him, his large arms wrapped around you again, holding you in place as he snapped his hips against your ass, burying himself deep inside you with every thrust.

“Keep trying to get away sweetheart,” his hot breath fanned over your neck, and the blond drew closer to suck at a tender spot until you whined and melted back into his arms. “I like watching you struggle.”

Your stomach turned and you tried to ignore how weak your knees felt at the peacekeeper’s whispered threats in your ear.

Coriolanus pulled out of you, not giving you time to process his actions before he was flipping you onto your back.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins and you tried to break away from the terrifying man above you while you had the chance, but you were too slow.

The blond captured you again, throwing you onto the bed and straddling you as you thrashed against him. When Coriolanus reached his hand out again to choke you, you could feel your heart beating against his hand.

You flinched when he drew close to you, his nose practically touching yours as he forced you to look at his eyes.

When he pushed into you again, stretching you out from a new angle, you whimpered, trying hard not to let your lashes flutter closed.

Coriolanus reveled at the sight of your sweet, tear filled eyes meeting his as he split you open with his cock. The way that you trembled beneath him gave him a thrilling sense of control over you. He knew that you already would let him do whatever he wanted, but for some twisted reason he wished he had held onto his gun so he could press it to your temple as he fucked you and see the fear in your eyes.

Your cunt was pulling him in, squeezing and twitching around his length with every thrust. He could feel you getting wetter around him with every brush against your walls.

“You’re so tight, so wet,” he strained, getting distracted by the sounds of your cunt squelching with every move he made. “I need to fill up that pretty pussy, Y/N.”

At the sight of your eyes widening and your lips parting in protest, Coriolanus clamped his hand over your mouth before fucking you faster, groaning and cursing under his breath.

“Someone needed to- fuck,“ Coriolanus’ voice caught in his throat when he felt you clench around him, “someone needed to teach you a lesson about respecting authority. You should feel lucky that I was willing to.”

Begging and sobbing against his hand only spurred him on and he laughed at every pathetic attempt you made to push him off.

Coriolanus’ hand crept from your mouth to frame your jaw and he roughly squeezed your cheeks until you opened your mouth. The blond spat into your mouth and you gagged, your repulsion making your skin crawl. You wanted to throw up at the feeling of his spit sliding down your throat when you swallowed it, and Coriolanus chuckled at your disgust as he leered over you.

“You’re just a filthy district slut,” his hand returned to your throat, choking you harder than he had before, “and that’s all you’ll ever be, Y/N.” The venom and hatred in his voice shocked you, and the way he was thrusting into you was downright punishing.

You were clenching around him so tight, and the sight of your sweet, innocent face marred with so much fear was enough to send Coriolanus over the edge.

He slowed, groaning as he pumped you full of his seed, his cock still twitching inside of you.

After he pulled out and moved off of you, you tried to turn away from him, but his hand shot out and latched onto your wrist, twisting your arm painfully before forcing you to face him and firmly kissing you.

When he pulled away, the words that he uttered sent a chill over your skin, “Snow lands on top.”

The next few days were a blur as you blinked in and out of dissociation. Coriolanus had his way with you more times than you could count, never caring about your distress at him using your body however he pleased.

Any resistance you put up was easily squashed when he snapped back threats to hurt your family. However if he was in a really bad mood, he would brandish his pistol, pressing the sharp metal to your forehead until you sobbed, and apologized for fighting back.

You weren’t even sure how many days had passed since you first discovered that Coriolanus had your ma and brother thrown in jail.

Every time Coriolanus sank into you, you could feel yourself receding into your mind, trying to protect yourself from the nightmare you found yourself in.

During the days, he would go out to terrorize the people of district 12, and during the nights, he would return to terrorize you.

One night you lay in your bed, praying that your ma and brother were safe. You could only imagine the horrible things they could be being subjected to at the hands of the peacekeepers.

Your neck was sore and bruised, as were your wrists. Your entire body was aching with pain from Coriolanus’ repeated abuse.

When you heard the front door swing open, you tensed instinctively, closing in on yourself in anxiety. Hushed voices reached your ears and you craned your neck to try to hear better. They seemed to be in the midst of a conversation.

“I mean, don’t you think that maybe what you’re doing here is wrong?”

“Sejanus, if anything, you’d be helping the poor girl, we’ll give her food for every load she takes.” Your stomach turned at the disgusting way Coriolanus was talking about you, and the way his friend laughed along with him.

“And you’re sure she’s not going to try to tell somebody?”

“Nobody would believe her over a Peacekeeper, and besides, who will there be to tell? I have dirt on every officer in 12, if they tried to do anything to put a stop to this, they’d be taking themself down as well.”

The men were both silent as Coriolanus’ words sunk in.

“You promise you’ll actually help her out afterwards?” His friend, Sejanus apparently, sounded somewhat concerned, but clearly not concerned enough to report Coriolanus. “And she’s gonna get something in return?”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure her brother gets some candy or something,” Coriolanus chuckled and you heard the other man laughing too.

“Is she in there right now?” Those words had you sitting up in bed, fear clutching your heart. Coriolanus wasn’t seriously discussing pimping you out to his friends, was he?

You got your answer immediately however, when your door opened and you came face to face with a man you recognized as another peacekeeper. He seemed anxious, but after he noticed your state of undress, he advanced on you with the same sick desire you had seen in Coriolanus’ eyes several times now.

Your throat was dry and anxiety laced your words as you pleaded with him, “Wait, please don’t!”

“Shut up,” he growled, leering over you as you sat on the bed.

You tried to put up a fight, but it was all in vain. You really should have known you couldn’t take on a peacekeeper. Despite your attempt to run past him and reach the door, he easily grabbed you and shoved you back onto the bed. His hands pawed at your undergarments, throwing them behind him without a second thought before he removed his pants and stroked his hard cock.

When he forcefully pushed himself into your sore pussy, you cried out, tears pricking at your eyes and spilling over when he began to rock back and forth.

Sejanus was different than his friend in several ways. While Coriolanus had been rough and kept a fast pace, you found that Sejanus preferred to take his time, slowly pushing his cock into you as you trembled in his grasp. After the initial struggle, he was surprisingly tender and gentle, caressing your soft skin, pressing kisses to your breasts, and sucking on your sensitive nipples.

Unlike the blond, Sejanus seemed almost unwilling to meet your eyes, and when you protested or put up any resistance, instead of reveling in the fight, Sejanus just covered your mouth with his large palm so your yelps couldn’t reach his ears.

“I’m doing this for you, Y/N.” He whispered against your skin when he drew close, tilting his hips back so he almost slid all the way out before slowly filling you up again all the way to the hilt.

His words only made you feel worse. You didn’t want any of this, and when you grabbed his hand off of your mouth and told him as much, his eyes darkened in anger.

You whimpered when his hand came to your throat, squeezing harshly against the faded bruises.

“I’m not a bad guy, okay?” It was hard to discern if he was trying to convince you or himself, and after he slapped you for not agreeing with him, you nodded and tearfully responded.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not,” his hot breath fanned over your dewy skin as he repeated himself on a loop, thrusting his cock into your tight cunt again and again. “I’m not. I’m not.”

You whined when his hand came between your legs, swirling around your clit and stealing unwanted gasps from you.

Every drag of his thick cock against your snug walls mixed with his twitching fingers at your clit brought you closer to the brink or orgasm.

Tears fell past your eyes which were squeezed shut, and you whimpered as you came around him and he fucked you harder, fingers never leaving your clit.

When you came again, Sejanus kissed you for the first time, desperation and hunger evident in the way his tongue pushed its way into your mouth, swallowing your moans as his lips slid over yours. You felt disgusted, but also couldn’t ignore the confusing way you clenched around him when his lips first found yours.

Your third orgasm was close behind the second, tearing through you with force and Sejanus grunted at the feeling of your slick cunt choking his cock, fucking you faster and chasing his own release.

He cursed loudly when he came, shuddering as he slowly snapped his hips against yours to fuck his cum deeper inside of you.

Sejanus kissed you again before pulling out, quietly apologizing without meeting your eyes and then he was gone, leaving you exhausted and sore in a bed you no longer felt safe in.

As you lay there, trying to ground yourself and comprehend what you had just gone through, you couldn’t help but think of your mother and brother, who were being held in prison just because of the twisted infatuation Coriolanus had with you.

How different would your life be now if he had never approached you that late night several weeks ago?

And what was your life going to look like now that he had claimed his stake on you and was planning to let his Peacekeeper friends “share” you and take advantage of you whenever they pleased?

Hours had passed as you tried to think of any way out of the bottomless pit that you now found yourself in. Tears had subsided a while ago, but now you were just left with emptiness. You were still lost in thought when the door opened and Coriolanus’ large frame cast a shadow across your bed.

The grin he shot you after he took in your distressed state was smug, triumphant even, and the glint in his eyes told you exactly why he was entering your room at the early hours of the morning.

Tonight, you didn’t put up any fight at all.

#peacekeeper coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow noncon #dark!sejanus plinth #sejanus plinth #coriolanus snow x reader #sejanus plinth x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games tbosas #tbosas #coriolanus snow smut #dark coriolanus snow #keeping the peace #ktp

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whocaresstillthelouvre · 6 months

Text

Golden Walkway

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader (Reader is a teacher in Jackson, has long hair.) Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: It’s your birthday, Joel takes you out to the Tipsy Bison, kisses (and does more to) you in the rain, and takes you home to give you a gift (it's sex, the gift is sex). Also, the thought of Joel spitting whiskey in someone's mouth happened and I had to write it out. 🤷🏼‍♀️ Warnings: smut, drinking, consent first, degradation second, followed by so much praise, hair pulling, spitting, Joel calls you a slut, fingering against a brick wall, F receiving oral, I watched that doggy style Narcos gif (for research) a lot, unprotected p in v, apocalypse birth control (pulling out), Joel’s canon age, Reader’s in her 30’s. Words: 4,300 A/N: Hi! Welcome to my first published fic. I'm currently working on a grander scale fic with these two, I hope to have the first chapter out within the next couple of weeks. I just really wanted to get this out there! Thanks for reading and a big thank you to @ohheypedrito for all of her help and also to our phones for not overheating when I send 40 texts at once with ideas for fics. Hope you enjoy, can't even blame the feralness of this on the full moon.

Edit: I posted the Masterlist for Elks, my work these two are included in.

***

“Was turning 21 as fun as they’d show in movies back then?” You’re cuddled in next to Joel on his couch sketching in your notebook while Joel reads a book about Native Americans that you found him. You always do this, a random question or thought to break the comfortable silence.

“Not for me, bought a 12 pack of Bud Light and split it on my porch with Tommy. Sarah was only a toddler then and I had work in the morning. Didn’t have the money or the time to go to a bar. ‘Course I don’t think a lotta people did anything the way they’d show in the movies.”

“I always wanted to have my 21st birthday at a bar, ya’ know? Wait until the clock strikes midnight and order a weird named shot.”

“Well, I reckon we could do that at the Bison tomorrow night. Might not be your 21st but I’ll get you whatever you want to drink, and the best part is you can drink before midnight.” Joel pulls you in closer and kisses your forehead, “What do you say, let me take you out for your birthday sweetheart.”

“Yes, please,” you sigh into his shoulder, “sounds amazing.”

“Wear that little blue dress I know you have hanging in your closet.”

The drinks flowing through you making you downright giddy, alcohol making you bolder, your body and your inhibitions becoming looser, your hands becoming addicted to touching Joel, first his leg, then his thigh, now his lower stomach, right at his waistband. You haven’t been this tipsy in a long time, your face feeling flushed and red more from your desire than any drink you’ve had tonight.

“You better knock that off before I take you outside in the rain and fuck you against the building, darling,” Joel huffs into your ear. His fiery warning massaging your neck causing your heart rate cooled by your inebriation to pick up.

“Sooo, keep going?” You slur back.

“If that’s what you really want,” Joel puts a forceful squeeze on your upper thigh, a layer of your dress laying between his skin and your skin. If you weren’t both sitting at the bar, and maybe in one of the more darker corners of the saloon you’d surely hike your skirt up and let him learn just how bad you want him.

It feels so good to let go with him, to giggle openly at his jokes, stare at his profile as he talks with a friend or two who stop by to say hello, or place your hand on his broad back just because you want to touch his soft blue denim shirt.

You watch as his tongue darts out and licks the leftover whiskey off his top lip, Joel’s movements becoming a little slower thanks to the amber liquid he’s been drinking all night. Some droplets glisten on his mustache, you fight every urge inside yourself to not lean over and lick them up.

“It’s what I want,” you respond as you move your hand back and forth across his waistband.

“Jesus Christ, I’m about ready to throw you over my shoulder and run home,” Joel says as he takes your hand into his and pulls it away.

“Not so fast. You told me you’d fuck me in the rain, that’s what I want for my birthday,” you whisper into his ear with a breathy giggle.

“Can’t fuck you out here in public. Small town ‘n all, but I’ll make you feel good,” Joel takes a last swig of his drink, puts the glass down and knocks his fist on the bar to let the bartender know you two are leaving. He leans forward and drawls into your ear, “Now finish your drink if you want me to show you just how happy of a birthday I can give you.”

You nod and gulp your drink down. You’re so wet, you don’t know if you’ve ever been this turned on before. Joel grabs your arm with the perfect amount of pressure, you’ve never been so happy to get outside into the pouring rain.

——

It’s absolutely storming outside, your footsteps sloshing in the puddles on the ground. The rain pelting your’s and Joel’s bodies as you walk through late night Jackson. It feels like you’re the only two people in the whole town as you make your way farther away from the bar. The bulbs of the string lights reflecting off the water gathering on the sidewalks making your path towards Joel’s house golden. You don’t rush, the two of you not scared away by the downpour, the drops cooling your burning skin. Joel turns down the street before his, pulling you behind one of the storage buildings, it’s darker back here, practically pitch black thanks to the rain clouds blocking the moon and the nearest light source being three buildings down. You’re pushed up against the brick, Joel’s hand gently cradling your head to block it from hitting the wall, he’s such a gentleman.

“Happy birthday baby, I need you to tell me you want this, ‘n you’re okay with this, I have plans for you and I need you to tell me you want it.” Joel instructs you, all you can see is his eyes and the faint lines of his facial hair, the rest of him camouflaged by the darkness surrounding the two of you.

“I want it, more than anything. Please,” your voice straining as you beg.

“Tell me you want me to have my way with you,” Joel speaks into your slack mouth as he rubs his arched nose against yours.

“I want you to have your way with me,” you moan against his wet shirt, “so bad.”

“Good girl, now, m’not gonna fuck you here, because I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop and I need to have you in my bed tonight.” Joel starts to move his hand down your body lifting the hem of your dress. “But, you are going to cum for me right here.” Joel captures your mouth with his. His hand starts to trace the outline of your panties, you mew out a cry as his fingers slip through and begin to pet you right where you ache the most. His hands are so big, his fingers so long and thick, always putting the right amount of pressure, moving the way you need him to move. Joel Miller is a capable man, everyone knows that, but nobody, except for you, knows just how capable he is.

Joel sticks a finger in you, though his finger is thick and feels so good, you need more to fill you.

“Another,” you instruct in between fevered kisses. Your pussy clenches as Joel pushes another finger in you. “Yessss,” you moan out against his lips.

“That’s my good girl, gotta get you stretched out f’me.” Joel begins to kiss his way down your chin and neck stopping at your chest, your hard nipples jutting through your wet dress. Joel takes one into his mouth, sucking the fabric and your tit deeper into his mouth. The sloppy wet sounds of Joel’s suctions making you want him more.

“Another finger,” you shudder out. “Three? You really want it tonight, don’t you?” Joel mumbles against your chest as he sticks a third finger in. It burns, it burns in the best way. You’re ready for him, it’s what you’ve been waiting for all night. You bite down on your lip as your legs begin to shake, Joel can tell you’re right on the edge and twists his fingers inside of you as he finger fucks you harder.

Your orgasm bursts forward your whole body going stiff as you try not to wail out into the night.

“That’s iiiiiit baby,” Joel pulls his fingers out of you and softly pets your pussy from hole to clit.

He removes his hand from between your legs bringing it up between the two of you resting his finger tips against your lips, you open your mouth and begin to lick. His tongue meeting yours as you both clean his thick digits covered in you. He takes his hand away leaving just your mouths to taste each other. His kiss turns tender, your kiss turns desperate.

Joel pulls away resting his forehead against yours. “My beautiful birthday girl. Let’s get you home, my gift’s not done.”

——

Your body practically chills with the promise of what is left to come. Joel grabs your hand and you take it depending on him to lead you to his home. Every step you take you feel your wet core heavy with lust, you’re soaked from the rain and from Joel, if you could drown like this, you would go down with the sinking ship. His house comes into view, your body tingling in anticipation at the site as the both of you speed your footsteps up in perfect agreement.

He throws open the gate, you’re following so close you almost trip on his heels making your way up the walkway and steps. He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the doors, you take the opportunity to run your hands all over his back and sides, rubbing the wet cloth of his shirt as it molds to his body. The door swings open and you both shuffle into his living room gasps escaping your mouths, both out of breath from your dash home and your mutual want for each other. You step out of your wet shoes and shake your hair out.

“Take your dress off, right now.” Joel huffs out as he tosses his keys on the console table and begins to kick his boots off.

You strip yourself of your baby blue frock as fast as you can. You’ve never had a reason to wear such a revealing piece of clothing. You don’t know why you held onto it, let alone grabbing it from the communal clothing rack, never thinking anything, or anyone, would be worthy enough for you to dress up for. Joel’s worthy, so worthy.

“Feel like I’m a little underdressed here…” your words grab Joel’s attention as he moves his hands up to his chest to begin to unbutton his denim shirt. He gets one button taken care of before he rips it open. Shame, it’s your favorite shirt, you'll have to fix it for him later. You watch as a button rolls underneath a table, before you can note where it lands, your attention turns back to Joel to find him stepping out of his jeans and underwear leaving him completely naked.

What a sight, what a fucking sight. There’s only a lamp on in the room, Joel’s body being cast in amber color and shadow, one side of him on full display glowing in the light, the other more difficult to discern. He moves forward stalking you. “Now I’m the underdressed one here. Take them off for me,” he says as he moves to pick up a bottle of whiskey from his shelf.

You follow his instructions shucking your underwear down your legs and leaving them pooled at your feet.

“Good girl,” Joel says as he begins to walk towards you unscrewing the lid off the bottle. He stands in front of you and takes a drink. “Open your mouth,” he orders as he grabs your hair and tips your head back. He takes another pull from the bottle, this time he raises his mouth over your mouth and begins to dribble drips of whiskey down from his mouth into yours. A moan raises from your throat, causing Joel to tighten his hold on your hair and arch your head back even more. He spits the rest of the whiskey straight into your mouth, you happily swallow his spit and liquor down. He unwinds his hands from your hair, takes another drink and kisses you, the whiskey and his tongue spilling into your mouth. Joel pulls back and takes his last swig before resting the bottle on the table. “Get upstairs.”

You don’t think you’ve ever run so fast in your life, tripping over your feet as you rush your way up, Joel’s naked form hunting you like prey up each step.

The sight of Joel’s bed brings a new wave of goosebumps to your skin.

“Bend over on the bed darlin,” Joel turns on a lamp in the corner and pulls it closer. “Need to lick and fuck you with my tongue.”

You move over to Joel’s side of the bed and bend forward, your ass sitting high in the air and your face in the sheets, you inhale the smell of Joel on his sheets. You swing your hips in giddy anticipation of what’s about to happen.

You feel his body lean over yours, his erection laying over your lumbar. “Okay baby, once again, need you to tell me you’re good with me having my way with your body,” he tempts into your ear.

“Fuck, y—yes, fuck, of course I am good. So good.”

“That’s my girl,” Joel’s heavy body lifting off of yours as he kneels between your legs. You feel his hot breaths on you where you’re aching for him the most, you widen your stance egging him on to touch you. “Look at you,” Joel licks your thigh, “so fuckin’ wet you’ve spilled out into your thighs.”

You scream a pleasured yell as Joel’s teeth bite down into the flesh of your thigh and sucks your skin into his mouth. The pain is perfect. He loosens his bite, kissing and licking the spot, the sensation making your body quiver.

“Okay baby?”

“Y-y-yessss,” you answer.

“Whaddo you need sweetheart?”

“Lick me,” you beg out, “please.”

“‘Course. Where do you want me to lick you?” Joel questions as he nuzzles his head against your ass cheek, giving it a small bite.

“My pussy. Pleeeaaase,” you’d say you sound pathetic but you couldn’t care less, your lust overshadowing any type of pride.

“Mm, you sound so needy baby, you sound like you really need my tongue on you, huh?” His teasing drawl drives you crazy, your body won’t stop moving, absolutely radiating tensity from your want.

“Please,” you implore, sobbing out.

“Alright baby,” his hands grab your cheeks and spreads them, widening his view of you. “Prettiest thing I ever seen, love your pussy.”

This act feels so depraved, everything on display for him, legs and cheeks spread wide, your pussy exhibited for him like it’s an art piece.

You literally scream into the bed, biting down on Joel’s comforter as his tongue finally meets your core. This, thiiiiiiis is what you’ve been wanting all night. Joel moans against you, not being able to hold himself back as he tastes you, his fevered licks exploring your cunt, his large tongue mapping every inch of you. He’s absolutely conquering you, the noises of his lips and tongue smacking against your wetness soundtracking his journey.

He can feel you getting close your hips beginning to cant as your orgasm begins to crest. You knew it wouldn’t take long, between the alcohol buzz and Joel’s tongue lapping up your wetness and cum from earlier, you knew you’d be a goner.

“Mmf, cum for me,” Joel speaks against you, his mouth full of you, too busy to pull away to clearly speak. You don’t think he can get any closer to you, his tongue working your orgasm up in intensity with each swirl and dash against your clit. You feel it, it’s here. Your legs instantly collapse, thankful that the rest of your body is resting on the bed. Your eyes tightly squeeze shut and then begin to rapidly blink as your orgasm shatters through you. Joel flattens his tongue against your clit as it pulses. You’re too turned on to make a noise, Joel stepping in for you and groaning as your juices seep out of you.

“Did so good baby,” Joel says leaving one last kiss on your clit before standing up behind you. You want to flip over to look at him, you haven’t seen his face since you laid down on the bed. You have no energy, you’re just a shell of a woman, the only sensations you can feel is the pool of wetness in between your legs and your light inebriation.

Your attention gets pulled to the sound of Joel spitting in his hand, followed by a hiss coming out of his mouth. When you realize exactly what he’s doing, you summon the strength needed to turn over. You flip over, your back thudding on the mattress your legs still spread wide, feet resting on the floor. And there…. there…. THERE he is, standing in the middle of his room, one large hand wrapped around his hard cock softly stroking as he watches you with hooded eyes. You know you just came, but the sight makes your pussy clench with desire.

Joel jerks himself off as his eyes roam your exhausted form. “Been thinking ‘bout this all day. You all laid out in front of me heaving for air after cummin’ all over my tongue,” slow strokes matching his lazing words. “Just about canceled our night out when you opened your door in that little blue dress, looked like you were wearing the sky, baby.”

You bite your lip as all of your senses are so overtly overwhelmed by lust. The sight of Joel’s handsome face watching you, the hazel flecks in his eyes twinkling in the golden light of the lamp. The smell of the rain on your skin mixed with the heady scent of your arousal and Joel’s sheets. The taste of Joel’s whiskey tongue still in your mouth. The sound of Joel’s fist pumping along his hard cock. The feel of the aftershocks of your orgasm still quaking your body. It’s so fucking much, you need Joel inside you. The thought of feeling him stretch you causes a whimper.

“Yeah baby? Havin’ a hard time over there?” Joel stops stroking his hard length, his hand pauses on his shaft. “You want me to fuck you now?”

“Pleeeease,” you keen out.

“Alright sweetheart.” Joel confidently strides over to you, dick still in hand. He stops right at the edge of your feet. “Turn back around ’n get on all fours in the middle of the bed f’me.”

You follow his instructions eager to please. The sooner you get this done, the sooner you can feel Joel enter you.

“Good girl,” he praises as the mattress dips lower with his weight behind you.

Your heart is pounding so loud, your whole body thrumming, you gulp down a breath of air trying to calm your need. You feel Joel’s cock brush against your ass cheek, he’s so close to fucking you.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna fuck you real good and hard now. Happy birthday baby.”

And just like that, Joel buries his cock inside of you, you’re absolutely stretched around him. Your clit already worked over by Joel’s tongue, now your hole deliciously stinging while it flutters around his cock. He begins thrusting, tender and slow full strokes. Entering and exiting, swirling the head of his cock right at the entrance before plunging back in because he knows you love the feeling. Joel’s groans and your cries join in song as he begins to pound faster, the sound of your bodies slapping together match the rhythm.

“Feel so fucking good, always so perfect for me. S’a good girl, always take it so good,” Joel grits out.

He grabs your hair and wraps it around his fist as he pounds into you. “No one knows how fucking slutty you get for me behind these walls. They think you’re one of those innocent little teachers.” Joel pulls your hair harder causing a scream of ecstasy from you. “You love this, don’t you?”

You do. It’s so rough, so different from how gentle he always is with you. It feels like a luxury to be treated this way by him.

“Y-y-y-yes, God I love it,” you whimper.

“That’s right. That’s what I like to hear. So pretty so smart. So much smarter than me, now I’m makin’ you stupid with my cock, right baby?”

Everybody knows Joel Miller as the strong, silent type, a man of few words, somebody who doesn’t do chit chat. But with you in his bed naked and wailing as he slams into you, Joel Miller won’t shut up.

“Doin’ so good for me. So pretty, so perfect f’me. So wet for me.”

“You made me so wet earlier, I was afraid I was going to leave a mark on the barstool.” Your words coming out as tortured weeps, so lost in your ecstasy you struggle with every word spoken.

“Fuuuuuck.” That got him good. He pounds you even harder, the bed frame shaking violently against his wall, your body and cunt acting as if it’s the only barrier between Joel knocking a hole in the plaster. “Had I fuckin’ known I would have made you stick your face on that chair and made you lick yourself up as I fuck you against it.”

That’s it, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. Joel’s deep timbered accent grunting those deviant words as he grabs you and begins to roll his hips into your cunt. Your body is strung so tight and rigid in all places besides your hips and core, pumping and rolling along with Joel’s as he fucks you. You’re close again, your panting breaths letting Joel know.

“Baby, if you gotta cum, cum,” his grip on your hips pressure into you.

“Going … going.. going to,” the only words you can say as your third orgasm radiates out of your body, your pussy is the epicenter, tingles firing through your veins, your hands fisting the blankets at your detonation. Slack jawed and fucked senseless you rally the strength to not disintegrate and fall into Joel’s bed. Your world has been shattered by Joel, but your body survives for him, your legs and arms shaking under gravity and your weight as they deal with the fallout.

“C’mere baby, lemme help you.” Of course he can tell you’re struggling. He reaches his hands around, clutching your stomach and pulling you up against him. Your back up against his chest, his hand seeking out your breast, the other wrapping around your torso and clutching you to him. He holds you as he fucks into you, his nose brushing against your ear as he puffs and grunts against your neck. “Fucking. Love. You. So. Much.” Each word matching a thrust into you. Your hands find his and grip them, you’ve never felt more loved and protected. Joel Miller has got you.

You feel the familiar shudder in Joel’s movements as he edges close to his climax. His labored breaths getting louder and more fevered against your neck. You’re absolutely wrecked, but the angle of Joel’s cock inside of you mixed with the feeling of the shudder in his movements as he edges himself brings forth another orgasm. Words are gone, just sounds, whatever your throat can muster up and out of your mouth.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it,” Joel repeats. His hands squeezing yours so tightly, his chest heaving against your back, his strong thighs straddling yours, his nose pressing into your ear. You feel his body tense as he pulls out. His release coating your pussy as his whole body surrounds you. Hot breaths huffing against the side of your face in between featherlight kisses. “Love you,” a whisper in your ear so delicate and sweet as he lets go of your hands. Your body falling forward without his support, your arms catching you before crashing down on the bed. Joel gets up with a groan as you lay yourself down on your stomach, taking the opportunity to stretch your legs out before rolling over on your side to watch Joel. He stands arms akimbo in the middle of the room. He’d look like a Greek statue if his shoulders weren’t rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath. He’s gorgeous and he looks just as wrecked as you feel.

“Probably shouldn’t have gotten up as quick as I did,” he chuckles. “Damn well feel like I’m standing in the middle of a earthquake.” You love the casual banter he puts forth seconds after being deep inside you, his cum still covering your core. This is love.

You smile at him, your cheek resting on your hand as a makeshift pillow. You’re exhausted… the whole night and your four orgasms catching up with you. Eyes feeling heavy, matching your limbs you begin to drift off.

A wet sensation in between your legs jerks you awake. “Sorry baby, just want to clean you up,” a whisper just as light as Joel’s tender attention as he washes you lulls you back to sleep.

——

“Baby,” Joel’s low voice gently wakes you up along with a soft kiss to your forehead.

You groan as you stretch your sore muscles under the sheet, opening your eyes to find Joel gazing down lovingly at you. He’s backlit by the filtered morning sunlight shining in through his bedroom windows. What a way to wake up. “Happy birthday sweetheart, I’d let you sleep all day but I need to give you my present.” His face is so bright and cheerful, a boost in your confidence provided by just how happy he looks when he’s with you.

“Thought you gave me your present already last night,” you yawn.

“Sweet girl, that was a present for both of us. Now come on, get up.” You grab his offered hand and reluctantly get out of bed. Joel wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, his hands splayed across your back as you nuzzle your face in his warm chest. “Happy birthday.”

A/N: THANK YOU for reading my first ever fic. My inbox is always open. :)

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #elks #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #pedro pascal

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 1 year

Note

Can you write something where Joel is trying not to fuck you (maybe because of your age or something), and then he caves out of pure horniness. I seriously have a kink for always in control men - losing control.

Thank you for the message!! I hope you like this little story!

title: the babysitter

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x babysitter!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

content warnings/tags: explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), age difference (21F and 36M), power imbalance dynamics, begging, pet names, oral sex (f receiving), kinda perv Joel, no use of y/n.

You’re asleep on the couch when Joel comes home from a night at the bar with Tommy. The TV casts a blue glow over your soft features. Your plush pink lips are slightly parted, and your tits remain barely covered by the tank top you wore over that evening to babysit Sarah.

You’ve been Sarah’s babysitter since you were eighteen and Joel was desperate to find a balance between being a single father and getting the chance to spend some time out with his friends and brother, usually at a dive bar shooting pool like they did tonight. His neighbor had recommended you, a sweet young girl who just graduated high school and worked as a babysitter for extra cash while attending the community college.

Now you were approaching twenty-one, a whole fifteen years his junior. Something Joel has to remind himself on nights like tonight, when his eyes greedily roam across your exposed skin and commit the view of your nipples straining against your tight tank top to memory.

He’s had a few drinks tonight. Nothing crazy, but he feels the buzz in his veins as he continues to watch you. You shift positions, turning more on your back and raising your arms up, the motion exposing a strip of stomach above the waistband of the shorts you’d worn.

Joel can normally tamp down the thoughts he has about you, sweeping them under a metaphorical rug to be ignored. But tonight, he lets himself drink his fill, storing it away for later.

Surely there’s no harm in that?

He needs to wake you up, needs to hand you the handful of twenties and walk you to your car, just like he does every other evening you babysit for him. He reaches a hand out to grip your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. Your brow furrows, but you otherwise don’t stir. He lets his palm linger in your warm skin, swallowing down the urge to drag his hand lower, to cup your breast in his palm and see if a pinch of your nipple makes your back arch in ecstasy.

He tries another shake, followed by a murmur of your name. That has you blinking up at him, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Mr. Miller? What times’it?” You slur. He checks his watch.

“Just past 12,” he tells you. His hand is still on your shoulder.

“Oh. I’m sorry I fell asleep,” you tell him with a yawn. “Guess I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

You lick your lips, staring up at him. His brain is screaming at him to remove his hand, to take a step back and take a breath, to remind himself that you’re the babysitter.

But your head tilts, appraising him. Keen eyes stare back at him like you know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Mr. Miller?” You ask again, voice breathier. Joel’s fingers flex against your skin. You press your shoulders into the couch cushion, the movement causing his hand to drift lower, the tips of his fingers just grazing the flesh of your breast.

Your breathing becomes rapid, but you remain still. Joel swallows harshly, his fingers inching the slightest bit lower. Your lashes flutter as he slips the tip of his pinky beneath the neckline of your tank top.

He takes a harsh breath, ready to withdraw his hand and chalk this up to a brief moment of insanity, but as he tries to move away, your hands grip his wrist.

“I can’t do this, honey,” Joel says. You whine, tilting your head back.

“Please?” You ask. Your hands release his wrist, and Joel knows he should hold strong.

But then your own hands are drifting down your body, caressing your curves before dipping beneath the waist of your shorts. Joel’s heart beats a mile a minute, a frantic pulsing in his chest as he watches you with unwavering focus.

Your hips jolt as your fingers swipe against your clit. His view is hindered by your shorts and he wants nothing more than to remove them and replace your fingers with his.

“It’s okay, Mr. Miller,” you say, eyes wide as you stare up at him. “You can touch me. I want it.”

“No,” Joel says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. And you notice it, too.

“Please,” you beg. Your hips grind against your hand. “I’ll be such a good girl for you.”

Joel’s eyes flutter closed as he takes a deep, steadying breath. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

“You’re too young for me, darlin’,” he finally says. He lifts his hand from your shoulder and you give a sad little whine that has him grinding his teeth together.

“Why are you being so mean?” You accuse.

“You don’t know what mean is.”

“Why don’t you show me, then?”

You remove your hand from your shorts. Even in the dim light of the TV he can see the unmistakable shimmer of your slick coating your fingers. When you spread them, a thin thread stretches between your digits.

He watches it stretch to its limit before snapping. And much like that thread of fluid, the last of his control snaps, too.

“Take off your shorts,” Joel says. When you don’t move he snaps, “Don’t make me ask again.”

That gets you moving, your hips lifting from the cushions so that your hands can shove your shorts down to your ankles. You gaze up at him, waiting for instruction.

Joel moves your outer leg off the couch, your foot settling on the floor. He kneels between the new space and lets his hungry eyes consume you.

“Dirty girl,” he murmurs. He collects the saliva on his tongue, spitting it harshly against your pussy, your body jolting and your head dropping back with a moan. “Quiet. You gotta be quiet, okay.”

You nod your head quickly, teeth digging against your lip to make good on your promise. Satisfied, Joel leans down and licks a broad stripe through your slick folds, the tip of his tongue dipping into your entrance before he drags it up to circle your clit.

You’re writhing beneath him as he attends to your needy cunt, your whimpers such music to his ears that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you to be quiet again.

Your fingers grip his shoulders, the bite of your nails into the thick muscle making him groan against your center. He can feel your hole flutter against his tongue and takes the opportunity to slip a finger into your tight heat.

You gasp, back arching as you shatter around

him, cunt pulsing deliciously around his finger. He’d love nothing more than to feel you around his cock.

But this has already gone too far.

He withdraws his hand, reaching down to grab your shorts and pull them up your legs. Your brow furrows in confusion.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“It’s time you head home,” he says, not daring to meet your eyes. You’re still and quiet for so long he finally chances a glance.

To his surprise, your lips are tilted into a smirk. You shuffle onto your knees, bringing yourself face to face with him. You reach for his hand, keeping your eyes trained to his as you slip the finger coated in your release into your mouth.

You hum, and Joel has to fight the moan clawing its way up his throat. You release his finger with a slick pop before rising to stand.

“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Miller,” you say casually.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #no use of y/n #joel miller x you #joel tlou #fic request

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 1 year

Text

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested.

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights.

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly.

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort.

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly.

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it.

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty.

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside.

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him.

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant.

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?”

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm.

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time.

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :)

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email.

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection.

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out.

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely.

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner.

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table.

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair.

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you.

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve.

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up.

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction.

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning.

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk.

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily.

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where.

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly.

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious.

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root.

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you.

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine.

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it.

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing.

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement.

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you.

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.”

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you.

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest.

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response.

“Yes.”

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right.

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.”

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

“You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly.

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him.

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you.

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another.

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

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anachronisims · 3 months

Text

How to EFFECTIVELY Use Empty Standby List to Reduce Flashing and Crashing

This tutorial is for TS2. Obviously. This is virtually the last "chapter" of advice for the Pink Flashing Survey Report (still forthcoming as a single readable thing but posted in bits and pieces over the last six months). PS it's a lonnnnnnng post. Ctrl+F "tldr" for the very short version once you open the cut.

"Part 1" of the Empty Standby List ("ESL") tutorial was already written comprehensively with screenshots by Digi at her wordpress. Following Digi's tutorial will get you set up with ESL as a routine automated background task your computer runs, typically every five minutes.

@gayars set up two instances of the routine, each running every five minutes, staggered two/three minutes apart. In other words, task 1 runs at 12:00, task 2 runs at 12:03, task 1 runs at 12:05, task 2 runs at 12:08, etc. However, I found that this negatively impacted the graphical performance of my game, notably by having the ESL task window flash over the game window, which I had never seen before, nor since reverting back to a single 5-minute task routine.

Anyway. Go do Digi's tutorial if you haven't already; I'll wait.

Background on Why this Matters

So, now your computer will be wiping the standby memory every five minutes. The thing is, this won't be able to have much impact on your game unless you wait to let it wipe before you do a major loading action.

Major loading actions are, in general order of strain (most to least strenuous):

Loading a full neighborhood.

Loading a large (3x4 or bigger) populated lot.

Loading a large unpopulated lot.

Loading actual CAS, if you have a lot of non-defaulted CC.

Loading a medium (3x3) populated lot.

Loading a medium unpopulated lot.

Loading a small (2x3 or smaller) populated lot.

Loading a small unpopulated lot.

Loading CAS catalogs from within a lot (e.g. using FFS clothing tool, "Change Appearance" on the mirror, shopping for clothes/trying on clothes on a community lot).

Turning up your lot view settings (generating other lots' lot imposters within your current lot)/panning the camera around.

You should already be doing at least all medium- and large-lot loading with the Lot View Settings Juggling Method, and “uint LotSkirtIncrease” removed from your userstartup.cheat - otherwise whenever you load a lot you are compounding the strain by also having the neighborhood load at the same time.

Using Resource Monitor Effectively

If you watched the Jessa Channel tutorial on flashing, she recommended downloading a third-party RAM usage monitoring software. This is unnecessary. For purposes of reducing your crashing, all you need is the native Windows program "Resource Monitor" that she also recommends.

To open it:

Click the Windows symbol/start menu.

Begin typing "Resource Monitor."

Click Resource Monitor when it shows up.

Once it is open, get to the useful information:

Click the "Memory" tab.

Make sure the "Processes" and "Physical Memory" subs are fully open, as above.

Sort by "Commit (KB)."

Each time you reopen Resource Monitor, it should restore your last view settings, so you won't have to repeat these steps.

While Resource Monitor is still open, "Pin" it to the taskbar so it will always be readily accessible.

Right-click the icon on the taskbar.

Click "Pin to taskbar."

If it says "Unpin from taskbar" you have already done this step :)

Now comes the monitoring part. You will focus on the dark-blue "Standby" block of the bar graph on Physical Memory.

Every fifth minute, when the ESL task runs, this will flash down to 0 and then pop up to about 30-75, depending on what you are doing. It will go higher faster if you are doing stuff, obviously, and hover pretty low if your computer is just sitting still. TLDR the remainder of this tutorial: only take stress actions when Standby is below 100.

As we all know too well, TS2 has a 4gb RAM limit. The problem is, TS2 seems to count the memory that is in standby, too, not just the committed/working set. Thus, before you take a major loading action (that is going to push up to 1.5gb into Standby), you need to wait for Standby to wipe so the game doesn't accidentally think it's using more memory than it is. Got it?

This is how much RAM my game is using when my neighborhood opens, pretty closely zoomed in on any particular lot. If it is zoomed out further - like a whole city block - both committed and working set are easily over 2.2gb. When I pan around the neighborhood, it continues going up. Portions of the hood that go back out of view seem to get relegated to standby, but yes, my game has crashed just from looking too much at my neighborhood from too wide an angle. Unless I slow down and let ESL run before moving on to the next section.

Six months of diligent Resource Manager monitoring has resulted in substantial reductions of crashing and flashing on my first hood view load and first lot view load. It is not 100% guaranteed, but it cuts it back to Very Playable Levels. And when I have tested the theory by purposefully not letting ESL run before a stress point, it always flashes and/or crashes within the next couple minutes.

SO! Here's what I do when I'm launching my game.

Because of overheating concerns, I always fully shut down my computer when I'm not using it for more than an hour. If I have been playing and experience a flash or crash, I will restart before trying again. @infinitesimblr, a survey Respondent who reported virtually no flashing or crashing despite a vast CC catalog, also recommends restarting between using Bodyshop or SimPE and the full game. I have found it may make a difference with Bodyshop (which I use too rarely to make a pseudoscientific claim) but that I have found basically no impact going from SimPE to the game. YMMV.

Immediately after Windows is done loading, I open Resource Monitor and wait a few minutes. Often background updates begin running and the Standby bar goes crazy - sometimes filling up the entire available RAM - and I just let it sit and do its thing. (Usually I start the computer right before my kid's bedtime so I am not actively waiting on it or anything. Go take a shower or make a sandwich or drink some water, like you did in the old days when the game itself took 20 minutes to load.)

Once the standby bar levels out and is consistently peaking no higher than about 250mb between ESL wipes, after the next ESL wipe, I will launch the game. (Usually between logging into Windowsat the beginning of storytime and checking Resource Monitor before we go do tuck-in, it is reliably hanging out below 100 unless a big TS4 or Windows update was downloading.)

Reminder: do not delete thumbnails anymore prior to launching the game. I also have turned off RPC's clear caches option and have observed faster loading times with minimal increases in crashing.

After the neighborhood selection screen comes up, wait for ESL to run again before opening your neighborhood.

If you have continue to have more than VERY sporadic hood load flashing after taking these steps, you should try launching into a subhood if you have one, then pivoting to the main hood if that's where you're playing that session after yet another ESL wipe. If that doesn't help you simply need to thin out your hood or accept the flashing. (I ended up deleting about 25% of my deco trees and 10-15 outer-lying lots that will be re-placed in a subhood.)

After the hood is loaded, navigate to the lot you want, but DO NOT actually load that lot until ESL runs yet again. Ditto for CAS - Do not select "Create New Family" until ESL has run again.

Play should be proceed as normal at this point. You probably don't need to alt-tab back to Resource Monitor again unless your sims are going traveling or you are changing play lots.

BONUS TIP #1: You can put a shortcut to the ESL routine on your desktop and push it manually (just double click the icon) if you don't feel like waiting once the game is loaded. I have had imperfect results with this vs. just waiting the five minutes, though, because the game wants to run through some stuff and flush it. But it's an option for you to experiment with.

BONUS TIP #2: If you have a really deep clothing/hair CC catalog, try to avoid using the FFS clothing tool option where you select every outfit for the sim, and their hair and makeup, at the same time. Instead, choose individual outfits by type and use the regular mirror option to change appearance (or SimBlender has it, I think, so they can do it where they already are).

#ts2 resources #pink flashing #ts2 pink soup #pink soup #ts2 tutorial

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sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 3 months

Text

Halloween chapter 12

Note: this is a direct follow up to chapter 11 and nods back to all the previous chapters. the timing of this release is probably awful, but here goes nothing.

previous chapters: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8 - part 9 - part 10 - part 11.

Warnings: 18+! angst and some fluff, mention of blood, death, medication use, brief mention of self harm(not suicidal). Please proceed with caution if you have been triggered by earlier chapters of this fic.

pairing: Modern!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: you formed a bond with Sihtric as he was your patient.

wordcount: 6662 (I laughed at the 666 so I had to put the exact number, what are the odds)

Masterlist

The Willow Asylum was cold and the lights reflected painfully bright on the blank white walls, making for a downhearted and inhospitable atmosphere.

White.

White was the colour that surrounded you everywhere. Not only were all the lights and walls white, but so were the floors, ceilings, tables, chairs, doors, couches, desks, bathrooms, beds, cabinets and the window sills were white to, which were barred on the outside with thick white metal. Everything was white. Even the patients were dressed in all white; laceless white shoes with white socks and white pants, white shirts, white sweaters and white underwear too. And all the patients looked an odd shade of white too, regardless of their skin colour, which was what had alarmed you immediately on your first day at the place. Everything was so white that you and your colleagues stood out by wearing a light shade of blue, which was supposed to be a comforting and calming colour but it made you feel like you were a great blue shark amongst blood and colour deprived corpses that were the patients. But the patients weren't dead, they were still very much alive in one way or another.

You were already an experienced doctor when you were transferred to the Willow Asylum, which most people called the Willow House to make it sound less harsh, but what happened behind the locked doors of the building was harsh to say the least. You had never before seen patients in the state which they were in at the Willow House, with their eyes all empty and walking around as if they had no soul anymore. You had so many questions and concerns, but seeing the stern faces of your colleagues already gave you your answer: you had to suck it up if you wanted to help these people who so desperately needed help, but you wondered if they were getting the right kind of help, if any.

It was your first day at the Willow House when you met Sihtric a few hours into your shift. And it was Sihtric who confirmed your suspicion about the quality of treatment everyone received; the nurses weren't helping the patients at the Willow House, they were slowly driving them insane and eventually even killing some.

It was Halloween and the patients were restless, constantly roaming the hallways and screaming at the top of their lungs, seemingly for no reason at all. But you believed they probably felt the ghostly past of the building they were kept in, as the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Every patient got drugged up that afternoon as they were all going out of their minds, banging their fists on the tables and against the windows, when they weren't rattling the doorknobs in the hopes to find a way out. The alarm howled through the cold and big corridors of the asylum every hour, to which a handful of guards responded by brutally forcing obviously terrified patients into their rooms and locking them up. Their frightened screams sounded muffled through the walls all day, as if something was locked inside with them in their room, but no one ever saw anything out of the ordinary.

Sihtric was one of the few who was calm as he sat in one of the white chairs in the communal living room, staring out the window, next to the old and no longer in use fireplace. You had looked into the records of each patient before your first shift, and Sihtric was the one that stuck with you the most. He had been committed by his now ex-wife a few years ago, and his past as a black ops soldier seemed to be the reason he was brought in. His ex-wife claimed he heard and saw things, which doctors said was part of the PTSD symptoms which he was treated for now. You read that Sihtric was usually calm but also notorious for sudden outbursts of violence and erratic behaviour.

Patient has a history with violence, against himself and others. Patient is known to inflict pain to himself i.e. cutting himself to draw blood which he has used to draw unholy symbols on his floor, window and walls. Patient is under no circumstance allowed to keep sharp objects. Patient shows no sign of suicidal tendencies; self-harm is only done for the sake of a religious and ritualistic form. Patient will not elaborate when asked.

Violent fits happen at random, medication has been increased and proven successful: patient is evidently calmer when medicated.

You remembered his file as you looked at him while you sat in your office, almost spying on him as you lurked carefully between the closed blinds, and he didn't seem violent at all. You felt yourself smirk when you thought how he looked even more handsome in real life than on his photo that was attached to his files. But you quickly shook off that thought when you remembered he was a patient, your patient, and that unfortunately something was off about him or else he wouldn't be there.

You again glanced at the list of medication he was on, and it still shocked you the same as it had done when you had first seen it. The list was huge and it struck you as odd that Sihtric was capable of even walking around on his own by the amount of sedatives in his blood at all times. But that was also what made you so curious. That and his hauntingly beautiful face.

And when the alarm blared through the asylum again and guards ran past your window, followed by some nurses, you took the opportunity to approach Sihtric as the communal room was almost empty, apart from a few other patients who sat at their tables and either slept or sat there drooling and staring at nothing in particular. You calmly made your way over and sat at a safe distance as you shared the table with the handsome man, whose tired and empty eyes were fixated on the heavy rain outside as it smashed with thick drops against the window. Sihtric didn't even look up at you at first, as if you weren't there, or more so; as if he wasn't really there. You struggled to find a way to start a conversation, but the topic was quickly found once you saw the DVD case he had in his lap.

'Halloween,' you said quietly with a faint smile, 'a classic.'

Sihtric suddenly blinked and slowly turned his face to meet your eyes, and he gave you an empty yet puzzled look.

'The DVD,' you explained, 'is it your pick for movie night today?'

Sihtric nodded slowly.

'I hope they pick your choice,' you smiled, 'it's my favourite.'

You had found out earlier that day that on Halloween each patient got to pick a movie for the movie night, and eventually one would be picked by the nurses to be shown on the tv in the communal room.

'They won't pick it,' Sihtric half whispered and looked out the window again.

'Why not?'

Sihtric scoffed lightly at your question, then looked at you again with his soulless mismatched eyes.

'Because they never show a movie on movie night.'

'I don't understand,' you said, confused.

'They lie,' Sihtric whispered and leaned in closer.

'Who?'

'Everyone.'

'Do you mean the nurses don't pick a movie from the ones you all picked?'

Sihtric shook his head.

'They don't pick any movie,' he said sadly as he looked down at the case in his lap, 'they never show a movie. They lie. They always lie,' Sihtric suddenly leaned in closer, 'do you want to know a secret?'

Without thinking you leaned in too, as he spoke softer with each word that followed. And after you had looked around to make sure no one was there, you nodded cautiously at this question.

'Yes,' you whispered.

'I shouldn't be here,' he said with a sudden twisted grin on his face.

His words made your mouth dry and your hair stand on end, but before you could speak you were rudely interrupted by the alarm again as it echoed through the building and the heavy boots of guards stomped down the hall again. You waited until everything became quiet again, but once you returned your attention back to Sihtric, he seemed to have lost interest in the conversation and was staring outside again. You sighed softly, having to accept he was just as lost as everyone else in there, and you moved to get up. But Sihtric then suddenly grabbed your wrist and looked up at you.

'I've been waiting for you,' he said, his eyes suddenly vivid and his voice confident and alive, as if he had gotten clear headed out of nowhere.

'What?' you asked as you felt a cold shiver down your spine at his warm touch.

'You found me this time, little bat,' Sihtric smiled as if in love, 'I've been waiting for you all my life,' he breathed.

You stared at him, speechless, his grip on your wrist firm yet not painful or malicious. And you watched his smile fade as the alarm sounded again, and this time the heavy boots stormed your way. Sihtric was quick to grab your face and he kissed your lips almost bruisingly before you were shoved aside by one of the guards. And within a split second you witnessed how Sihtric was pushed harshly down on the table, causing his nose to bleed while they dragged him away from you before they locked and chained him up in an isolation cell for the night.

And Sihtric was right, you found out that evening, for the nurses never showed a movie for the patients. In fact, they were all locked in their rooms after dinner.

You observed Sihtric the following days after the incident in the communal area, and you found out that one nurse in particular was rather interested in him as well. The blonde caregiver was called Skade, and she gave you a terrible feeling from the moment you met her. Her smile was always insincere and you noticed Sihtric was always tense when she was around. But you figured that was because she was in charge of the medication he needed to take, and nobody likes to have multiple pills forced down their throats several times a day.

Day and night your mind reeled about how aware Sihtric had looked when he took your wrist that first day and suddenly kissed you. His words still made no sense to you, but you would swear they were spoken by a man who wasn't on any of the medication he was on, because it seemed as if the drugs had left his blood within a matter of seconds and his previously soulless eyes were full of hope in that very moment. You were also still horrified by how violently the guards had treated him, and you found yourself worrying about him at night when you couldn't fall asleep, even when he wasn't locked in isolation anymore.

Days later you snuck Sihtric's files with you out of the asylum so you could go over them at home, and you did so for hours on end, trying to understand him and his behaviour but it seemed to be a puzzle with many missing pieces. What didn't help either was that, despite his sudden behaviour, you had never been afraid in his presence or afraid of him in general. And his words had been almost soothing that first day you spoke to him, for you felt at ease when you sat next to him as if you had known him all your life for some reason. And his kiss… his kiss still made your head spin and your heart skip a few beats whenever you thought of it.

The days after the incident you noticed Sihtric became more and more unaware of his surroundings as Skade was shoving more medication his way than you knew was actually prescribed, and it concerned you. If Sihtric had been violent towards you then you could understand they were doing everything they could to keep him calm and quiet, even though you were very much against that kind of treatment, but what worried you more was that he hadn't been violent with you at all. So the treatment they gave him could not be condoned in any way, even if he had crossed a line and kissed you, but you seemed to be the only one aware of how cruel the nurses were.

After a few weeks you decided to approach him again and you found Sihtric alone in his room, with his door open. You knocked but Sihtric didn't respond, so you carefully entered his room and the first thing you noticed in the all white coloured nightmare was the unbreakable mirror, which hung in every room, but his was painted black. Sihtric sat on his bed with knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and he looked up when he suddenly noticed you had wandered in his room and were seemingly inspecting the darkened mirror.

'It's a portal,' Sihtric suddenly said, which startled you lightly.

'A portal?' you frowned at the mirror and then remembered reading in his files that he had been fixated on all kinds of paranormal theories, which you knew a lot about yourself too. 'Yes, I've heard of that theory,' you said, glad he started the conversation, 'why did you paint it black?'

Sihtric opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it again, and then almost violently shook his head.

'No, no you will drug me,' he said with a trembling voice.

'I am not the one who brings medication, Sihtric,' you said compassionately, 'I will never drug you. I am here to understand you better and to see if you are receiving the right treatment. Why do you assume you will be medicated if you tell me about the mirror?'

'Because you all think I'm crazy.'

'I don't think you are crazy,' you said and sat down on the bed next to him, at a comfortable distance, 'try me.'

Sihtric hesitated while he looked at you, as if he was trying to read your mind and you noticed how full of life his eyes were again, just like that brief moment before the guards had taken him away.

'Scrying,' he then said and looked away, 'I sometimes use it to… look,' he paused and waited for you to make a mocking comment, but it never happened.

'I know what scrying is,' you smiled softly, 'and I believe it is a real thing.'

'It is real,' Sihtric said quickly, 'it is real, I promise.'

'I know,' you reassured him, 'and I promise I don't think you are crazy.'

You stopped talking when Skade suddenly walked in, holding a tray with multiple cups of medication to which Sihtric immediately tensed up and backed himself into the corner while still on his bed. Your heart sank when you saw the sheer panic in his eyes, eyes that were convincingly aware of what was happening instead of being the numbed zombie that those pills are supposed to make him 24/7.

'No,' you said and held your hand up as Skade attempted to come closer, 'I… I am doing a study,' you lied, 'I am studying his behaviour, and I would like to see how he changes when the medication is out of his system in order to determine the treatment he receives. There is no need to give him his pills right now, because he is calm.'

Skade scoffed and asked if you had permission to do whatever you were doing, and you were somehow convincing enough after you promised she could leave the medication on the table and you would later make sure he would take them. Relief washed over Sihtric once Skade left his room after you had talked into her, but his trembling hands told you that his fear for the blonde nurse was deeply rooted within him, and even stronger was the feeling of hatred he felt towards her.

You began to spend a lot of time with Sihtric in the weeks that followed. A bond formed rather quickly when you often discussed all things spooky as it was a shared interest, and Sihtric always seemed to have that spark of joy in his eyes when he got to be around you, which warmed your heart. You told Sihtric you wanted to go to a Halloween fair one day, but you never had anyone to join you and you also confessed you had never been to a proper Halloween party in your life. Sihtric was shocked at your confession and promised that once he'd get out of the asylum he would take you to the Halloween fair and to a good Halloween party, even though he knew chances of getting out were slim. You also discussed classic horror movies and even found out you both enjoyed the same sort of music, and you loved sharing scary stories as you roamed the depressing white hallways together as a part of his daily activity.

Sihtric slowly opened up to you about his time in the asylum, specifically about how he didn't trust Skade and he claimed she was a witch. And even though you believed such things were possible, you had to remind yourself that Sihtric was a patient and you had to downplay your own thoughts about her so you wouldn't feed his possible delusional thoughts. You were shocked to hear how she had treated him overtime, making fun of him and degrading him and even going as far as spitting in his face for no reason at all other than that she felt she had all the power and control over him. Her behaviour angered you, and you believe Sihtric entirely, but you couldn't confront her about her behaviour because there was no solid proof for her actions towards him.

You grew very fond of Sihtric as time passed by, something which Skade noticed too as you were always present in his room when she came to give Sihtric his medication several times a day. And she learned soon enough that Sihtric would not take pills from her anymore, but if she left them on the table with you, he would take them later when you reminded him to. He was still reluctant about the medication and it was clear he only took them to please you, which you appreciated but also didn't help the spark of feelings you began to feel for him as you felt so at ease and safe around him.

However, you quickly noticed that Sihtric was affected negatively by his medication, becoming drowsy and confused instead of being his lively and sharp self when he was not medicated. It pained you to see him like that and you did not understand why he was prescribed all the pills he was forced to take, as they didn't help him in any way. But maybe even more peculiar was how fast the medication seemed to vanish from his blood. He sobered up about two hours after taking his medication, something which should not be humanly possible, but that explained why the amount of pills he was forced to take had increased so often; they simply stopped working too soon and they kept upping the dosage to keep him drugged out of his mind.

Over time you witnessed several of his violent outbursts. He'd attack the guards and anyone who tried to force him to take his medication at times, and you started to notice there was a pattern in his behaviour. Sihtric became violent towards everyone, except for you, when the medication was seemingly completely out of his system as it made him aware and clear headed, and he kept claiming he did not belong in the asylum, which you started to agree on. It also seemed he became more violent and erratic during the full Moon, and that was something you still couldn't explain. But every violent fit always started when someone tried to push the pills in his mouth and he'd fight them, and it always ended with the guards knocking him out and Skade injecting some kind of tranquilliser until his body weakened and he was dragged away and chained to his bed. And you always watched it in horror, as your gut told you something was so terribly wrong with the way he was treated, and that Sihtric truly did not belong there.

While you continued to observe Sihtric, you also began to observe every nurse who treated him, as it wasn't just Skade. And while you did that you also continued to strengthen your bond with Sihtric, which had grown into something that simply shouldn't be. The way your heart fluttered when you sat close to him and how your cheeks warmed up whenever you caught his bright mismatched eyes gazing at you gave you an alarmingly intense rush of butterflies each time, and you found yourself thinking of him every night before you fell asleep.

'What are those tattoos?' you asked Sihtric as you sat next to him on his bed.

Sihtric smiled, completely off medication again, and he told you about his black ops past. He told you what you had read in his files already, that he had a paranormal encounter while on a mission once and had lost a friend to it. It was a sad story but Sihtric said he had made his peace with everything, and he was very much aware that that whole ordeal was the reason he was committed. It broke your heart because you believed Sihtric didn't belong there and you somehow felt connected to him, but most of all it broke your heart because you wished you could make him leave this place of horrors and keep him safe. Keep him safe from whatever they were doing to him here and to keep him safe from himself too, because everytime he was medicated you didn't recognise him anymore.

You looked at him with a soft smile after he had told his story, and he shyly looked down at his feet as he swayed them lightly while sitting on the edge of his bed.

'I just want this to end,' he murmured as if talking to himself, 'living here, I mean. I want it to be over.'

'I wish I could take you home with me,' you whispered without thinking and took his hand.

'I wouldn't say no to that,' Sihtric blushed and looked at you while softly rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

His eyes were so clear and alive. They were so vivid and enchanting and his piercing gaze pulled you closer to him so naturally. And you didn't even try to stop him when he suddenly kissed you. Instead of pushing him away, you reached for his neck and pulled him even closer, to which Sihtric immediately pulled you in his lap and placed his hands on your waist. This was the second time he kissed you, but it was nothing like that first time, which had been hard and rushed as had happened in the spur of the moment. This time his kiss was tender and slow and passionate, as if he was taking his time.

The kiss deepened as you moved one hand up to the back of his head, feeling the warmth of the shaved side of his head touching your palm while your fingers tangled in his dark curls. You would never deny that Sihtric had been on your mind ever since that first kiss that had caused him to be restrained and locked up, and you had been secretly longing to feel his lips touch yours again.

You drowned in his kiss, tasting the apple juice on his tongue which he had sipped through a straw while you were talking moments before, and he squeezed your waist almost bruisingly as he moaned softly in your mouth with each stroke of your tongue he felt against his. He then picked you up, so easily with his strong arms hooked under your knees, and he pushed you up against the wall while you made out passionately. You enveloped your legs around his waist and wrapped your arms around his neck, breathing hard while you were pressed between his warm body and the cold wall. You kissed each other roughly and with a hunger that could not to be stilled, no matter how deep the kiss was, but you were rudely disturbed and pulled back to reality when the alarm sounded through the Willow House again, and you both broke the kiss before the guards ran past his room.

You had managed to keep your steamy encounter with Sihtric a secret, and it eventually turned out to only be the first of many times you would be pushed up against the wall in his room, with his hands roaming your body while his tongue was deep inside your mouth. And numerous times he would sit you up on the desk in your office, kissing you just as passionately while the door was locked and the blinds were closed. You had fallen in love with him and Sihtric didn't have to use his words to tell you he was in love with you all the same, it was written all over him.

You truly believed he wasn't crazy, he just couldn't be. You had read his files over and over again in your office, day after day, trying to figure out what was going on with him. But just like before, you couldn't figure out why he received the treatment he was given. It almost broke your brain trying to wrap your head around it, because nothing about it made sense. The only conclusion you kept coming to was that Sihtric did not need to be medicated, that he truly did not belong at the asylum and that he was simply being mentally tortured and completely silenced for no reason at all. And that all made everything so much more painful.

Every time you met Sihtric one on one he greeted you with a tight hug and a kiss, making it clear that you were his rock in all this madness and that he only really felt safe with you. And Sihtric didn't hide the fact he desperately longed to be with you. He craved to feel you every second he was awake, and it was simply another form of torture but a more pleasant one, or so he believed. And it is not that you didn't have an aching desire for him all the same, but you already told him several times that you and him needed to keep a professional distance, no matter how hard it was. You knew that if you would ever be caught you would get fired, and then there would be no way to help him ever again. But you weren't always strong either, and you often gave in to the temptation of kissing him and allowing yourself to love him without saying the words, by holding him tightly wrapped in your arms as you sat on his bed together. And he'd always tell you how soothing it was to him to hear your heartbeat, and how he had dreamed about you every night since he met you and he called you the most endearing names you had ever heard.

Sihtric's passion for all things dark and macabre were also part of his love language, as he often gifted you the skulls of small dead animals he had found outside while strolling through the secluded asylum's garden. And he gifted you one again the last time you spoke, when you wanted to hear more about his dreams as he was being vague about those and couldn't quite come to the point of what he felt those dreams meant, but before you could ask him more about it, your private time with him was over again.

You only had several hours a day with him, and you covered your alone time together by stating it was a form of therapy, which wasn't a complete lie since Sihtric was improving greatly when you managed to decrease his medication for the time being. But it all went wrong again on the night of the full Moon, when Sihtric seemingly lost his mind in the communal room and began to claim something was haunting him. You noticed his pupils were huge when you approached him and his skin was incredibly pale. He scared you for the first time since you met him. He wasn't violent, but you knew something was definitely wrong once he began to shout in Latin towards the centre of the room, where the old fireplace was located.

The alarm soon rang when Sihtric started to shout louder while he was seemingly getting crazier too, and before you could interfere he was already shoved against the wall and pushed down on the floor by several guards. You covered your ears while Sihtric desperately shouted your name for help when he saw Skade approach with a syringe, knowing he was going to be medicated again, and you knew it would be to the point where he mixed up reality and his dreams again. You felt sick when you heard the witch of a nurse order the guards to lock Sihtric into the isolation cell for the night, because you knew that holding cell was just a torture room; you could only stand or sit on the small bench, as there was no place to lay down or get comfortable in any way. And sitting down was painful too, as the space was so small that his knees would press painfully against the metal door. But no one listened to you when you tried to stop him from being tortured once again.

And you cried yourself to sleep that night in your own bed, knowing Sihtric was locked in a tiny dark and cold room, with his hands chained behind his back. And all Sihtric could do was sit painfully squished between the walls and lean his forehead against the cool door, while the medication they kept giving him over night kept him in a delusional state. And the only consolation he had was that he dreamed of you for hours on end while being half awake at all times.

He wept silently in the dark as he smiled while his mind played tricks on him, because everything felt so real, it was pure bliss to him. The way he met you at a Halloween fair and how he had fallen for you right away. The way you discovered the horror maze together and kissed after you had both tumbled over between the haystacks. How you went ghost hunting together and how he finally took you to that Halloween party, just like he had promised. A soft moan escaped his lips when his mind made him believe he made love to you countless times, and a maniacal laughter echoed through the quiet halls at night as he envisioned the way he killed Skade with an axe, and so broke the curse he believed she had put on him.

He dreamt of a domestic life with you, cooking dinner for you and being cuddled up on the couch while watching a horror flick late at night. And he desperately murmured your name in the dead of night when he imagined how you pleased him with your mouth, and he drooled with the need to have his head between your thighs to taste your juices in return. And at last he dreamed again of all the lives he lived with you before this one, and he thought of the Vampire of Bebbanburg and how he felt the presence of his ancestor running through his veins at all times.

'Devil,' Sihtric slurred after another dose of medication had been shoved down his throat at three in the morning, 'I got the… devil,' he whispered, exhaustedly, 'devil in my… blood.'

The next morning Sihtric woke up in his bed, confused and disorientated while his wrists ached. His hands searched for you under the sheets, but you weren't there, and he grabbed onto his pillow instead.

You had caught a glimpse of Sihtric when he was being dragged back to his room after spending the night in isolation, his head hanging down while two guards held his arms and left his feet to drag over the floor behind him. You had lost your mind upon seeing the awful state he was in and had argued heatedly with Skade about the medication he was given overnight and his overall treatment.

'You could've killed him!' you shouted, not in control of your emotions anymore.

'And yet he lived!' Skade shrugged, 'something is wrong with him!'

'Have you considered that you are giving him everything that makes it so there is something wrong with him!? Whatever you have been giving him overnight was sure as hell not allowed!'

'The medication leaves his body too fast!' Skade argued, 'it's like his blood fights it within only a few hours! It shouldn't be possible!'

'Then why is no one looking into that!? Has anyone ever brought this up to him-'

'Sihtric claims vampire blood runs through his veins,' Skade scoffed, 'that man is a lunatic! You should've figured that out while you studied him,' she sneered, 'or were you too busy fucking him?'

You froze and swallowed hard. You and Sihtric had never given in to the sexual desires you both had for each other, but you felt that Skade knew there was more going on between the two of you. You shut the conversation down by storming out of the room, and after a few hours of demanding that you wanted to speak with Sihtric in private, you finally were allowed to visit him in his room.

Sihtric immediately lit up upon seeing you as you sat at his table, and you asked him how he was doing. He told you his wrists were aching and you soon found out that Sihtric had no memory of what had happened to him during the night, as he was still stuck in his head and could not separate reality from his dreams anymore, even though he seemed clear headed. You managed to ask him again about the dreams he had, which he had told you about before he got locked away. And he then finally told you his dreams felt like past lives you've had together, and he described several lives in which you supposedly had met and fallen in love, only for it to end in a terrible and heartbreaking way over and over again. Your blood ran cold as you listened to him describe his dreams, because Sihtric wasn't just describing his own dreams in detail, he was also describing the dreams you've been having for years. You have had the same dreams and nightmares long before you met him in the asylum, but the man you dreamt about was always faceless and wild haired, yet now suddenly he seemed to have a face, and it was Sihtric.

It had always been Sihtric.

You jumped up and left his room without saying a word, and back home you panicked as you tried to come to your own senses again. Because Sihtric wasn't crazy, and you were always meant to be, but it scared you because how were you supposed to be together in this life?

You met Sihtric again a few days later, after you had taken some time to let everything soak in. He took your breath away when you saw him, as always, and he wanted to hug you and kiss you immediately. It pained you to deny him, so you gave in briefly before you had to make the horrible choice of trying to snap him out of his delusional state. Sihtric quickly became confused and agitated when you kept asking him questions that made no sense to him. He didn't understand why you couldn't remember how you had met him, at the Halloween fair, or all the dates he had taken you on ever since. And Sihtric felt like the ground had opened up beneath his feet, causing him to fall into a black hole like an angel who had lost his wings, once he realised where he was and that all of it had only happened in his head. You tried to calm him down, but his panic had already alarmed the guards.

And before he was dragged away from you, you confessed your feelings for him and promised him that he wasn't crazy, to which Sihtric begged you to get him out of the asylum. And then you had to watch how he was being taken away from you, again, and this time he would be locked in the asylum's basement, because he had crossed too many lines in only a few days, but he then suddenly began to aggressively resist the punishment. Sihtric's state scared you because of his violent fits that you had witnessed, but the violence you had seen before was nothing compared to what you were to witness next.

You ran after him while Sihtric was being dragged through the gloomy hallway, away from his room and towards the door that led to the basement. But Sihtric managed to break out of the grip that the guards had on him, and it seemed he was stronger than he had ever been before. You watched the horrors unfold as you stood with your back pressed against the wall, only a few paces away, and then Skade appeared with a syringe in her hands to sedate Sihtric once again. But he wasn't going to allow her anymore and he ran past you with blind fury after he had managed to take down the guards. Sihtric made way to the protective glass case mounted on the wall which held a fire axe, meant for emergencies only, but he figured now was a good time for an emergency. He somehow shattered the thick glass with his elbow, causing blood to drip gush out as he tore the axe out of the box, and he stalked towards Skade before she could even understand what was happening.

Everything happened so fast and it was all so chaotic. The alarm blared through the asylum, guards screamed in agony after Sihtric had broken several of their bones, and then the only sound you heard was Sihtric's loud grunts each time he slammed the axe down into Skade's body while she shrieked. You wanted to scream, but no sound left your mouth as you watched her blood splatter everywhere, painting the white walls red, while you felt numb and couldn't seem to stop the massacre that was happening. And deep down you didn't want to stop Sihtric, because you knew what she had done to him all these years, and you also knew that he was completely clear headed now and knew exactly what he was doing. For the first time in a very long time he had managed to take control of his life again, and you would not take that away from him.

More guards and nurses came running when the slaughter was already over, and they found Sihtric covered in blood as he knelt down next to the butchered body. He dropped the axe with a psychotic and satisfied grin on his face before he was beaten unconscious and then thrown into the dark, damp and cold basement, where they chained him to the wall with rusty metal chains.

And now you had to figure out a way to break him out of the asylum.

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rise-my-angel · 1 year

Text

Heart of the Great Wolf

12 - The Cost of Our Sins

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 10.2k

Warnings: Angst/hurt comfort, slow burn, traumatic and disturbing imagery, gore, physical abuse, confinement and restraints, reference/allusions to rape, trauma response, torture, suicidal ideation, past character death

Notes: I am so sorry for..well...pretty much everything, cus the horror show does not end at the last chapter strap in because part 3 starts now. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here.

Numb is all you felt, a radiating sensation of death that sat through your body still on it’s side. Your eyes could not open, as you felt the pooling of blood in your stomach. The warmth soaked feeling where a son once lay inside you. You had looked into Robb’s eyes as yours faded with him. You had gone together, and now you lay there with the seconds of an awoken mind. Eyes fluttering open was not that of the scene you died, but something worse.

It was fire. Blood and fire all around as you barley could open your eyes long enough to see what your sins had cost you. Was it the Seven, the Old Gods, or the fire god your father had found in that sought to punish you? You lay looking through bars that caged you at the hell before you, it was your punishment for all crimes you had found in.

The world before this ended you and Robb Stark together and somewhere in this hell your gods decided that you could not reunite until you were given fair just sentence for your sins. Push through this, you thought, let the gods do with you as they wish and they will allow you to return in the veil to him, to him and your son.

Chanting that in your ears sounded like they were moving underwater, you felt too heavy to lift your head to look. Your body burned and bled still and your muscles could not move but that of your eyes to the blur around you. The chanting grew louder and louder as a group rounded a corner of wherever you were brought too, and it was your husband that they called too. A chanting of King in the North, over and over as you watched his own punishment. The gods were far more cruel then you ever imagined as you watched what they forced you to atone in.

It was Robb, but propped up against something, the black outfit was the very one you recalled your living self, lovingly dressing him in. And the shine in his bright blue eyes as they looked over you with as much love as you had in your heart. But it was soaked in blood as you lay, and not the face of your husband.

Instead, the sight of The Young Wolf was that as you were The Silent Stag. His head bloodied, but like it had formed into that of a giant direwolf, like he turned into his very companion in Grey Wind as it looked propped on his body. The gods, forcing him to live what he was called and you as your own as you lay in a choking cry unable to find the strength to speak or cry to him through the blood in your mouth.

His sight was mocked by the demonic creatures you could barley see around him, before the water in your eyes blurred him, before the fading came once more. You accepted the horror that he did not deserve. This was for your sins.

Let the gods do this, and once more you would wake. In the realms beyond the living, Robb at your side with an arm around you, as you held your son, little Ned. You promised to always be together.

The gods would punish you, and allow you to be together once more. You and Robb just had to endure this horror, and you would finally be together again.

That was all you had to do to get back to him.

Skies were dim as you ventured further into the lands, leaving a drab feeling blanketing over the land that fit the state of mind you lived in. According to the rumblings in the men, you had been in and out of conciseness for almost a fortnight, leaving you to assume that the last of the summer sun had died out and only the dim of autumn remained. Not that you missed the sun, the last time it shined in any way that you could appreciate was so far off you bared not thinking about it.

Watching the men around you act like normal had made you angry in those first few days you woke up, but now it was all meaningless to try and keep that energy up, you had none left in you really. The small cage off in the distance was your home for a bit, mostly a place you were tossed to wait and see if you would ever wake up, but then once you had? They kept you shoved in there just to keep you from lashing out.

The first day one of the men had approached you to give you water, only to slide his hand into the bars as your hands were tightly bound. He still wore an ugly dressing over the mark where you bit him, your mouth still stained somewhat with blood from how hard you dug your teeth in. After that, multiple men had to drag you out and hold you down so they could gag you which had stayed on you for the most part, including now.

But you were too exhausted to fight, your face and skin were constantly flush and hot with sweat as your head grew more fuzzy and dizzy each day. Once it was determined you were indeed alive and not going to bleed out, apparently some kind of infection set in just to make you more pathetic. Currently as camp was made for the night you were granted some freedom.

The men assigned to watch you noting that you were mostly docile, leaning your head against the iron bars with a distant and dispondant look, to weak to even roll your eyes at their comments. You had been allowed to be let out, and brought to a tree where you now sat tied up against. What a sight you must have been, flush and sweaty, covered in grime to the point it matted in your hair, and still wearing the very dress you had been that night, still soaked in dried blood.

It was a living nightmare, your dreams flashing in a repeating horror with the strings of music that would forever haunt you, only to awake to the men all finding it in their cold hearts, to sing it outloud. You wondered if they even knew other songs, or if it was just all a sick game to torment you as they dragged you with them. If one more of them sung that Lannister song, you were going to find a way to free your hands just to cut off your own ears.

Perhaps it was the fever in your head, but you had no sense of what to feel anymore. It was so twisted all wrong, and you had not the heart to find it’s truth in front of all these people. Not them, not after what they’ve done.

Your eyes flickered up in a painful glare as footsteps approached, and the figure kneeling in front of you raised an eyebrow at your state. “Now, my lady, if I take this off are you going to behave, or will you need a refresher?” His hand pointing to your eye. Right, that must be just adding to your state, likely bruised by this point when he had hit you hard across the face after you kicked away the food he brought you.

You wanted nothing from Roose Bolton, but he insisted on finding ways to keep you alive. A true mockery that felt now. Your stomach burned where the slices refused to heal or fade. You looked off to the side dejectedly, and he took that was an answer.

Pulling the fabric down from between your teeth you bit your tongue and continued to not look in his direction. “It’s been almost a fortnight since you’ve eaten, and days since you’ve had any water. If I’m going to keep you alive, we’re going to have to fix that problem.”

“Then don’t keep me alive. Wouldn’t be the first time.” You barley recognized your voice, it was hoarse and so rough that your throat screamed at you to douse it in water and smooth it down with honey to ease the pain. Tearing your eyes back up to him as your head lulled to rest back against the bark you raised your eyebrows at him in challenge.

His ability to keep calm in any situation no longer was a point of impressive resolve, but an angering fester in your stomach at his lack of humanity. “It was not a matter of personal affairs, just politics, my lady.”

Your breath cracked out a single laugh that almost made you cough. “Where is the utility in keeping me alive, when you sure tried your best to do the opposite?” You couldn’t ignore the burning inside of you, it was as if you’d pull your dress up and see a blackness toxifying around what was left.

“This is neither the time nor place to discuss such matters. Not in your fragile state.” Huffing another cracked laughter you asked him what he even wanted. “Right now I want to ensure I can get myself, my men, and even you into the Dreadfort in one piece. When we arrive I will have our maester treat you, then we can speak more.”

You felt dizzy even just sitting up against a tree like this, the air was obviously getting colder judging by the state of dress going around but you neither were covered in anyway to help, nor did you really feel it. It was as if you were in the dark swampiness of the Crannogmen lands but instead of a misty air it was humid and sweltering like a Dornish sun. All you could muster was a huff.

Leaning forward with a skin of something, he opened the cap and took a sip before holding it up with an expectant look. “It will be far easier to get us past the Ironborn if I have you on a horse instead of dragging you around in a cage. But I need to know you will cooperate if I do. I’ll even keep let you stay ungagged.”

Leaning forward with the skin once more before he was uncomfortably close to your face, “I wouldn’t test me further, my lady. The only thing keeping these men from raping you every night is my order, and I’m quite sure in this state you wouldn’t survive as many as have talked about it. So either it’s me, or I leave you now to the mercy of my men.”

There was no place in arguing, you had nothing to fight back with. Jaw clenched as you fought back the angry pounding in your heart, you nodded. Roose seemingly satisfied enough that he gently placed the skin to your mouth. The water down your throat felt so soothing that it made your insides wish to cry, but you had no energy for it. So you let him give you the water, and come morning maybe you would feel less like a floating bundle of delusions.

He left you alone after that, but just as he said none came over to you. You think there were groups that had their eyes on you, but it was difficult to see. In the dark, the blurriness of your vision only let you see what was in front of your face and everything else was blurs of shapes and fire.

Late into the night, you fell asleep once more. The only thing which came to you, was the sight of Roose plunging the knife he struck you with into the chest of Robb and the strings of music that had played only seconds before it all. That’s all you saw anymore, and you couldn’t remember if you ever dreamed in any way before that night, all you saw and heard was those two things again and again.

One man, dark eyes with a creeping look that would once have made you on edge was the one who fetched you come morning. He spoke some, expected nothing in return. Pointing a knife at your unresponsive face as he threw out, “You run or hit me, and I’ll knock that pretty face around enough to leave a mark that’ll stay ugly. Got it?” Merely untying you did nothing, since your hands were still bound tight enough to keep you from struggling them from behind.

Yanking you up to your feet he walked you though the camp to where the horses were stood ready to go. Another man next to what seemed to be his, smirked as he nodded to you like a silent object. “Know it’s been a rough few years when even this one looks good ‘nuff to make a man jealous.”

Knocking him in the arm, he moved with him to hoist you up onto the horse, your vision spinning drastically at the movement with no way to steady yourself. The first dark eyed man, Locke, climbed up behind you, taking your bound hands into his grip and yanking you back to hiss in your ear. “Be smart now, lass. There’s nothing round us but Ironborn and best bet no one’s gonna protect your honour once you’re alone with them. You gonna be a smart girl?” Nodding with a clenched jaw, he hummed satisfied.

Shoving you off of him before the rest of the men all begun to take off. They’d have to take the day to sneak past the bordered scouts and by then, if they pushed hard they could make it to the Dreadfort by next daybreak. You couldn’t possibly wonder what awaited you there, but at the minimum, threat of death was far from any worry in your mind.

Waking up for good had felt like a new kind of death, a confusion that tore you up and threatened to swallow you whole. Making no sense at first, you had died you knew it. Or, you thought you did. Not a thing had felt like the way you were fading and yet you were here now. You dared not think of the memory of fire and chanting you were so sure as a deathly torment of the gods. If you thought of that, you might bringing up the only thing in your stomach, of water and bile and you refused to look at yourself in anyway. The red staining your dress was there until the mercy of new clothes might be granted if ever.

You had no right to be here, you had promised him. You and Robb promised the other that it would be until your last day, together. Not one without the other, you found your fate dying beside him but yet you were alive and the memories of him would paint before your mind like cries in the night.

Something was quite wrong inside you, but you felt like there wasn’t enough awareness in you to see what it was or what was missing. All you knew is that you were trapped in this memory of that night, and you couldn’t see a single thing in the world around you except that and here.

If there was a world and people that existed besides this nightmare, you could not find them.

“So you admit you murdered Qhorin Halfhand?”

Standing in the main hall before three men, having found nothing right when Jon awoke. Lord Commander Mormont as Sam said, dead. Murdered in a mutiny, and leaving him to hope that he learned enough from the Old Bear to get through to the rest.

Jon saw nothing but conflict in his actions, and as he stood there now it was clear that it didn’t matter what they thought of him, it mattered that he make them understand what no one else seemed to truly get. Neither side got it, it seemed. “I didn’t murder him.”

Ser Alliser Thorne looked him down with the same contempt he always had, and if he had his way without question he would’ve ended Jon then and there the second he rode through the gates. “No? You put your sword through a brother of the Night’s Watch. What do you call that?”

“He wanted me to kill him.”

Lord Janos Slynt sat to the left, leaning partially across the table with the same puffy and slime filled smugness he always held. Full of respect for none but his own reputation, and yet he was here down in the icy ends of the world like the rest of them. “The bastard son of a traitor. What would you expect?”

The man was lucky Jon wasn’t as young and brash as he was in his first months here. He tried putting a knife through Ser Alliser in a rage for a similar comment once upon a time. Instead, he kept his composure and attention on the later man and Maester Aemon listening intently to his right. “The Halfhand believed our only chance to stop Mance was to get a man inside his army.”

Ser Alliser interrupting with a gritted roughness that Jon could sympathize with. “Don’t talk about the Halfhand as if you knew him. He was my brother.”

They were all brothers now, even you, Jon thought. Ser Alliser certainly wasn’t a fan of Jon, nor he in return but he knew losing a brother wasn’t easy and it certainly didn’t make Jon feel like he was doing the right thing when he killed him. He agreed with the man himself to do it, and he agreed with why, but he still put his sword through the Halfhand. His first true kill and that would forever be a bloodstain on his hands. “Then you’d know he’d do anything to defend the Wall. The free folk would have boiled him alive, but letting me kill him-”

Slynt had the gall to laugh, like there was anything in Jon’s entire existence anymore that even could give the slightest bit of amusement. “The free folk? Listen to him, he even talks like a wildling now.”

The rage for a minute spilled out of his mouth as Jon raised his voice to him, “Aye, I talk like a wildling. I ate with the wildlings, I climbed the wall with the wildlings, I-” There was that wave again. One that made him feel uncomfortable and bordering on a guilty kind of dirty that he couldn’t scrub away no matter how hard. It was there and they would all only see one thing, but it didn’t feel anything the way they were going to.

Then Jon thought of you, and it just made it all the worse. But he had to be honest in some regards, he wasn’t going to get through to these men by lying. He had to just say it the only way any would care or believe him with. “I laid with a wildling girl.”

“You admit to breaking your vows, then?”

If that’s what they were going to focus on, what would it even take to convince them to take him seriously on anything else. He did break his vows, but not willingly, and not with the only person who deserved to have them broken for.

Janos Slynt continued his petty tirade that Jon was growing increasingly annoyed with. “The law is law, the boy must die.” And what law did you break to get here, my lord? What had you done to find yourself from City Watch Commander to the Night’s Watch, what mercy were you shown to not die for your crimes, Jon thought.

Maester Aemon however, seemed to care not for where they saw fit to debate Jon on. “If we beheaded every ranger who lay with a girl, the Wall would be manned by headless men.”

Ser Alliser trying to argue, “There’s a difference between sneaking off to the Mole’s Town brothel and sleeping with the enemy.” Somehow Jon knew that telling him the only alternative was death, wouldn’t exactly give him any more leniency, but he like Aemon, had no time for this.

“Aye, there is a difference. Sneaking out to a brothel doesn’t give you detailed information about their enemy plans and numbers. And while we sit here debating which rules I broke, Mance Rayder marches on the wall with an army of a hundred thousand.”

They tried to protest that was impossible, but he’d seen it. He had walked through that camp and felt nothing but a building dread for what was to come of any of this. “He’s united the Thenns, the Hornfoots, the Ice-River Clans. He has giants fighting for him.”

The degree to which Jon was getting fed up with Janos Slynt was immeasurable. The man laughed while looking at the other two who didn’t find anything funny about it. “Giants?”

Jaw tight, he looked to the waste of air with a barley held back lack of respect on his face. “Have you ever been beyond the Wall, ser?”

There was that huff of pride in his face once more. “I commanded the City Watch of King’s Landing, boy.”

“And now you’re here. You must not have been very good at your job.” Jon would have no way of knowing it, but another voice with serious eyes and a dismissive snark echoed in Janos Slynt’s ears.

The voice of a woman who he had no reasonable way of knowing meant a single thing to dark curly haired man in front of them. The girl had spent many of her days on the council questioning his capabilities, and insulting him all the same as this one. But Jon ignored his outrage as she always would.

“There’s a band of wildlings south of the Wall already led by Tormund Giantsbane. I killed their warg and three others, they shot me full of arrows. Their orders are to attack Castle Black from the south while Mance hits it from the north. Their signal for the attack will be a bonfire, Mance said it would be the greatest fire the North has ever seen. That’s the truth. All the truth.”

They didn’t execute him, or at least not that day Jon thought to himself. As he slept that night though, he still saw you dying on the floor in your own blood. Sam had tried asking him about the girl, about Ygritte. Especially since he now had Gilly in his life but Jon knew there was no comparing. From what he could tell, Gilly had more of a strange sheltered life then any of them, and she was nothing like the aggressive and hypocritical anger of the wildling girl Jon had travelled with.

But he didn’t want to talk about Ygritte, he didn’t want to talk about having to send his only protection in Ghost away just to save his cover from that of death. Didn’t want to talk about what he was forced to do and how he tricked himself into thinking it was all fine just to cope with it.

Only a few times did Sam try to gently bring up the other, but Jon shot it down every single time. He already felt pain and anger about it, about Robb. Jon certainly didn’t want to talk about you. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Jon had a job to do, and he was haunted enough in his dreams of your death to have Sam try and comfort him about it. Besides, he didn’t even have Ghost now. He hadn’t seen him since sending him off and all he could remember in his waking hours, was the two of you sitting in front of the Weirwood. Ghost still tiny curled up in your lap as you sat in his arms.

He was losing everything it seemed, but he’d be damned if he lost this place, the only thing that served from the gods to provide Jon with any kind of purpose. In this coming war, or the one foreboding against them in the distant colds of the far North.

The Dreadfort was a befitting name you supposed. It stood tall in what looked like the middle of nowhere, cleared land all around the high walls, that build up on the inside to the highest fort in the dead centre with edges at the top looking like sharp, imposing teeth. As your eyes drifted along it, a woozy feeling came over you from the last push to get into the lands past the remaining Ironborn. Gates opening, the court was as drab and deary as the rest of it and yet the people all scattered around were normal.

Roose Bolton climbed from his horse first to greet a figure awaiting in the distance, and introducing his new wife. Walda was a bit younger then you, and certainly held more life in her eyes and face then you did. A brightness as she was brought into the castle where you were pulled off the front of the horse by two men.

Turning from the other man, Roose looked to them with orders, “Put her in a cell, and have Maester Wolkan look her over.” You hardly had a chance to see or hear anything else as you were dragged into a deeper part of the structure. The cells in your vision were along a single wall and quite small as the only light was a small set of torches lit along wall corners.

None said a word to you, but you went willingly as they opened the doors. Cutting your hands free behind your back before tossing you in and closing behind you. The echos of their feet fading off until it was the flickering of the flames left alone with you.

Wincing as you dragged yourself up with palms braced on the ragged ground before finding a resting spot against the wall and side of the cell. Resting your head along the bars you couldn’t figure out what it was you were feeling. Your body held an ache all over where some places burned like a festering would alight.

Eyes barley focusing on the wall beyond your cell, they wanted to let tears fall freely but you simply had nothing left in you. The shock of waking up had passed by this point, and now all that was left was the murky depths left behind and only one thing at a time could come to the surface for air. You could still hear the strings playing, the hall filling with music that had you, nor anyone, suspect a thing until it was already over.

You hardly thought any other music existed, it looped in your mind as did the damning stop of it as the instruments blurred to weapons. Perhaps it was your doom to sit reliving such a moment and yet you found nothing in you to say Roose Bolton took you just to let you rot.

He had tried to kill you, and you had even lay there beside Robb thinking he had succeeded until..the wall torch fire before you flashed to another fire, and that turned to yells and chanting and in a split second you flew a hand to to grasp tightly at one of the bars as your lungs gave out. You told yourself not to think about it, you said you would never look back to that sight-

A door opening had you slam your eyes shut, breathing so harshly out that you felt the dizziness spin around you. Your hand still gripped the bar so tightly though that it strained your hand into a cramp as you willed your panic to swallow. “My lady,”

Slowly you opened them, trying to stay still as you glanced up and to the side where a man you didn’t recognize stood. Two guards behind him, but you did note the chains across his robes before sighing and turning away.

The guards entered behind him to stand at attention as he came towards you. “My lady, I am Maester Wolkan, I am here to see how your health is faring.” He knelt down in front of you as you huffed out a painful spit of air as it trying to fake a laugh. “I understand you have been through a lot, if you would allow me?”

Rolling your head to the side so he could see your still discoloured eye, he tilted your head back and forth to see the other cuts along you. “How long have you had this fever?” You didn’t answer, you didn’t even know. It had been days since you woken up, and it’s felt both like years of pain have passed through you and only seconds since losing everything of your life.

Wolkan lightly soaked a cloth in a small basin of water before dabbing it across your forehead, the coolness of it making you hiss towards the feeling against your burning skin. Taking it upon himself, he washed away some of the blood and grime on your face as the water left a cool sheen on it.

“Can you stand on your own?” Your eyes narrowed in confusion before remembering he was there to look at your wounds, when truthfully you didn’t see the point. Nodding, you hissed in lifting yourself up, letting him look over your arm, pulling apart the torn fabric near your shoulder to look at the deep unhealed scar inside of it. “Any pain or difficulties moving this arm at all?”

You shook your head no, passing your notice, that it made him pause, looking at you almost puzzled for just a moment. He must have been told some of the wounds, as gently asked you, “I will have to undo the laces against your back to check the one there.” You didn’t react, just looked to the nothing on the dark walls as he looked where you pushed away the memory of an arrow. Not the one which hit you, no, the ones that-

“This might seem a droll indecent, but I was informed you had received a significant injury on your stomach and I will need to take a look at it.” You were stuck at the arrows, not thinking of anything else after reliving the seconds as they hit him, and your eyes finding a watering that luckily was hard to see in this light.

The man had to gently pull up the skirt of your dress, trying carefully not to peel it on the sensitive skin as he revealed what you had no bravery to look at. But by not looking at it, you also missed the shocked, almost dreadfully fearful astonishment in Wolkan’s face. “My lady how did-”

“Ask your lord, he will know better.”

The finality in your tone ended that line of thought in his head, but his eyes were so focused on the wounds that you begun to shake from the lack of energy. Dropping it back down he gently grabbed your upper arms, “Here, you can sit once more.”

It took some time for him to come to an assessment, packing up some of his things. “I fear you have an infection, my lady. The lack of food and water likely making it overstay it’s place for much longer, I will have simple water and broth sent down to you for the next while. As well as a potion that will help speed the process.” Glancing down to your stomach and then your dulled eyes he paused, “It is the-”

“I don’t want to to hear it, just send me what I need to take and I’ll take it. Now if we are finished Maester, I’d like to be left alone to rot in the quiet.” Watching you for a few significant moments, he respected your wish and made his way to leave.

Normally he would inform you the degree which it would make you ill before getting better, but he had the feeling you had very little care on such a side effect. Such a state you were in, how bloodied and unwell you were as Lord Bolton dragged you across much of the North, and then was the wounds on her stomach..as far as Wolkan in all his knowledge could tell anyone, there shouldn’t have been a soul who could have survived that.

It hadn’t healed, but it was as if it was to stay open and deep without having any impact on the skin around it. It was a gruesome, violent, jagged series of scars all connected together, and yet it was as if they existed separate of your body.

In the main hall, the Greyjoy in Ramsay Snow’s care looked as unwell and ragged as the lady in the cells, but subservient to the point it made many uncomfortable. “If Bran and Rickon are alive, the country will rally to their side now that Robb Stark is gone.”

Theon pausing in his actions shaving the younger man, a horror in his eyes that was desperate to be pushed back down before it swallowed him whole. Ramsay with no genuinity in his sorrowful tone. “Oh that’s right, Reek. Robb Stark is dead.”

Roose Bolton notably said nothing to stop his sons torment of Theon. Turning to Locke instead he gave the man an offer, “Find those boys and I’ll give you a thousand acres and a holdfast.”

Locke asking on any ideas where to start, and the beginnings of a true mistake unknowingly spilling from Roose’s mouth in instruction. “Jon Snow is at Castle Black. Their bastard brother, he could be sheltering them, he may know where they are. Even if he doesn’t he’s half Stark himself which means he could prove to be a threat. Especially if he learns of our most recent prisoner,” Pausing as he looked to Ramsey with something that Theon couldn’t yet grasp, how could he? He didn’t know any of who else they were keeping here besides himself.

Looking back to Locke, Roose was specific with your name on his lips that way too quickly made Theon swallow harshly, “Make sure no mention of her presence here gets out. Jon Snow was close with the girl, and she is his brothers widow. If he isn’t hiding the boys, he may still learn that she’s being kept here. And I don’t care to have him bringing a fight to our doorstep to get her back.”

His instructions included killing you, that much was made clear from Tywin Lannister but apparently you were a frustrating little fighter. It was a surprise to find later in the night, you were still alive. He had come up as the blood was all still fresh, knocked you with his foot onto your back and you were as dead as every other corpse in the hall. You and Robb both pale, blood had spilled out and stopped, and not a pulse to be felt as both your eyes sat wide, colourless, and defeated. There was no question about it.

Until later when he had returned. Ensuring the giant direwolf had been taken care of, walking back in before the Freys and his men could do whatever with the bodies they wished. But as he approached the King and Queen, and with no one in the hall to have done so, suddenly, your eyes had been closed. And you had the faintest of pulses he’d ever felt, but it was there. He was sure he watched you die himself, but now you sat in his dungeon as a plan begun to formulate in his mind.

Time was difficult for you to gauge, but far longer had begun to pass then you realized, weeks and months that felt like seconds or years. In that time, Roose building the steps to a proper claim, and promised his bastard son, that if he could prove himself and retake Moat Cailin, then he would reconsider his position. Afterall, if you were alive anyways, you were of no use to Roose in the hands of his bastard, but in the hands of a legitimate heir? Perhaps the gods left you alive for a reason.

Roose just had to make sure that the half Stark at Castle Black heard no word of you being alive. Too many people underestimated Robb Stark for too long, and the same mistake would not be made twice, not for his brother. Ramsay has his own way of things, but Roose Bolton did not want to be the one to underestimate Jon Snow.

Gods, how much time had even passed? You felt in a daze that never ended, even worse then before. A servant for the Maester brought down a vile smelling potion which tasted even worse. Since you had kept nothing down. The broth and water seems to be your only diet to make having it come right back up less disgusting.

You were dripping in sweat, your head running so hot you wondered if the fire of the torch would even burn you. Sometime in the hours, or days that had passed you would see things your mind told you to not believe. Some of it you knew, most of it felt like a life that was beyond understanding.

Laying in bed, there was rain pouring out the high windows that blended with the river in the distance, the light of the moon dripping you in shades of blue matching his bright eyes as you lay bare on your side into the equally as bare chest of another. His hand drifting across your stomach so gently in touch as you nuzzled into their neck. The feeling of his curls dancing around your cheek before the strings begun.

The begun and as they played you opened your eyes in the same position as his hand raised now soaked in blood. Looking to you his blue eyes were in a terrified horror before you could see them go out all the same. Only as you lay there on your side, feeling the blood rushing from your stomach like it was to never end, did the room twist and turn to a red.

Red tones and fire all around as a voice in a foreign accent spoke in your ear. Their red hair hanging low as she spoke and if you had the strength to turn you could see the tight red ruby choked around her neck as she spoke. “Your Great Wolf to stand with you and your children together.”

You wanted to turn and lash out, scream that he was dead and so was the child in your womb but all that happened was blood rushing now from your mouth too. Too much blood that you begun to choke on it as you turned to her the red ruby trailing up until a pair of eyes met yours. Eyes of blue that sat on the head of a wolf it did not belong with, only as the faint chanting begun did your eyes snap open.

Turning to the corner behind you did you violently cough up nothing but water and bitter bile that scraped at your throat. One hand pressed against the wall and the other braced on the floor as you brought up what was hardly even there. Your throat burned as your stomach did, the servant who was bringing it down for you to drink would tell you it is to cleanse your system of the rot and it only felt like it spread violently.

No sense of night or day, you hardly even had enough resolve to pay attention to the schedule of the guards. The servant of the Maester seemed kind, but he was a young boy who didn’t know any better you suspected. No one else spoke to you, or much looked at you.

As you heaved to catch your breathe in between the pressure on your chest as you spit up more bile, you wondered if it mattered anymore. If none of them knew who you were, it would not matter what happened to you you maybe life would be easier if you just died on them.

It would be easier for you as well. But there was nothing for such a thing in the cell. Just dirt, and your own fluids that mixed horribly. If any were to find you now, they’d easily mistaken you for a filthy craven, and you felt like one.

You barley heard the footstep over the heaves of your breathe until they were speaking to you right outside the bars. “Oh my word,” Gasping you flung yourself back, almost pressing up against the wall with fright. You barley could recognize the fellow kneeling down looking at you, but you think perhaps he was in the courtyard when greeting Roose.

Hair dark to an almost black and laid flat across his forehead with eeiry pale blue eyes that were wide as they looked at you. You said nothing, untrusting of any face that looked at you in such a place. Looking you over, he sighed to himself. “I heard we had a guest, but such a shame to find you in a state such as this, my lady.”

Straightening your back, you dragged your knees up to your chest, as you narrowed your eyes. He simply shrugged to himself before holding a hand out through the bars, seeing you not move an inch as he grimaced and pulled back even slower. “Not a woman for formalities, I can understand that. Especially in a state such as this,” whistling out he looked you over in a way you could only describe as making you feel even dirtier then you were. “Why they didn’t even bother offering you new clothes, you’re stuck in the same bloody ones as you arrived. That will not do, a lady should at least have a pretty dress to go with such a pretty face.”

“What do you want?”

He reacted none to the bluntness, your voice scratched badly like claw marks scraped down your throat. “Well I would be remiss if I didn’t pay the late Queen in the North a visit.” You bit your tongue to the point it threatened to bleed, it was a mockery. Is that what you were supposed to see yourself as anymore, here thrown away in the dungeons to waste in the home of the very man who murdered your king? “Oh, I’m so sorry. Sensitive subject, I know.”

His voice was so exaggerated in his inauthenticity, you bought not a word and you thought you likely weren’t supposed to. “If you’ve come down here to mock me, fair not. Bolton’s men have seen fit to do that the entire journey, I am not with a lack of torment.”

It felt so unnerving, his eyes. The way they lingered on you in ways you couldn’t immediately detect the intention of and a glint behind them that terrified you beyond what anything you’d see. But you were lucky, you were too faded inside to show it as he spoke once more. “You wound me, my lady. We’re in the North you see, we supported our King in the North and his Queen. But, I suppose if he’s good and dead that doesn’t really make you one anymore does it?”

You didn’t care if you were a queen, you cared that you were Robb’s wife and now you broke your promise to stay together. You swore a vow in love and now you sat with his blood in your mouth and son dead from your womb. “Then again, you are still a Baratheon, does that make you a princess now? No, that doesn’t seem quite right either does it. A girl like you doesn’t scream princess.”

Finding the strength to turn away from him, you looked at the nothing of the dark wall. Your name quiet on your lips. “That’s all I am I suppose.”

“I seem to have you at a disadvantage, I know your name my lady but you don’t know mine do you? You’ve likely heard of me, most call me Ramsay, others call me Roose Bolton’s bastard son.” Your back chilled as you shivered, despite the sweat and the heat in your mind. So his family is all in on it, that was just what you needed to hear.

Turning your head to face him as it leaned against the wall, you raised an eyebrow dully. “Did you want something, or can I die in peace?”

He tsked as he stood up. “Now my lady, you can’t die. We haven’t spent nearly enough time together for me to be sick of you. I came to tell you, once you’re better, I can find you a nice room, a hot bath and we’ll see about any nice, pretty dresses we can get for you.”

Clearly, he did not care if you bought into him. It didn’t matter if you left this cell or not, you couldn’t see past the blood and the fog in your head marred by the strings of music. He only took a few steps away before spinning back to you in a dramatic fashion.

“How silly of me, I did come here with a present actually. You see, I have a little task I have to leave for, and I just couldn’t bear the thought if something happened to him and you didn’t get a chance to meet each other. My own servant, a very special boy I’ve whipped him up to be.” You narrowed your eyes as you felt your limbs weigh too much, you’d have passed out from exhaustion were he still not insisting on talking.

“If he does a good job while we’re away, I may just start lending him to you once we get you back on your feet. I’m sure he will be the perfect company. Reek, come say hello.” If you had anything left to bring back up to the surface of the world, you would have.��

Instead you lost all breathe, head spinning as you found the appearance of this so called present. Much like you, marred in grime and dirt and sickly appearance to their skin that matched with the matted hair grown out. As if their entire existence was in a detrimental fear, you felt a weight in your throat that kept you from any words.

Dark eyes that refused to look at a thing slowly drifted upwards until they met the agony of yours and your heart pounded until it flattened to nothing and left you woozy. There was a recognition in his eyes that you were to delusional and feverish to understand.

Something that in Ramsay’s delight of torment, did not see. A pain of who he was looking at and what state they both had ended up in, alone in the world trapped within the confines of the family of flayers and torturers. “Now Reek, it’s not polite to stare. I’m sure the lady isn’t quite ready so soon after her husbands tragic death, besides not like you have the ability to do anything about it.”

He shook and you narrowed your eyes in confusion with a tilt of your head, you felt the need to vomit once more as the potion swam through your stomach like it had for days now. Leaving you once more, Ramsay had to pull him away when he took half a second too long to part from your eyes. The dungeons fell quiet and dark once more and your mind only had enough time to feel even more confused until your stomach forced more burning up.

“And Theon? I want him brought to me alive. I want to look him in the eye and ask him why. Then I’ll take his head myself.”

Collapsing to the ground with a cry of pain, you curled up with your knees back against your chest. The hurt and betrayal on his face that day, the way only you seemed to give him any peace as you both stood unified in what he commanded. But this was no longer such a day, such a time.

The blue eyes you wanted to see were darker then those pale ones, and with an adoration you wanted to scream at. Robb didn’t want this for you, Theon. Neither of us did, you thought. You demanded justice at Robb’s side, but this was not justice.

If what you were holding back cries of pain for was not justice, you couldn’t imagine what found it’s way into his terror to make Theon Greyjoy look as frail and petrified as you felt.

He was fighting to call himself one or the other. Reek was screeching in his head that he would be punished for this, but Theon kept climbing the stairs anyways. It was quite late, and he was already under orders to bring you a meal but he was not given orders to speak to you. So why was he walking down and fighting to not do so?

Walk in, open the gate, sit the food down and return like Reek was ordered to do, but as he stood outside the cell door, it was like for a moment Theon screamed at him and sent Reek down past his consciousness. Voice stammering and weak did he mutter your name, he did it twice and maybe if he had to do it a third he would chicken out and leave. But you looked.

Sat against the wall with your knees to your chest, arms wrapped around them and your head tucked in the middle, you rose up and it was clear as day the tears. Theon wasn’t sure he’s ever seen you cry. Very few would have and you were good at keeping it to yourself, but then again, Theon was good at many things Reek was not.

Placing a small vial on the ground before moving to sit the tray beside you. He couldn’t even stammer out the words before you huffed out another tearful cry and kicked the tray from you. Sending him back in a jump. The way you looked up at him, who even were you on the inside? Did you not see yourself anymore as Theon saw Reek in his reflection? Had you even seen the state of yourself, eyes dulled to a weakness you’d never shown, eye still discoloured from where someone must have hit you and a flush to your skin that he knew came from having nothing in your system.

What happened? How did it happen? How did Robb-

He breathed out heavily as he snapped his head to attention. It poured out before he could stop himself from saying it. “I was wrong. I- I took Winterfell and I was wrong…” You said nothing. Your lips parted but closed once more with a heavy swallow. “I…”

“Theon,” your voice was so quiet. Somewhere in his mind, he recalled the people called you the Silent Stag, always quiet you were but just as notable. But this quiet wasn’t that, this was a whisper that worried it was too loud even in the stone of a dungeon. “I..we didn’t- it’s my fault.” You inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut for the action before opening them with a calmer look that refused to look at him.

“I didn’t know they’d do this..any of this..and we sent them. I’m sorry.”

Both inside him struggled how to feel, Reek had nothing to accept an apology for and yet Theon knelt forward to the ground. Crouching he slowly opened the vial with a shaky breathe before holding it to you. He wanted to speak and you could see it but neither pushed until he whispered it out like a deathly vow being broken as you drunk the liquid. “I didn’t kill them. Bran and Rickon. I didn’t kill them, I lied.”

Your lips fell open as neither of you looked anywhere but between your bodies on the floor. “Roose Bolton killed Robb. Shoved a knife in his heart, and a few times in me.” Likely you didn’t know why you showed him, or even told him, but Theon’s breathing quickened as you lifted the fabric. The skin underneath was utterly blood soaked in ways he’d only ever seen on those of the dead. But why were they on you if you were here? “If that isn’t vengeance..”

Theon wanted to stay and talk, but Reek heard the sounds of footsteps far in the distance and tore himself back. “I-” He didn’t look you in the eye, he couldn’t at this point. “I’ll come back.”

Your voice was far away, your eyes had lulled shut back into a dream of stringed nightmares as you muttered, “Of course you will. He’ll order you too.”

Your nails were bloody, but you think it was starting to carve properly. The nothing drawing in the wall that kept you occupied for most of the day now. It was silent for a while once you were better, guards came to bring you a meal and then it was back into the quiet. There was no outside world here, no wars once fought, no lives trying to find peace, nothing. Just the walls of your cell, and the carving you were scraping into the stone wall.

No sense of time came to you, it could have been years and you would be none the wiser of anything. Another war could have come and passed, not an inkling would’ve found you. You only saw the guards and the dungeon. You only dreamt of the blood and the strings as you awoke everytime knowing you failed him.

Every attempt to come out into your soul was hollow, something was missing and it was part of what made you human. You could only see the curls against blue eyes that looked to you desperate not to see you go. It broke your heart everytime you saw him.

The horror in your heart was settled somewhat in those final seconds, you would go together as you promised. From this day until our last day. And yet his last day was not yours, and you lived on without him. Guilt and shame ate away at you for breaking your vow to always be together, wherever his soul sat with the gods now you wondered if Robb was ashamed of you.

You lived on without him, and you lost his unborn son. There was nothing left of Robb Stark with you anymore and the only proof he ever was, was a scar running so jaggedly along your lower stomach that you could feel each time Roose stabbed it back inside you. Tracing it gently enough with your fingers. A terrible stroke of luck, or was it the gods forcing it onto you?

Because the longer you sat in that silence alone, the more you came up with ways to fix it. What reason were you to still be here, why were you still alive if your existence was less then a rats. It wouldn’t be easy in here, but you could do it if you were really desperate. You wanted to the more weeks passed into months as you were alone down here. Shut away from the world, a dead wife to the King in the North, sequestered down in a dingy cell in the Dreadfort. Captive of the family who did this to you, and nothing to do but think of how much Robb would hate what you’ve become.

This shell was not the woman he fell in love with, and you weren’t entirely sure you could even get that woman back now. Maybe part of you really did die beside him, and what remains in your body now is just the base of grief and anger that will burn through you until you’ve had enough.

The gods were cruel however. The day he came to see you, it was the understanding of why they bothered to keep you alive. A confident man, Roose Bolton walked up to your cell with the same collected look he has had since the day you met him. Glancing around the cell, he could see you made very little use of the space, as if always having to be positioned against the bars to see the opening of the main door.

“I assume by now you realize no one is coming for you.” Your eyes glared up at him in a silent contemptuous irritation. “The Seven Kingdoms all think you’re dead. Tragically killed at the side of your husband-”

“They know you’re the one who put a knife to him? Or have you let Walder Frey take all of the credit for that?” Roose raised an eyebrow at you, unexpected of the sharp and angry tone that came from an otherwise unwell prisoner. “Suppose it isn’t really you who the southerners care about anyways. You get to claim you killed an unarmed King, and his pregnant wife when you only did it because you had Tywin Lannister to hide behind the skirts of.”

Stepping forward to you, he looked down with ease as you craned your neck up to find his own, the anger in your voice did not match your eyes. “It is encouraging see you have put your time down here to good use. I kill Robb Stark and yourself, and in return I am given the title Warden of the North until the son of Sansa and Tyrion Lannister comes of age to take over. Unfortunately, there has been a problem in his planning.”

You twisted your face at the unpleasant imagery.

“Sansa has fled King’s Landing after the murder of King Joffery, and her imp husband is to go on trial.” A year ago you would have been thrilled at the news that your repulsive once cousin was dead, now though it was a non victory that felt hollow. The world indeed kept turning outside the walls and you were none the wiser of a single tinge of it. “Sansa’s son by Tyrion was intended to be the key to the North for the Lannisters as they have no other ties, now there is no child to inherit the North from me.”

Biting your tongue, you exhaled harshly through your nose to will the angry beating of your heart down to something manageable. “Did you come here to gloat about your new title or did you just want to remind me of what you’ve done.”

“My men are reclaiming what’s left of the Ironborn that stands in the road to Winterfell, and we will soon move there once my son has cleared the way. You will be coming with us. Willingly.”

Your voice scratched as you huffed a laugh, “And do tell, my lord. Why would I ever go with you willingly?” You watched as he knelt in front of you, and the frustration in your voice did not match how you pressed yourself against the wall further.

With every inch of your body you hated the quiet calm in his voice as he nodded to your attire. “Because if you do, I will make sure you are cleaned, properly fed, groom you up and dress you like a lady and not like that creature my son drags around. You won’t be able to leave the castle walls, or go anywhere outside without being under guard. But I won’t throw you back into a cell.”

Not a thought came to you that imagined yourself like that anymore. Your life was drenched in blood and memories of pain that blurred out the rest in it’s grief. Would you feel more like a person to even just breathe fresh air? Was that worth playing along with the man who betrayed his people and murdered your king and child?

Roose did not wait for any kind of response, moving towards the cell door when you asked, “Why? If I’m just a prisoner why bring me to Winterfell? No one even knows I’m alive, what would it matter if you keep me locked away in here?”

The blood inside you cooled to a freeze as you looked wide eyed with a hesitant fear that you know he caught onto. “If Ramsay is successful in retaking Moat Cailin, he will be granted a legitimate son and become a Bolton. The Lannisters won’t help me keep the North, but perhaps I don’t need them to. All the Stark men are dead, which means if Ramsay is a Bolton, he will be my firstborn son and heir. And he will be needing one of his own.”

Roose didn’t elaborate but he didn’t need to. You almost begun to bite your tongue so hard on unknowing it could have bled. You felt sick as you had days ago, but this was an illness rooted in a fear and bloody memories of your last. “You truly think I would ever let him-”

One eyebrow raised, his voice was patronizing as it was condescending. “Do you think you have any choice in the matter? Shall I reminder you how it is the world works?”

You glared up with as much energy as you could summon, a sneer on your own face as you sharply bit back, “Do use small words, my lord. I’m not as bright as you.”

You didn’t expect it to even effect him in the slightest. He rarely budged on anything, especially now when it is was he holds all the power. “You are a highborn lady, and if my son should succeed he will be a legitimate highborn to inherit my own lordship. You are also my prisoner, and I don’t think I need to remind you of my own stance on prisoner treatment. Ramsay doesn’t need your permission to use you to produce an heir.”

Do not show anything else you told yourself, do not let him see the fear in your heart. “I’m not a Northerner, Lord Bolton. I have no claim that could help you.”

A lightness in his eyes was the most genuine you had seen in since that night and you felt even more ill thinking on it. “No, but you were the Queen that Robb Stark chose, you were the Queen every Northern chose, my lady. That is claim enough for what we require.”

By the time you found any bravery left in your voice you called out to him before he could leave you alone in the darkness of the dungeon once more. “Did you ever believe in him? Or was it all just a lie the entire time? You served him for almost three years, was none of it ever true?”

Roose sounded as if he was giving a simple order to a servant, no care for his monstrosity. “I believed in Robb Stark right up until I shoved my dagger covered in your blood into his chest. But loyalty does not buy me money or power, and Tywin Lannister simply had the better offer.” The dagger sat on his waist, blood for you to see and all. You’d felt many illnesses down here, but it was that which made you loose every sense left to you.

The door closed and once more you were left in darkness. You weren’t sure when the tears had started, but this time you let them fall until your eyes dried out like sands in the Dornish summer.

You should have died with Robb, and you truly were beginning to think it was necessary to find a way to go back to him, one way or another. He had told you once you in those days before your wedding that you belonged in Winterfell, but what was your belonging in such a place without the wolves to keep you company?

The gods granted you a chilling answer to that question when some time later, they sent Ramsay Bolton down to your cell in the middle of the night, a disturbing glint in his unsettling pale eyes trained only on you.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine

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rensukei · 2 years

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↻ ...bound to happen

in which a whipped diluc is head over heels and literally won't do anything about it, so you take matters into your own hands. [ triggered, chase atlantic ]

cw smut, diluc story quest spoilers. unhinged!diluc, pretty ooc bcause i got carried away, somewhat cocky reader, size kink, light hair pulling, fingering (f!receiving), lotsa dirty talk, petnames, unproteced sex (wrap b4 you tap ladies and gents), dilucs a slut. wc: 2.5k

a/n i go nuts for this man. loco.

it's late. late late. the angel's share has rid of all its patrons, save the boisterous few straggling at the bar top.

"and— and you know what i said to him?" kaeya slurs out.

you, out of your hefty adventurer's clothing and instead swapping them out for more casual and comfortable attire, stand leaning against the counter as you indulge in kaeya's inebriated antics. "what'd you say?"

"as a matter of fact... right now i can't recall what i—" he pauses, taking a deep breath before he finished his sentence, "what i said."

"well," you begin to make your way around the bar, grabbing the half-empty glass from in front of the man as his expression drops, "i believe it's time for you to head on home, captain."

"ah, what time is it?" he murmurs out, barely loud enough for you to hear.

"12:47," a voice calls out from the storage room, "would you like an escort? i bet y/n would be happy to see you out."

"oh nono, it's quite alright," the blue-haired man stated, recalling the last time you offered to help him outside and the daggers that were then stared into his back by the redhead from the tavern doorframe. "i'll be just fine on my own. thank you, though."

you sigh in relief; nothing against the captain, you just don't feel like dealing with a drunk person right now, no matter how good they are at holding their own. "ah okay then; well, goodnight kaeya!! be safe on your way home."

"will do, princess."

and with that, the angel's share is empty of drunkards and left with you and an irritable diluc.

"that was a lot easier than i had expected it to be, don't you think, 'luc?" you walk towards the storage room behind the bar but are started by his large frame appearing in the doorway.

"sure, princess." he huffs out, sliding past you to restock below the bar.

you know exactly what this means. your poor employer, mad that his brother has the common and occasional use of platonic petnames, is getting possessive. even though he's your employer. your boss, who has the frequent habit of letting his eyes linger for far too long or gets way to close to you when reaching for a certain bottle from across the bar, is stomping around because someone called you princess who wasn't him.

it's not like it goes unnoticed by you, either. you know he has developed a liking to you; whether it was before he asked you to work at the tavern or after, you don't know. all you know is that ever since you've been working there, he's suddenly taken more shifts, among other things.

"oh, please, diluc," you huff out, having dropped the whole 'master' ordeal early in your job at his request, "you know how he is, it's all respectful."

you know it's one of the more severe cases tonight when you're met with no response.

"'luc, c'mon. what's wrong?" you walk up behind him as he stands in the back room.

he swears you'll be the death of him one day. for a man with such restraint and politeness, you always test his limits. "nothing, y/n. excuse me while i finish this case," he turns around as his eyes widen, not expecting you to be so close to him, "you can go home, you're done for tonight."

"i'm not leaving, diluc." you say, moving in front of him to stop him in his tracks. a newfound surge of confidence ignites something deep within you, and you aren't playing coy today. "why do you always do this?"

he blinks, shaking himself out of his frozen stance. he has one of two options here: tell you to leave again for your own good, or stay and play dumb and watch as the situation unfolds. as much as he really wants to you leave for his sanity's sake, he picks the ladder. "do what?"

"oh, don't play stupid with me. you get so worked up over the smallest things when it comes to me." you behind walking towards him as he inches back with each step you take. "—and don't think i don't notice how you stare at me all the time, i'm not dumb."

with no more walls to hide behind or wine bottles to blame his business on, all he has left is you, him, and the few inches of space that separate your hot bodies. "y/n..."

"what's wrong, boss?" you lift your head to meet his unreadable gaze, your eagerness from the confrontation somehow still fueling the fire, "cat got your tongue?"

"you..." diluc is genuinely speechless, being able to do nothing other than bringing his hand up to cup your small flushed face. his thumb grazes your bottom lip as his mind roams the endless possibilities that this moment could turn into. his other arm finds itself wandering to your hips, pulling you into to his body and finally closing that painful gap that held you two apart. "you're insufferable," he whispers out.

"so," you sigh out a shaky breath, "whats it gonna be, 'luc?" your arms slide up and around his neck and pull him down closer to your face as you continue, "are you gonna leave me high and dry again," your hand entangles itself in his red curls, pulling the slightest bit as he takes in a sharp inhale, "or are you finally gonna take what's waiting right in front of you?"

both of you knew this was bound to happen one way or the other, the question just came to who would make the first move. its almost as if a clock was ticking for years and it finally went off; after all of the lingering touches and spared glances, the building tension and mutual pining—everything came to this. diluc lustfully envelops your lips in his as he pulls you impossibly closer, taking in everything you have to offer and more.

no words are said as your positions are switched when he hits your back into the wall behind you, earning himself a labored gasp from your lungs. this felt better than you had ever imagined; all those times you spent lying awake, fantasizing about your boos no less. its not like he's a saint, though. the young master has spent many nights staring at his ceiling, cursing his mind for plaguing himself with thoughts of you, shaking and begging beneath him.

the air seems to have gotten a considerable amount thicker as it's suddenly hard to breathe as strained gasps and broken moans fill the dim room.

"you have no idea how long i've waited to fuck you senseless, y/n." he forces out in between muffled kisses as your tongue passes over his lips, using this as an invitation to take your breath away with open-mouthed kisses as his hands begin to traverse your curves beneath your clothes.

"diluc, i-" you gasp out, taken aback by unanticipated intensity that he assaults you with.

"oh, now what's this, angel? cat got your tongue?" he mocks, diving back into your lips, never giving you a chance to catch your breath.

he carefully lifts your shirt in a silent plea for you to take it off; despite hit hurried nature, he's still got a hint of respect left. indulging in his wishes, you dispense of the garment, leaving just a simple bra in between him and your skin. all you can manage to get out is a broken whine, hovering close over the line of being way to lewd for the setting. getting impatient, diluc slips a hand past the waistband of your pants and begins to rub small circles into your aching bud.

the tent forming in his now tight trousers doesn't slip past you as he continues his effort on your searing core, working the most sinful sounds out of your kiss-flushed lips.

"oh, 'luc," you whimper out, grabbing his wrist in an insincere effort to pull him away for your heat as his fingers slip into your wet cunt, "please—"

"yeah, lemme hear you, baby," he mindlessly grinds into your hip with his continued ministrations, "oh, archons—gotta get you ready for me, yeah? 're ya gonna take it all f'me?" you have no idea where this side of him is coming from but zero complaints will ever be heard from you. "you look so pretty all breathless for me, angel," his fingers hit that bundle of nerves within you that have your head thrown back and your legs quivering beneath you, threatening to give out.

you love this feeling—his large frame looming over yours as he undoes you with his skilled hands. the tent forming in his trousers is nearly unbearable at this point as his lustful eyes watch every twitch he sends through your wavering body.

diluc slides his fingers out of your leaking heat, bringing them up to taste the slick that has accumulated up on his digits, pulling a deep groan out from his throat. impatient and insatiable, he drags your pants and underwear down all together, leaving your bare cunt out. the cold air biting at your core with the added embarrassment of being exposed in front of someone who is basically staring holes through you causes you to try and cover up, but diluc is quick to grab hold of your wrists.

"do you not want it?" he teases, a hint of worry and sincerity behind his dark tone.

"no, i—" you sharply inhale as you feel his cock spring out from his pants and hit your naked thigh, dumbstruck by the sheer size of him, "i, um..."

"you... what?" his head lowers as he presses kisses and marks all down your neck, "darling, if you don't tell me what you want, how will i know, hm?"

at this point you're contemplating if you should even continue this; the mere thought of his dick being inside of your tight little hole is enough to make anyone shudder; it's huge. unfortunately, you're way too hot and way too deep in this to deny it. luckily though, you have just enough spunk left to fuck with him.

"d—don't try and act all high and, mmmhh, and mighty, just because you're finally about to fuck me," you stumble a bit, but eventually get it out, "last time i checked, y—you had to fuck your hand in the bathroom because me ass brushed up against y—diluc!!"

amused and a bit fed up with your antics, diluc pushes his tip in past your wet folds without warning, earning a deep groan from his lungs. archons, the way he can feel you stretch around him; he could relive that moment forever. he hikes your legs up around his hips, pressing his length farther into your lewd hole, procuring the most licentious lascivious looks and noises from your pretty face. he says nothing as he sits still for a moment as he acclimates himself to the asphyxiating feeling of you enveloping him completely.

"i'm gonna start moving," he uses one hand to guide your face to meet his gaze, "is that alright with you, y/n?"

you melt under his light but assertive touch, mindlessly nodding to agree. he languidly pulls himself out and slowly slides back in with his lips slightly parted in concentration.

it takes little to no time for him to reach a sickening pace, pounding into your poor cunt as you gasp out, no longer trying to keep a quiet voice. having already been worked up by him earlier, you were quick to reach your climax. all it took was the suffocating feeling of his cock hitting you right there as you unfolded in his grasp.

"oh, y/n—fuck, i'm close," he huffs out as he thrusts into you at a sickening pace, his rhythm faltering as he nears his limit. "ahh—ah!" he stutters out while his hot cum spills into your core. whispers of profanity are thrown around as you both ride out the high, gasping for any air you can intake. he looks beautiful like this. his red curls loose in his hair tie, flowing over his tensed shoulders with little pieces stuck to his forehead. his face displays an expression of one that you could paint so many pictures of in your mind.

with both of you heaving in the afterglow, reality snapped back into diluc’s mind. his eyes widen in a panic-stricken manner as his hands fly up to grasp your shoulders, "oh... oh my archons.... i'm so sorry, y/n, i..." hes speechless. what got into him?

you, breathless, just want to go somewhere and lay down somewhere comfortable. ""luc, its fine, i came onto you and i probably shouldn't have pushed you like that—"

"no no, are you okay? did.... did i hurt you at all? archons..." his hands come up to run through his unkempt hair.

sensing his increasing anxiety, you pull his hands down and gently place them on your bare hips. "diluc," you wait until he meets your gaze, "im okay. more than okay, actually."

"..y/n...." for someone who was so insanely explicit, he's rather quiet now as a hint of a blush falls upon his face.

on your tippy toes, you stretch up to place a chaste kiss on his cheek after you finish redressing. "i need to get going, okay? i'll see you tomorrow when i come in for my shift."

just as you begin to walk out, his hand reaches out to lightly wrap around your dainty wrist in protest, an unreadable expression covering his face.

"um..." he definitely wasn't ready to say whatever he was thinking, if he was thinking at all in that moment, but he never let go of your wrist. "i've got a nice shower at the manor.. if you'd like."

a smile creeps over your complexion, "that sounds wonderful, 'luc, thank you." your hand moved to intertwine it with his. "but... try not to go rogue on me this time, okay? i was surprised by you back there."

this time?? is there even going to be another time? the mere thought of this possibly happening again is enough to fry his brain, but his embarrassment from his previous unhinged manner is the only thing he's able to focus on right now. "gods... i really am sorry, y/n. i... i just finally had you after wanting you for so long and i just snapped."

"yeah, snapped my back." you giggle out.

walking back to the winery, you remember how you got here in the first place. kaeya was a good wingman whether he knew it or not.

maybe from now on, your boss doesn't have to be just your boss.

#the ending is rushed ik #diluc ragnvindr #diluc ragnivindr smut #diluc x fem!reader #diluc x you #diluc x reader #diluc smut #genshin diluc #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact

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corazondebeskar-reads · 9 months

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well it's love, make it hurt: The Life Day Special

well it's love, make it hurt series

bonus: The Life Day Special

series masterlist

(This takes place several years after the series epilogue.)

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Words: 5.1k

Summary: You, Din, and Grogu return to Batuu for your first Life Day celebration as a clan.

Warnings: bdsm, d/s dynamics, enthusiastic consent, preestablished safeword etc, dom!din djarin x sub!reader, soft din djarin, din djarin is a good dad, vaginal sex, author plays god with the timelines (sorry), canon adjacent?, canon divergence?, no use of y/n, tooth-rotting fluff, Life Day Fluff

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

12 ABY - Autumn

You kept your apartment.

It wasn’t home, not anymore, but something in the back of your mind wouldn’t relax its jaws and release the safety. So you kept it.

Which is how you end up winning the argument and taking Grogu to Batuu for his first Life Day celebration (since meeting Din, at least).

“You never cared about Life Day before,” Din complained half-heartedly. He’s getting a little too good at faking his expressions now; you miss the early days when his exposed face was an open book. But the sulking doesn’t reach his eyes, so you roll yours exaggeratedly.

“They love Life Day at the Outpost. It was hard not to get involved.”

"Involved" meant too many themed drinks at the Cantina and then feeling bad for yourself in your quiet apartment, but Din didn’t need to know that.

All he needed to know was how your heart had ached, watching the families under the soft glow of the celebratory blue orbs. How you sat alone at the bar as whoever got stuck behind it for the night told you of sharing joy and harmony with their families during the day.

It was enough to convince him. He couldn’t begrudge you Life Day with a family.

So here you were, dusting off the counters in your old flat, Grogu bouncing on the couch with absolutely terrifying stunts.

You know now of his abilities, but that doesn’t mean your heart doesn’t skip a beat when he flips through the air. Amid his squeals of joy and your thorough cleaning, you hadn’t noticed Din leave the room.

You find him in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress he had just made up with clean bedding. The blinds in your apartment are all drawn, and none of you don your armor inside.

Your first thought is how small he looks. You’re used to seeing him in just his underclothes now, so the sight of him in the fitted black flightsuit shouldn’t be jarring. Maybe it’s the way his lips are pursed, or brows scrunched together. Maybe it’s the way he’s clutching the baby’s vibrant red robe in both hands.

“You don’t have to wear one.” You try for a light tease, but it just sounds a little anxious.

He looks up, alarmed at your tone. But it’s not him you’re afraid of. It’s whatever’s got him looking so sad. He can read it, though. You’ve always been an open book to him.

He sighs, eyes closing for a moment, and you feel something catch inside your throat.

“C’mere,” he says, patting the bed. You take your place beside him, slipping an arm around his warm body. He leans against you, head resting on your shoulder, and you press your lips to his hair.

“What’s wrong, cyare?” you whisper.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, but you’re not convinced. “I just… I don’t remember them a lot. My parents. I should, I think, but there isn’t much there. My father covered in flour in the kitchen. My mother laughing at him. Just… glimpses.”

You don’t dare say a thing, but you do run your hand up and down his arm, humming acknowledgment when he pauses.

“I’m not upset. Don’t go feeling bad,” he says, and you look at him to parse the warning. “My last memories of them were in robes like these.”

“Oh, Din—”

“I told you not to feel bad. It can’t really hurt me anymore. I just haven’t thought about it like this in a long time.” He takes another deep sigh, tugging you with him to lie back on the bed. He rolls to his side and pulls you close.

“I don’t think they were for Life Day, just that they were red. I had one, too. Their hair was dark, like mine. But I can’t remember anything else.”

You let the silence sit for a moment. You watch each other’s eyes, deep and shadowed. You get it. You stopped being able to see your ghosts long ago.

“They’d be proud of you,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “A mercenary for a son.”

You shake your head as best you can with the bed against your cheek and reach up to push errant curls behind his ear. Your hand slides to cradle his face. “No. An honorable man. A strong warrior. A loving father.”

Something is churning in his eyes, something he can’t let in right now, not today. He blinks it away and kisses you, winding his hands into your hair and shirt, drawing you as close as he can until the grief is replaced by need.

You’re not sure how he ends up on top of you, but his lips never leave yours, and he licks inside like he can swallow you whole. You’d let him, of course. You give him what he needs: a soft, pliant outlet for his pain.

You do stop him, though, when he goes to tug off your flightsuit.

“Put that on the docket for later, riduur. We’ve got a tree to see.”

He whines but stops trying to peel you bare. He does not, however, let you get up, the hard line of his cock pressing against where you’re burning for him. One hand dips into the mattress while the other comes up to hold the back of your neck and draw you into a deep kiss.

He grinds against you as he licks into your mouth, making you cry out into his.

“Din,” you whine, weakly pushing at his shoulder. Your heart’s not in it, but you feel obligated to try.

He smirks into the kiss, and the cockiness of it just about does you in. Which is, of course, when he pulls completely back. He goes from having you pinned and nearly coming in your pants to standing at the side of the bed with his head cocked.

“What’re you doing lounging around, cyare? I thought we needed to leave?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you groan. “C’mon, please?”

“We wouldn’t want to be late,” he chides, already halfway through the door to the living room.

The town is dark, amber lights dimmed or extinguished in preparation for the ceremony. The warm breeze carries the low chatter in and out of the streets as people mingle and relax.

The tree is set up in the open rotunda of docking bay seven, the usual tables shoved against the walls. The restaurant is open, and people are drifting in and out of the cantina.

It’s weird to be back. You feel like a holo, flickering in and out. You see faces you recognize, but of course, they don’t recognize you. Not behind the steel.

In the end, you’re glad. Not having to feel obligated to make small talk about everything that’s changed over the years is a relief.

Until you see Moshi holding a little red bundle that looks suspiciously like an infant.

You let go of Din’s hand and go over. “Who trusted you with a baby?”

Moshi startles, and you remember the helmet. But he pauses and squints. “Is that you, kid? What’s with the bucket?”

“I asked you first.”

But he doesn’t need to answer. The hood of the baby’s Life Day robes falls back, and their little antennae pop free.

“Is that—”

“Yeah. We got married.”

You bite your tongue. You want to ask, but you don’t want to be rude.

“Yes, all three of us,” Moshi takes pity on your politeness.

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations,” you say. Then you laugh.

Moshi looks taken aback.

“No, I’m sorry. I just realized we both got married and have little green babies,” you say and wave Din over.

You visit for a few minutes after everyone has been introduced before breaking off to wander toward the tree.

Din has Grogu in the birikad facing outward, but he still wraps an arm underneath and another around him. He’s bouncing him a little; you suspect it’s unintentional. His head is ducked down so he can murmur, letting Grogu hear him without the modulator picking it up.

The three of you had read a holobook together in bed last night about the meaning of the holiday, and you’d bet all the credits in your pouch that Din’s pointing out the things you saw in the illustrations.

It makes your chest feel weirdly tight, and you hang back a few steps so you can soak in the sight.

So this is what you’ve been missing out on. All those years spent yearning without really understanding. Joy, family, harmony. Your throat tightens as you watch your little clan.

The thing is, you know Din wants more kids. He’s never said it. But you know.

You’re just not ready.

And with the stupid hilt that hangs on your riduur’s belt, you’re not sure it’s a good idea. It scares you a little.

Okay, it scares you a lot.

But you’ve agreed not to discuss it until after this little vacation, so you avoid looking at it and thinking about what comes next.

You find your way to them before the lighting ceremony. One of the prominent Wookie community members gives a little speech, each sentence followed by their translator in Basic. The local schoolchildren put on a little performance.

It’s all cute and quaint, and you wonder, not for the first time, if that’s the life Grogu deserves.

You never wonder for long. He’s a Mandalorian; he’s not suited for this calm and quiet. This is not the life for your family, and that’s okay.

Din slides his arm around your waist, and you reach up to hold one of Grogu’s hands, the other of which is wrapped around his father’s glove. You look at your riduur and know he’s smiling back at you behind the visor.

Neither of you watch the lighting, too busy watching it reflect in Grogu’s wide eyes, the way he gasps when the orbs begin to glow. He reaches for them, and both of you whisper, “Grogu, no!” before he tries to summon one.

He blinks, eyes rapidly tearing up, so you take the chance to offer him a sweetbread.

“You spoil him,” Din teases like he hadn’t done the same thing earlier.

Late that night, when you’ve wandered the market and taken in the crafts and wares, you pick up boxes of kaadu sliders and warm, buttery five-blossom bread before you head back to the apartment.

The baby, who’d been snacking all night, is asleep against Din’s chest, head flopped back against the beskar, and little limbs dangling from the holes in the carrier. Clutched in one hand is a little toy orb in a jute net.

(“You spoil him,” you had mocked in a poor imitation of his voice when he handed over far too many credits to the vendor.)

You carefully help undo the fastenings so Din can ease him into the pram. When he’s settled, and the lid closed, Din lifts his helmet off and places it on the counter next to the food.

He looks ravenous.

You are, too, but when you’re reaching for the takeout and he’s reaching for your beskar’gam, you realize you’re hungry for different things.

It only takes a second for you to get on board with him, though. You each unlatch the others’ armor with reverence, setting it on the long island that separates your kitchen and living room. He has far more pieces than you, but it gives you the chance to drop to your knees to remove his thigh and shin plates.

You hand each piece to him, your mind already filling with a quiet hum. When you look up at him, his fond gaze is almost worshipful, and you start to look away, the intensity curling in your stomach.

He catches your chin, holding it firmly. You squirm under his silent focus but don’t pull away. Finally, he grants mercy with a small smile and a stroke of his hand against your cheek before he helps you up.

His hands never leave you, sliding to your neck to pull you in for a kiss before grazing down, brushing the side of your breasts, tickling over your ribs, and landing on your hips. You press your foreheads together—something he loves even helmetless.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “for tonight. I’m glad we came.”

“Me too,” you whisper before you’re unable to resist and catch his lips for a decidedly unchaste kiss.

He walks you backward to the bedroom, closing the door behind him without breaking the kiss. He peels you out of your flightsuit, stripping you until the only thing left is the thin chain around your neck.

He leaves the overhead lights off but indulges in one of the sconces near the door—ever since you were married, he hates to fuck in the dark, hates to have any part of you hidden from him.

You don’t mind. It means you get to see every time his eyebrows rise and fall or his lips twitch from pleasure and mirth. The way his face crinkles with laugh lines and age.

And his eyes. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough. He can hide nothing behind them, laying himself bare for you to greedily drink in.

You correctly assume he’s up to something when, instead of groping you, he digs through his bag.

Except—”Hey, that’s my pack. What’re you looking for?”

He doesn’t respond, but you can see enough of his profile to watch the smirk sprawl out. It’s positively devious, and you shudder a little.

When he walks back to you, he hands you… your pajamas. You look up at him with a furrowed brow, clutching the soft shorts and tank top in your lap.

“I thought—”

He holds a finger to your lips. “Get dressed.”

You obey. You don’t fail to notice he hasn’t given you undergarments.

When you finish tugging the tank top down over your stomach, he wraps an arm around your waist, drawing you close.

“I was thinking about the first time we met here,” he says. There’s a preternatural glint in his eyes. Or maybe it’s just the glare of the sconce, but it feels unnerving.

“What about it?” Your voice wavers a little. You just know he’s up to no good.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just that, if there hadn’t been the extenuating circumstances—”

(a funny way to think of the time you thought he was dead and also tried to kill him, but okay)

”—it might have been fun. You know, catching you like that.”

Your brain catches up. “You want to hunt me.”

His responding chuckle is dark and rough. He’s already looking at you like prey. “I do. I want you to run from me, sweetheart, and then when I catch you, well. I suppose you’ll find out.”

Your heart has kicked up twice as fast, and your cunt aches. “What if I want to be caught?”

“I know you do. But you’re going to be a good girl and play this little game for me. You’re going to try very hard to evade me, so it’ll be all the sweeter when I get you.”

Shit. Kriffing stars. You’re burning so hot you think you may combust. “You can’t just say things like that,” you whisper, voice cracking.

He laughs, full out this time but not any less intimidating. “Like what? That there’s nowhere you can hide from me, pretty girl? That once I catch you, I’m going to help myself to a reward?”

You’re dripping; you know you are. You have to be, with the way all your bones have turned molten and your whole body throbs with need.

It’s not lost on him. “Better get your wits about you, ner lened’ika. Whether you get to cum or not depends on how hard you try to get away.”

It takes you a moment. You’re more or less fluent, now, but sometimes your brain gets tripped up by modifiers.

“Lene… lened’i—hey. That’s not playing fair.” You’re burning, the flush spreading from your ears to your chest rapidly.

“Am I wrong? You’re not my little target? My quarry?”

You bury your face in your hands. “You gotta lay off if you want me to be able to do this.”

He laughs. “You on the edge already, cyare?”

“You know I am.”

“Alright, fine. I was going to give you a ten-minute headstart. You can have fifteen.”

You open your mouth to complain, but he quirks an eyebrow. “Thank you, sir,” you grumble.

“Better get your shoes on, sweetheart. Timer’s about to start,” he goes to stroll back into the living room to collect his helmet.

“Wait.”

He stops and turns back to you, brows knitted with worry.

“I want some rules.”

The concern falls away, chased by the return of his smirk. “Okay, I can give you some rules.”

“No. I want to make some rules.”

“I’ll hear them,” he grants.

You’re a tempestuous sea of excitement and frustration. He’s not wrong, this sounds fun, but his cockiness is driving you to a boil. The innate obedience only he can draw from you is still in control, but stars do you want to just act up and get fucked.

“If I don’t get armor, neither do you. Just helmets,” you start with the most reasonable of your demands.

He nods.

“No jetpack.”

He has to pause and consider that one. “Fine.”

“You can’t bring any tools. No climbing hooks, no grappling line, nothing.”

“Fine—except these.” He holds up his set of binders, and the sight goes straight to your cunt.

You gulp instead of responding, wide eyes trained on the cuffs.

“Is that a problem?” he asks, with the smuggest grin.

You just shake your head. He already knows how little of a problem it is. Instead, you give your final demand.

“I get thirty minutes.”

“Nope.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Try that again, and you’ll get five.”

Fuck. There’s no way you’re making much longer than your fifteen. You’re already sweating and trembling a little.

“Don’t make it easy on me,” he warns. “Or I’ll make it easy on you.”

That shouldn’t be an effective threat. But here you are, whimpering at the idea of him not roughing you up a little.

“I know,” he says, oozing fake sympathy at your whines, “you’re always easy for me, huh?”

You narrow your eyes, reaching for your helmet. Right before you put it on, you give him a sweet smile and say, “I’ll see you back here in the morning.”

You slide it over your head in time to enjoy the way his eyes darken, and his mouth draws thin. Before he can retort, which you can see brewing in the way the tip of his tongue ducks out to wet his lips, you throw open the door and run.

Your first thought is to stay in town. There are many hiding places, and it’s your home turf; you’d have a clear advantage. But you don’t want him to have to wait, to drag you back to privacy.

No. You’re hoping he fucks you on the ground wherever he finds you.

Instead, you’ll need to lose him before you climb the spires. You know the best area to cross them, but that’ll mean nothing if he follows you right there.

It doesn’t take much time to get out of town and past the old ruins to the river. You let your boots stick in the mud just a second too long when you enter the stream, leaving silt and whatever isn’t washed away on the rocky bank on the other side.

You take the trail to the edge of the towering trunks where your prints would fade and then use the infrared in your visor to backtrack carefully. There are a couple of sloppy spots, but you’re hoping his dick will be too hard for him to catch them.

When you get back in the river, you pull your boots off and carry them, wading through until it takes you around a bend and near the waterfall.

This is where you hesitate and lose time. The waterfall would be a good cover, but you’ll have to get fully wet to hide behind it. Also, the cavern there is rough and not really where you’d like to be stuck if he finds you.

But if you climb up, you won’t be able to use the river to hide anymore. Going against the strong current wasn’t much of an obstacle to this point, but a misstep up there would have more severe consequences.

In the end, you tuck your boots away behind a rocky outcropping at the base of the falls and sneak off barefoot along the hillside toward the ancient petrified forest. Maybe if you hurry, the wet footprints will dry.

When you reach the top of a spire and settle on the other side, you chance a look around, hoping his shiny head will give him away.

But you don’t see anything. Not with any of the scopes in your visor, either. There’s no way it was that easy. No way he hasn’t caught up.

Unless he’s already found you, and he’s hidden, making you sweat. Fuck.

That’s when you realize your foot stings, and you look down to find a cut on your heel. You must have scraped against the bark. It’s not a serious wound, but it poses a bigger problem as you peer down and verify that, yep, there’s blood on the side of the spire.

You wipe the blood off your foot and onto your shorts before putting pressure on the cut for a minute, trying to decide the best path forward. Once it’s not actively seeping, you descend the spire, keeping the hurt side of your foot as far away from the surface as possible.

You know it’ll start bleeding again when you start running, but maybe you can put distance between the initial drops and yourself.

You’re running out of options. It’s tough to admit to yourself, but you knew the risk when you abandoned your boots.

It’s harder than you thought to climb a tree with three limbs, but you don’t want to risk rubbing blood against the bark. Once you’re high enough into the branches, you cross over into another tree, and another, and another until you’ve put some distance between yourself and the spires.

You startle when the comm inside your helmet crackles.

“Are you hurt?” he demands without greeting.

Shit. “I’m fine. Why?”

“Don’t lie to me, cyare. I saw blood.”

Does it count if you don’t lie again? Was it even technically a lie? “Lots of creatures out here, Din. Carnivorous ones, even.”

He huffs but doesn’t push. “Ready to give up yet, sweetheart? You sound out of breath.”

“Aw, can’t find me?” you tease. “Thought I was always easy?”

He growls, and you’re sure it was something threatening and hot, but you’re distracted by the fact that you could hear it. Without the helmet.

Which means you’re trapped. He doesn’t know where you are, but he’s close.

Your visor shows blood droplets on the ground and, sort of hilariously, along the bottom of a spray of leaves from when you had swung from one branch to another. Hopefully, it’s random enough to throw him off.

You’re holding every muscle still, letting the only rustle through the trees remain the light breeze. It’s not long before you hear the crunch of his boots.

He knows you’re close. For a man that can move silent as a snake to be making that much noise—well, he’s taunting you for certain.

He may know you’re close, but he’s not found you yet. You breathe with the breeze and hold quiet when it's still. It’s one of those awful moments where you watch as he comes up right beneath your branch just in time for a droplet of blood to roll off the sole of your foot.

With the forest as tense as your muscles, there’s nothing to divert its path. It slides right down his visor.

You don’t wait for him to look up. You launch yourself out of the tree on the opposite side, hitting the ground hard but rolling out of it. Dodging the thick trunks is difficult when all you can focus on is the sound of his pursuit.

He’s faster than you. It’s just the truth. You can outmaneuver him and maybe even outlast him, but when it comes to these short bursts of speed, it’s not even a close call.

So you’re ready when he tackles you. Well, when he tries to. Din is not a small man, and so he hurtles past you onto the ground when you dodge to the side and bring yourself to a sudden halt. You peel off in another direction while he springs to his feet.

This is such a different game of lothcat and womprat than you’re used to with quarry. You and Din are so in sync and so intimately familiar with the other’s movements that there’s no better match in the world. And at the same time, it’s so fucking infuriating.

The next time he comes close, he actually gets one cuff around your wrist, but you’re already twisting out of his grasp. You think you’re getting away, but before you put enough distance, he catches you off guard.

He fucking binds himself with the other cuff. It’s maybe the hottest thing he’s ever done; it was so clever you kind of want to suck his dick about it. But, of course, that would be giving in. So, instead, you use your free arm to wiggle the pin out from your hair at the nape of your neck and try to stick it just right in the lock.

By the stars, it actually works. You’re off before he realizes what happened.

“Hey! You said no tools!” he yells, his voice echoing through the empty forest.

You didn’t, actually. You said he couldn’t bring tools. But you don’t waste the energy to remind him.

Also, you hadn’t exactly planned it. It was only accessible since you had none of your normal clothing or protections in the way. But he didn’t need to know that.

It’s over the next time he catches up to you. After taking off, you hadn’t heard him follow. He’d gone back to being the silent predator and come at you from a different angle.

He tackles you from the side, and after a brief bout of wrestling, he pins you on your stomach and clasps the binders around both wrists. He’s using his whole body weight to hold you down, and your eyes roll back when he rolls his hips against you just right.

He’s so fucking hard; you feel your arousal gush in response.

He sits back, straddling your thighs, and lands a harsh smack to your ass. “Giving up?” he teases.

You squirm under him, but it’s no use, and you both know it. He laughs, and it sends a chill down your spine that’s somehow molten by the time it reaches your cunt.

He spanks you a few more times for good measure, sharp and strong, before he lifts just enough to yank your shorts down.

“Fuck, I can’t wait for this cunt,” he groans. And he doesn’t. He pulls out his cock, already swollen and leaking with need, and drives it right to your core.

No matter how slick you already are, it’s a glorious stretch. You cry out, and he reaches over and turns the volume on your helmet off.

“Scream for me all you want, sweetheart. Fuck, you take it so well.”

You’re still struggling a little, more out of instinct than desire to get away. Your brain protests being captured, but it changes its tune fairly quickly when the thick head of his cock knocks against something blissful.

“Yield, lened’ika,” he snarls, pushing one broad hand between your shoulder blades to pin you against the soil.

“No,” you try to snarl back, but it doesn’t come out quite as intimidating as you hoped, breaking on a moan.

He yanks your hips up a little, fucking up into you with no mercy. You’re so full, so stuffed with him, and each movement batters against your walls and sends sparks across your hazy eyes.

“Yield,” he snarls, smacking his hand against the side of your ass and then helping himself to a fistful.

You actually consider it, but the only sounds you can make are soft little huffs as he knocks the air from you on each thrust.

He reaches around and rubs your clit. Your hips jerk uncontrollably as he grinds the pad of his finger down.

You let out something akin to a sob.

“Gotta yield first,” he says.

“I yield,” you whimper.

“What was that, cyare? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I yield,” you moan as he pinches your clit. “Please, you win, please.”

“Good girl,” he groans. “Alright, give it to me.”

You cum as he rubs two fingers against your clit, flicking in opposition of each other in the way he knows will make you fall to pieces.

He draws one orgasm after another until you’re limp, dirt smudged across your visor. Your hips still buck weakly back to his.

He pulls out and flips you over, pinning your bound hands underneath you. He straddles your waist and tugs at his cock until he cums over the front of your helmet.

You gasp, and though it turns into a moan, you’re indignant. “Did you really just—”

He laughs. “It’s not as nice as when it’s on your pretty face, but it still suits you,” he teases.

He doesn’t miss the way his comment makes you squeeze your thighs together. He rubs a hand over your tits, pinching at your nipples until you whine.

“C’mon, cyare. Let’s go back, and I’ll clean you up.”

He does. When you get back, thankfully unseen and having retrieved your boots, he plucks your helmet off. He really did mean to polish it right away, but you kiss him with such hunger that he takes care of the rest of you first.

Once you’ve gone boneless and mindless from his tongue, he reluctantly leaves the bed to clean up. You join him a few moments later, having foregone the soiled pajamas in favor of the tunic he was going to sleep in and a pair of panties.

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, leaning against his broad back and pressing kisses against the warm, scarred skin.

“I think I’m ready,” you say.

He hums in question.

“To get rid of this place.”

He turns around to wrap his arms around you. “Here I was just thinking it has its perks.”

“Yeah?”

He rests his forehead against yours. “Yeah. It’s been nice, don’t you think? To have somewhere familiar.”

You search his eyes and find only a soft warmth, like the flicker of a hearth.

“Let’s keep it,” he whispers against your lips. His hand winds into your hair to bring you in for a kiss.

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fic #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin smut #mando smut #make it hurt verse #dom din djarin

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obscurecharactershowdown · 1 year

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Semi-Finals

[image ID: the first image is of Stag Malinay, a young man with auburn hair and yellow-orange eyes. he's wearing a black shirt, black pants, and black, lace up knee high boots with belt straps. he's sitting on a red and gold throne. beside him is written his name, "Stag Malinay." the second image is of Granger, a girl with green eyes and short, wavy or curly black hair. in her hair is a red hat or ribbon. she's wearing a black turtleneck sweater, blue overalls, and a green coat. end ID]

Stag Malinay

Very self confident, bisexual manwhore with a troubled background he doesn't like to talk about. Said past is the cause of all his anger issues which he regularly takes out on the MC, initially. They become friends later, so it's okay. Also, he has a Tumblr account! @stagmalinay, run by me, the author. Can't really get more obscure than only selling a few copies of my entire book so far. [additional propaganda 1] [additional propaganda 2] [additional propaganda 3] [additional propaganda 4] [additional propaganda 5] [additional propaganda 6] [additional propaganda 7] [additional propaganda 8] [additional propaganda 9][additional propaganda 10] [additional propaganda 11] [additional propaganda 12]

Granger

so granger is the main character of the indie game "NeverHome" Chapter one, which is only $1 on Steam, is called NeverHome: Hall of Apathy. if ur a fan of young protags being put in RPG maker horror games, then this is the game for you!! so granger is just that… she wakes up to find herself in a strange, hostile world. she, along with the friends she makes, must solve the various puzzles before them while creatures are out to kill them… and along the way they can uncover the secrets of these never ending halls… her dynamics with the cast is also super fun… each character gets their moment or moments with granger. and what's so cute is that there's unique art for each pair that highlights the fact you cant get through these halls alone!! she also has her own theme song!! here!! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_vwtmIj5cw it's called cyclical tragedy AND HERE IS AN ANALYSIS OF THE THEME!! MUSIC THEORY!!! written by my good friend @HIEMIOLA "cyclical tragedy" embodies the protagonist, granger, through the music theory behind the track and ties itself back into the main track as well. to begin with an overview of the track, the key is D minor and hte time signature is 3/4. the piece begins with a broken minor third starting from the tonic. that is, it begins on the main note and moves along the main chord, D to F. the next set of notes are C to E, which is shifted down a step. the phrase repeats again, this time D to F, then G to E, which is an inverse movement from the original sequence. even in this first part, we could tell that the protagonist begins from square 1 with a simple pattern, then tries it again when it works. however, the inverse breaks that expectation of repetition, thus showing the diverse variations of solutions she comes up with using just the tools she has (the two notes moving in thirds). just like the game, she is given a handful of objects as well as a knife to defend herself and solve the mysteries of the world she exists in. with her creative uses of the items given to her, she continues on her way through the plot. we will keep moving. the melody begins. true to the title of the track, the melody cycles around the same beginning note, D, that she always returns to at her square 1. this is a nod to the save states she is allowed to keep to make sure that we the players don't lose the game, but it also references the health bar that appears as a circle around her avatar. the melody, mapped out, is also moving in an up-down wave movement across the sheet music. granger is creative with the knife she has and the quest items she obtains throughout the story, but she is not entirely reckless. rather, she knows when it is time to return to the safe rooms to rest. to time her returns requires skill because she must run to cover without being caught by varying her path so the enemies don't corner her as she tries to return to the room. most of the time, she is successful, shown through the consistent return to the beginning note. let's keep going. i would like to turn your attention to the main theme briefly. in the bass notes, you can hear arpeggios and outlined chords. this makes up the bulk of the accompaniment in the main game theme. [mod note: the rest of the essay, and some more propaganda, is continued under a cut because tumblr will not process more text than this in an indent. sorry to split it up, please continue below for the rest of the essay and additional propaganda!]

the third variation of granger's theme also has arpeggiated chords in the accompaniment while the melody features broken chords. at this stage, the pattern switches to eigth notes instead of the quarter notes at first. with greater movement and heightened senses, she runs throughout world and befriends other people, thus interacting further with the environment. while she isn't exactly someone we would call open, she is respectful to the people she first meets and has no problems with asking them for help when she needs it. because of her openness to working together, she speeds up her progress by asking for aid at obstacles that would be too difficult for her to overcome on her own, such as asking a teammate to break things, move things, or reach into smaller holes. fusing the main theme elements with her own theme marks this step as the inciting incident that sets her on the path to escape from this world. we'll continue.

continuing the same part, we hear some secondary fifths. i'm not entirely sure if this is what you call it, but it is a nod to the parallel key, D major. depending on what theory class you take, this could also be considered the other half of the key. i dont know how else to describe it, but i digress. these are glimpses to different dialogue options she could take, glimpses to a different key or a different ending. because this game only has one chapter ending so far, we are unsure of what other paths granger will end up in; we only know that there are certainly other endings she will experience, only to begin the cycle again when the save state is loaded for players to reach another ending. both A major and G major are chords that signify different choices that may lead her elsewhere only for her to return back to the tonic or main note, D. despite this, she keeps going, as will we.

at the midpoint of the track, we see a quick shift in patterns. instead of upward leaps in the notes, the melody falls in stepwise motion. true to the plot, this is another turning point of the game when she is forced to make a choice: continue or stop. after facing the spoiler event, her once determined personality is challenged as she struggles to keep herself and her team together. despite being the headstrong protagonist who spearheaded solutions, even now she finds herself doubting and taking smaller steps, smaller risks.

even after all of this, she rises to the challenge as the melody returns to its beginning sequence. true to a protagonist she gets up again despite the events that transpired and keeps her team moving in their lowest points. the thirds return as she finds more objects to solve more puzzles to open more rooms to save more friends. this repeating part of the track only solidifies her resolve as the piece ends with a broken chord in the main key, her key, of D minor. despite everything that transpired, she stayed true to herself."

the game is also so, so charming with the art, music, and story made by the same person… its so clearly loved and full of passion!! i love listening to the game's ost on occassion!! since it's all on youtube!

ok one last thing thing!! on may 8th, the game hit 100 downloads (on both steam and itch.io). you can see the creator of the game celebrate that with this lovely drawing of granger: https://twitter.com/NeverHome_Game/status/1655761270694633472

so at most, only a bit over 100 people have played the game… id like to say that makes it obscure!!

anyways granger and neverhome!! we love to see our protagonists put in horrific situations and isn't she super cute with a lil bow on her head? she is my daughter…

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#obscurecharactershowdown #obscure poll #semi finals #stag malinay #krystar first fragment #solarsavoyart #granger neverhome #neverhome

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violetsaffron5 · 2 years

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12 Days of Christmas (2022)

2 | Two Turtle Doves

Pairing: Geto Suguru x f!Reader

Prompt: Your friend is having a Christmas wedding and you are the maid of honor. At the rehearsal, you hit it off with the best man and find your own holiday romance.

Words: 1.1k

CW: rough sex, vaginal sex, face-fucking, semi-public sex, deepthroating

“Wanna fuck in the bathroom later?” You look at the best man, dressed in a black tux with a soft blue vest and tie. His long raven hair is pulled back, half into a bun that sits at the back of his head with a few tendrils left out to frame his face.

He raises his eyebrows at your bold, seemingly random question, golden eyes glimmered with amusement, he grins, wide as he answers, “absolutely.”

You grin back before taking a deep breath, hooking your arm through his and walk down the aisle, parting ways at the end to stand in your positions.

You’ve met Suguru Geto several times over the years, when Satoru and Utahime’s friends would get together for one reason or another. He’s always been kind, making conversation whenever everyone was awkwardly assembled. And attractive.

You silently watch, itching to get out of the heels you’ve been in all day as Utahime and Satoru recite their vows to one another. They chose a beautiful venue - unfortunately it’s on Christmas, leaving everyone who attends no time to spend with their family.

You watch through the window of the chapel as soft snow flutters down from the sky, coating everything it touches as you think about what an odd couple they are. So different from one another, you can’t recall how they ended up together in the first place.

But when he proposed, to your surprise, she was over the moon excited, ready to start planning the wedding immediately.

For a year and half, you dealt with Utahime’s nonsense as she worked on putting this wedding together. And you stayed diligently by her side during every breakdown when the venue she chose was booked for the date she wanted, how Satoru wanted to choose the cake because he has better tastes in sweets than she does. How she wanted to force Suguru to cut his hair because she didn’t think it would look good in photos. And how last month she decided to completely change the colors of her wedding, and worked tirelessly to help her order new vests, dresses and decorations.

All you want to do now is relieve some stress.

That time is coming close, and you can only hope Suguru is as serious about hooking up later as you are. As soon as dinner has finished, you excuse yourself to find the bar - though Satoru doesn’t drink, he still paid for an open bar, and you plan to take full advantage of it now that your maid of honor duties are officially over.

Most people are out on the balcony, watching the snow fall, taking photos of the happy couple, so it’s no surprise to find the bar empty at the moment.

Well, empty with the exception of one jet-black haired man leaned against the bar swirling whiskey around in his glass before drinking the final bits in one gulp.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you say, playfully elbowing him in the side as you walk up to the counter and order your drink.

“Mm. Glad this is finally over,” he sighs, leaning his back against the counter, watching as you pick up your glass from the corner of your eye, “so, still wanna fuck in the bathroom?”

You choke on your drink as he asks this, not having anticipated being asked the moment you walk up to him. He hands you a napkin to clean yourself off before you look up to him, “absolutely,” you grin, just as wide as he did this morning.

He motions for you to hook your arm through his, nodding his head to the side towards one of the bathrooms. Once inside, you don’t even have time to look around the space before his lips are on yours in a series of searing kisses pushing you back to the sinks and flipping you around.

He tangles his hand in your hair tilting your head to a better angle to kiss and nip down your neck - he doesn’t care if you spent hours on your hair and make up today, he’ll ruin them both.

You watch in the mirror, biting your lip as he flips up the back of your dress over your hips, kneading the plush skin of your ass with his large hands before grabbing your thong, moving it to the side.

He groans when he runs his fingers through your already soaking folds, avoiding your clit, he doesn’t press in, he just teases until you’re whimpering, rutting your ass back into him further, begging for more.

“Suguru, please,” you whine, “if you don’t hurry up I’m going to die.”

He chuckles, undoing his belt quickly, letting his cock spring free before running the blunt tip through your folds, “guess you’ll just have to die, baby.”

You glare at him through the mirror, hands on the sink with your ass pressed out towards him, he gives a salacious smile and wink before pushing in all the way, to the hilt.

Your knuckles are white, face pressed against the mirror as he thrusts into you hard a few times, allowing you to adjust to him.

“Look at me,” he commands, so you do, looking back at him through the mirror, his nails digging into the skin of your hip as he tangles his hand in your hair again, holding your head back, forcing you to watch as he relentlessly snaps his hips into you.

“You’re making such a mess, baby,” he purrs watching his slick coated cock disappear into you with each thrust, watching as your arousal drips down your thigh. Leaning forward, he licks and bites down your neck, eyes locked on one another, feeling your walls clenching around his length.

You’re chanting his name, all Suguru and yes as the heat in your core erupts and you’re convulsing and spasming around his cock, squeezing him like you want to keep him there forever.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hisses, pulling out and dragging you down to your knees, and you open your mouth so wide, so pretty without having to be told. You do your best, hollowing your cheeks, licking his tip as he erratically thrusts to the back of your throat before holding your face to his groin, letting out the most sinful moan you’ve ever heard.

He’s panting, whispering sweet nothings about how good you were for him, how you’re his good girl. He helps you off your knees, pulling you into his chest as he pets your hair, kisses the top of your head.

“Merry Christmas,” you murmur against his chest, letting your arms wrap around him in a loose hug, unsure of where this leaves you two moving forward, if anywhere.

“Mm. Best one yet.” And he really means it.

Taglist: @thisbicc @septembersums @septembersummer @nothisispatrick300 @km7474 @missyasma @arisucat @watyousayin @khadeejarh

#jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #TDC #violetsaffronfic #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #jjk x reader #christmas smut #geto x you #geto suguru smut #geto smut #getou suguru x you #geto x reader #geto x y/n

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ak-vintage · 5 months

Text

Quarry - Chapter 12

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, Din Djarin POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, unresolved sexual tension, pining, canon-typical violence, peril, angst, mild possessive language, Din speaks Mando'a

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

A couple hours after sunset in the Karthakk system, Din Djarin settled himself into a booth in the back corner of a cantina. It was a dingy spot – its hard-packed dirt floors ensured that everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, cloudy liquor bottles and seedy patrons included – but that was to be expected on a backwater planet like Lok. A remote, desert planet infested with all manner of underworld scum and not much else, the fact that there were actual tables at which to sit was about the best he could have hoped for.

His quarry was one of those underworld scum, a notable Weequay smuggler called Kevok Toklelq. Over the last several days, Din had managed to narrow down his location to this district of Nym’s Stronghold, and all of the local intelligence he had gathered indicated that this nameless cantina was a popular place to do business, that anyone with any kind of pull on this world could be found exchanging credits and trading merchandise while bellied up to the bar. To the bounty hunter, it sounded like precisely the place he needed to be if he wanted to put eyes on his target.

Din had stopped in earlier to scope out the place and get a lay of the land before he made his move, and the booth he had selected was perfectly situated for his needs. From his corner, he could easily observe both the door and the bar, and the ambient orange lighting from the back bar left the edges of the establishment almost entirely in shadow, lending him an air of anonymity that otherwise might have been difficult to achieve in head-to-toe beskar’gam. As it was, all that was left for him to do was melt into those shadows and watch as the cantina filled up around him.

As he had expected, the crowd grew as the night deepened. To anyone who might have glanced his way, the Mandalorian was the picture of nonchalance, but behind the impenetrable surface of his helmet, he was focused, vigilant, intent only on finding his quarry. The crush of bodies was loud now, laughing and shouting and slinging insults over the sound of music pouring from a jukebox in the corner, but somehow Din cut through all of it. He held the image of the Weequay’s leathery, hard-eyed visage in his mind, and he waited.

So absorbed was he in this task, scanning the faces of each and every patron as they entered the bar, that he almost didn’t notice the young Twi’lek waitress approach his table.

“Evening, honey. Anything I can get for you?” she prompted. Her pale blue skin shone faintly in the dim lighting, and a warm, flirtatious smile quirked the corners of her lips.

The Mandalorian drew his head back, startled, before schooling his body language back into something closer to indifference. Leaning back into the cushion of the booth casually, he replied, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

The girl arched an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been here a while. You sure there’s…nothing you need?”

He watched as her dark, hooded eyes traced over his form, her gaze settling on his black visor, then his shoulders, then his chest in quick succession. Her cheeks flushed in poorly-concealed interest, and Din fought the urge to fidget under her gaze.

This sort of thing happened occasionally. He knew that others found his stature appealing, that the bulk of his armor, the mystery of his helmet, and the legends of Mandalorian ferocity sometimes inspired intrigue rather than intimidation. As a younger man, he had found the attention flattering. Puzzling at times, but flattering. He certainly had been guilty of taking advantage of that interest on more than one occasion – a man had needs. But that had been years ago. It felt like a different lifetime since he last had felt the urge to indulge in that way.

It had been a life before he had anyone other than himself to consider, a life before his commitment to the Nevarro covert. A life before Grogu.

You, of course, were the glaring exception.

The bounty hunter burned for you, fierce and desperate, with an intensity that he might have found embarrassing if it weren’t so all-consuming. His control dangling by a thread that grew thinner with each passing day, there was no room left in him for shame. Even in the aftermath of your argument, the days spent in hyperspace traveling from Trevi IV to Lok had been torturous. He could hardly bear the proximity, the nearness of you – always within reach and yet never touching. Not how he wanted, how he needed. It was driving him mad.

No. If he were to have you, it would not be an indulgence. It would be…cataclysmic.

Before his thoughts could travel too far down that path, however, Din wrenched his attention back to the matter at hand. He had promised himself that he would keep you as far from his mind as possible while on this hunt. His quarry was a dangerous man. Toklelq was well-connected in the Outer Rim smuggling networks, a friend of the Pirate Nation, and a skilled fighter. It had been some time since Din had faced an opponent of this caliber; he refused to allow himself any distractions.

“Nothing, thank you. I’m waiting for a friend,” he said. The half-truth came easily, and he watched as something like disappointment colored the Twi’s expression. However, she recovered quickly and instead offered him a coy, practiced smile.

“All right, honey,” she demurred, heavy-lidded eyes giving him a final once-over. “Well, if you change your mind, you can find me at the bar. I’ll be here all night.” She slipped into the crowd then, and the bounty hunter caught himself smirking behind his visor in return. The girl’s choice of target had been off tonight, but he appreciated the tenacity.

It reminded him of you.

___

Just before midnight, Kevok Toklelq entered the cantina.

From his dim corner booth, Din watched as he swaggered through the door, a female Theelin on his arm and two other male Weequay close on his heels. He was precisely as his bounty puck had depicted him – his long hair tied back in a series of ponytails wrapped in dusky red fabric, his sharp eyes partially visible through a pair of yellow-tinted glasses, his expression cool and arrogant. With how frequently the Mandalorian had studied it over the last several days, he would recognize that face anywhere.

The group approached the bar first, appearing to order a round of drinks before seeking out a table right in the center of the venue, but their progress to their seats was slowed multiple times by Toklelq stopping to converse with other patrons. His reception, however, was mixed. Some appeared uncomfortable at the smuggler’s attention, their bodies stiff and their laughter forced as though they had hoped not to see him that night. Others, however, greeted him warmly, clasping his forearm or cuffing him on the shoulder in comradery. Din made note of each of them regardless, mentally cataloging them in his mind.

If a fight broke out while attempting to take his quarry into custody, it might be useful to know just how many enemies he would be up against.

The bounty hunter hoped that could be avoided. Teklolq, according to his research, was a known tabac smoker. At some point during the night, he would need to step outside with his pack of cigarras, and Din would follow so that any confrontation might happen outside the crowded cantina. It was possible that some of his companions might accompany him, of course, but even if he didn’t go alone, Din was confident that he could handle a handful of drunken smugglers. Now that he had eyes on his target, he needed only to wait for the right window of opportunity to strike.

Of course, nothing was ever quite so simple.

About an hour after the group in question arrived, something in the air…shifted. As though they had been waiting for some cue that only they could perceive, the Mandalorian watched with apprehension as his quarry’s companions one by one began to drift away from the table.

One of the other male Weequay was the first to leave, offering Teklolq something like a salute before ducking into the press of the surrounding crowd. He looked to be heading toward the exit, but when Din attempted to track his movements, he lost him almost immediately to the faceless mob of bodies that seemed to pack every square inch of the cantina. He never appeared by the exit, seemingly having vanished into thin air somewhere between the table and the door.

Then the Theelin woman rose from her seat. She pressed a lingering kiss to one of the many horns jutting from Teklolq’s lower jaw, and a moment later, she was gone, melting into the throng just as stealthily as her companion but in the opposite direction. Din cursed under his breath as he watched her bright orange hair be swallowed in the masses, the heat of her biosignature becoming instantly indistinguishable from the rest. Like her companion, she never reappeared.

It was only when the last of his target’s escort, the other Weequay male, kicked back from the table and rose to his feet that the bounty hunter felt a sinking sensation in his gut – the tug of his intuition, an undefinable feeling that something had truly gone awry.

On instinct alone, Din’s gaze snapped to Teklolq. If he had managed to sneak away while Din was too preoccupied with his colleagues…

But no, the smuggler had not escaped. Instead, he was staring directly back at him, meeting the Mandalorian’s eyes through the milling crowd, the dusty haze, the long, dark shadows. And he was smiling.

___

Through dimly-lit streets, down grimy alleyways, past cantinas and brothels and abandoned warehouses, Din Djarin ran.

“Razor Crest! Come in, Razor Crest!”

Streaks of blue blaster fire zinged past, lighting up the night in flashes of cold flame and splitting the atmosphere around him with the reek of ozone and carbon. One round ricocheted off his breastplate, sparking and skittering away harmlessly, barely a blip on the surface of his armor. Another flew ineffectually past the left side of his helmet, mere centimeters away from hitting its mark, but the Mandalorian didn’t so much as flinch. Yet another arced wildly and collided with a pile of crates stacked high against the side of a building, blasting it to smithereens. Scraps of wood and metal shrapnel flung into his path, crunching under the heavy pounding of his boots, pinging off his beskar.

His quarry’s aim was getting worse. And Din was gaining on him.

“Razor Crest! Come in!”

The moment he had locked eyes with Teklolq, Din had known that whatever plan he might have had to bring him in without any casualties had suddenly become obsolete. He had watched with senses on high alert as his target stood from the table and downed the remainder of his drink, and he could have sworn he saw the smuggler wink at him from behind his thick-framed, yellow-tinted glasses before making his way toward the door.

It had felt like an invitation, like a dare, and the Mandalorian felt his hackles rise instantly.

He had never backed down from a challenge in his life. He certainly wasn’t about to start now.

The night beyond the cantina was deep and dark, the streetlights in his part of Nym’s Stronghold few and far between. Din had taken one step, then two beyond the little pool of light cast by the cantina’s open doorway, and as though he had summoned them from the shadows themselves, he immediately had been met with the business end of four blasters all trained in his direction.

A Weequay thug had stared him down from each side, their bony chins jutted out in defiance, ice in their eyes. Behind him, the Theelin woman had slinked forward and waved the barrel of her compact blaster pistol inches from his shoulder blades. And with a smile still twisting his thin, hard lips, his target had emerged directly in front of him.

“I’m here for Kevok Teklolq,” the bounty hunter had said, neither raising his hands in surrender nor reaching for his blaster. “I have no quarrel with the rest of you. Lower your weapons and stand aside, and no harm will come to you.”

He hadn’t truly expected them to surrender, but he couldn’t imagine not offering the small mercy. As long as he got his quarry in the end.

As it was, three corpses lay crumpled outside the cantina now, smoking in the aftermath of his whistling birds, leaking blood into the dirt. And his quarry was several meters ahead of him, running at full tilt, dangerously close to getting away.

“Razor Crest reads you, Mando – what’s going on?”

Stars, it was good to hear your voice. You sounded groggy, as though he had pulled you from sleep, and for a reckless moment, Din allowed himself to picture you. He could see it so clearly – your cheeks flushed and your clothes mussed, your hair loose around your shoulders as you pushed it out of your face and tried to wake up enough to concentrate. The image buried itself in his chest, warm and bright, easing his breath, soothing his racing heart.

“Quarry gave me the slip. I’m in pursuit,” he panted in reply. He clutched his comm link in one hand and his blaster in the other as he returned fire, legs pumping all the harder as he tried desperately to close the distance between him and Teklolq even further. “He’s headed for the yards – he’s going to run.”

“We going after him?” you asked after a beat. The warm fuzz of sleep coloring your voice had evaporated.

He fired again at the smuggler’s retreating form, and his shot seemed to graze the outside of the other man’s thigh. Teklolq howled in pain and stumbled, but in an instant, he was on his feet again. The fumble didn’t last long enough for the Mandalorian to catch up, and still, he remained just out of range for Din to use his grappling wire or his flamethrower. Loosing a colorful curse in Mando’a, the bounty hunter jammed his thumb down on the comm link’s sending button once more.

“Absolutely.”

Your reply was quicker this time, curt and efficient. “Understood. One second – let me get to the helm…” A handful of seconds passed, and then, “Okay. Deactivating ground defenses, starting preflight checks, extending the port gangplank.”

A thrill of pride shot through him at that, making the ache in his muscles and the burn in his lungs all but disappear. Even if Teklolq made it to the shipyards, even if he somehow managed to get in the air without Din taking him out, he wouldn’t be getting away. Because Din had back-up. Din had you.

“That’s my girl.”

___

It took every ounce of strength at your disposal to keep your eyes on the flight controls, to keep your mind on the engine read-outs and your ears tuned into the sound of the port-side ramp dropping. Those words, spoken in that deep, warm voice, strained and breathless, throat tight with exertion… Those words would be your undoing if you allowed yourself even a moment to think about them.

His girl. He had called you his girl.

Goosebumps broke out across your body at how perfectly, undeniably right that felt. You were still clad in your sleep clothes, your feet bare and cold on the metal deck plating, but you had never been more awake. Your very cells responded to the phrase – the fondness, the intimacy, the possessiveness of it. You couldn’t deny that it frightened you; the idea of belonging to anyone was a tender topic. But something about it, something about the fact that it was Mando and not anyone else…

It felt safe. Natural. As easy as breathing. You were his girl, and you were so tired of pretending like you weren’t.

Before you could allow the realization to sit with you any further, however, your comm link sputtered back to life once more.

“Haar’chak!” Mando swore. Grogu, still half asleep but now strapped into one of the co-pilot chairs, whined at the sound of his guardian’s voice in distress, and you reached behind you to pat him comfortingly on the head.

“What’s your status, Mando?”

When he replied, his words came in short bursts, sharp and strained. “I have a visual on the bounty’s ship. He’s taking off. Now.”

Your hands had already found their way to the scanner controls before he had finished speaking. “What’s he flying?” you asked, taking broad readings of the entire spaceport, small though it was.

A pause, and then, “An A-24 Sleuth.”

You adjusted the scanners in response. “Dank farrik,” you murmured to yourself, this time not bothering to broadcast your concern over the comm link. You had worked on a handful of Sleuths in your career, and there were few vessels that could match them for speed and stealth. If the quarry managed to get it out of the atmosphere, the Razor Crest would have a difficult time keeping pace with it. If he made it out of the Karthakk system, Mando’s hunt would need to begin again from scratch.

As though the Crest had heard your apprehension, the scanners beeped at you, and you watched as the monitor before you shifted from a view of the surrounding spaceport to one of a long, narrow vessel about 150 meters away rising slowly into the air.

“I’ve got him on scanners,” you said into the comm link’s receiver. “How far out are you?”

A gruff, modulated exhale crackled through the connection. “…about 30 seconds.”

Even though you knew he couldn’t see you, you nodded to yourself as you ran through your mental checklist one final time. Everything was in place for a quick take-off, and you had locked the scanners onto the Sleuth so it would remain in your sights even as it began its ascent through the arid atmosphere.

“Acknowledged, we’re ready to pursue once you’re inside.”

You sat in silence for those 30 seconds, Grogu keeping vigil with you, your hand hovering anxiously over the switch that would retract the landing gear. Taking a deep breath to center yourself, you realized that you had never been in a chase like this before. Although it had barely begun, you already found it oddly exhilarating. You had never thought of yourself as someone who might enjoy being under this particular kind of pressure, but that didn’t change the fact that the racing heart behind your ribcage wasn’t unwelcome.

Did you find Mando’s job…exciting?

The sound of heavy boots thundering up the durasteel ramp and rocketing into the cargo hold interrupted that train of thought. Mando had flung himself onboard at top speed.

“I’m good, get us in the air!” he shouted from the base of the ladder – unnecessarily, as you already had it in progress. In the span of about three seconds, the twin engines turned over with a rumble, the landing gear lifted back up into the ship’s underbelly, and by the time the port gangplank had folded back into place, the Razor Crest was already making its ascent.

Mando, also, was still moving quickly. One moment, you heard him panting against the rungs of the ladder, as though he had paused to lean there for a moment and collect himself. The next, you felt his looming presence behind you, the breadth of his shoulders suddenly taking up a ridiculous amount of space in the cockpit.

You threw a glance at him over your shoulder from your perch in his pilot’s chair, your gaze tracking up and down his form, assessing, scanning for injuries. “The Sleuth just broke the atmosphere, we’re right behind him.”

Thankfully, he didn’t appear harmed, just a bit winded.

The bounty hunter nodded once, letting out a rather vocal sigh. “Well done. Keep on him,” he replied, pointing out the transparisteel viewport to where you could just barely make out the glow of the quarry’s engines against the blackness of space, growing closer by the second as the Crest followed him into orbit.

You felt your eyebrows raise in surprise. “You don’t want the helm?” you asked, gesturing vaguely to the controls spread out before you in your current seat.

“No. I think you’ve got it handled.” He dropped heavily into the other copilot chair – your favorite chair, you noticed with a thrill – and turned slightly to face his own set of knobs and switches. “Give me weapons control.”

You couldn’t fight the grin that bloomed across your face at that. “Yes, sir.”

Unfortunately, your good humor ended almost as soon as it had begun. As you began to chart a course in pursuit of the Sleuth, a glaring warning appeared on your navigational readout – an asteroid belt, stretching dense and wide across the star system, wrapping itself around the yellow sun almost exactly halfway between the system’s two habitable planets, Lok and Maramere.

In any other situation, you would have taken the Razor Crest out of its way to circumvent it. As it was, you doubted the quarry was going to take the extra time. If either of your two ships wanted to get out into open space, you were going to have go through it.

If your read-outs were correct, the quarry had come to the same conclusion. He was headed straight for the heart of the asteroid belt.

And he was powering up his weapons.

“Mando?” Apprehension colored your voice as your deflector readings spiked, dust and debris from merely the outer edges of the thing already making navigation a challenge.

“I know, I see it,” he acknowledged. “Charging blaster cannons. Follow him in.”

Your heartrate spiked at the instruction, but you obeyed all the same. You were a good pilot, you told yourself as you poured on the sublight power, closing the distance between the Crest and the Sleuth as fast as you dared. You could chase a dangerous smuggler flying one of the nimblest ships in existence through an asteroid belt and not end up splattered across the surface of a spinning hunk of rock.

Right?

You cursed colorfully as a bolt of energy exploded from the Sleuth’s aft laser cannons, missing the belly your gunship by a hairsbreadth.

“Returning fire,” Mando called out, and the Razor Crest’s twin heavy repeating blaster cannons roared to life, loosing a volley across the smuggler’s tail just as both ships breeched the asteroid belt.

And just like that, you had no more space in your mind for trepidation. There was only the Crest, the quarry, and the twisting, lurching lumps of space rock through which both of you wove.

Keep the Sleuth in sight. Don’t crash. Dodge that attack. Don’t crash. Get closer. Help Mando line up his shots. Give him a nice, wide window. Don’t crash.

Don’t. Crash.

You felt yourself sink into your body, your grip firm and sure on the joysticks, controlling your pitch and your altitude and your speed through intuition and muscle memory. You blocked out everything else, allowing all other thoughts and sensations to roll off of you like rainwater on a leaf. A part of you wondered if this was how Mando felt when he was in combat – if he could feel all his other thoughts vacating his brain and leaving him only with what he needed in that exact moment, what had been trained into him since he was a child. Just him and his weapons, an extension of his body, doing what they were best at.

In that moment, the Razor Crest was an extension of your body. And it was beautiful.

The Sleuth careened through the slalom at breakneck speeds, firing round after round, landing some, missing others. You kept the Razor Crest on its tail as though the two ships were connected by a wire, following every arc, every dive, every spin. From his position behind you, Mando gave as good as he got – firing the blaster cannons at every opportunity, wearing down the quarry’s shields blow by blow – and Grogu simply giggled, his hands in the air as though enjoying the dips and banks like an amusement park ride.

It seemed to you that you might be evenly matched, that this battle might be decided not by skill or agility or firepower but by one party simply waiting for the other to make a mistake. But as the density of the asteroids around you started to thin, as both ships drew closer to coming out on the other side, it became apparent that the quarry had been holding out on you. The moment it was not quite so taxed by its own maneuvering, the Sleuth released a deluge of laser fire.

The Razor Crest shook with the impact, nearly sending you out of your chair and throwing Grogu against his seatbelts before the artificial gravity could compensate for the disruption, and an alarm sounded on the console to your left.

Your deflector shields had suffered heavy damage. The ones mounted to the front of your port engine had been completely knocked out. One more shot and –

The Sleuth fired again, and you banked the ship sharply to the right to try to avoid it, but it wasn’t enough. The shot landed, and your felt the Crest shudder and seize.

“Direct hit to the port engine,” Mando warned, his voice tight. Grogu cooed worriedly in response.

“Shit,” you swore. Something not unlike rage burned in your chest at the sight of smoke streaming behind the ship – your ship – as you banked again to avoid another volley, this time to the left.

“How’s she looking?”

Your attention darted briefly to the engine readouts, the ones you knew like you knew the veins on the back of your hand, the ones you had worked so hard during your first weeks aboard the Razor Crest to optimize. It had been damn fine work. And now it was smoking.

You wanted to punch someone.

“Output is down 47 percent,” you replied after a moment. “I can compensate, but if we take another hit like that, I’ll have to take it offline or risk overloading the reactor.”

The Crest wasn’t designed to run on one engine. Redirecting power from other systems to the reactor was a stop-gap measure. It might be what you needed to give Mando enough time to take out the Sleuth, but…

“Bring us in closer,” the Mandalorian ordered. “I have an idea.”

Your eyes widened, and you fought the urge to glare over your shoulder at him incredulously. Getting much closer to the other ship than you already were was a risky move. One erratic choice, one unpredictable dive or spin by the Sleuth could mean a collision. The margin for error was miniscule. Did he know what he was asking? Did he know just how much he was gambling?

Even in the fraction of a second that it took you to process that thought, it was as though Mando could sense your indecision. “Just trust me, cyare,” he added, his words curt but not unkind.

Of course, you did, and he knew it. Just like he knew that saying so would spur you forward. Banishing your worries from your mind, you poured on the power, and the Razor Crest shot forward. The aft end of the Sleuth dominated the view out of the cockpit, drowning out the surrounding blackness of space. You squinted against the glare of its engines, suddenly so close you swore you could almost see inside them.

“Be ready,” Mando quipped, and before you could ask what for, the twin blaster cannons flared to life, and a thick, black plume of smoke exploded from the Sleuth’s engines.

You didn’t think – you simply reacted. White-knuckle gripping the joystick controls, you pulled back hard, effectively throwing on the brakes and sending the Crest careening upward before it could run right into the quarry’s now-limping vessel.

“Direct hit,” you confirmed, bringing the ship back around again. Satisfaction had a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you skimmed through the scanner readings displayed in front of you. “His engine nacelles are ruptured. He’s lost light speed capabilities, and he’s leaking coolant. He’s going down.”

You felt Mando’s sharp nod behind you. “He’ll try for an emergency landing on Maramere.”

Your eyes skipped to your navigational readouts, doing a few quick calculations in your head. “…Confirmed, Sleuth is adjusting course for Maramere. He’s coming in hot.”

“Follow him down,” the bounty hunter ordered. “If he somehow manages to touch down on a land mass, I want to be right behind him.”

Quirking your brow, you risked a glance at him, meeting his glinting black visor with your gaze. “A land mass?” you echoed.

“Maramere is almost completely aquatic.”

You swallowed thickly at the thought. How terrifying that would be – to evade capture only then to crash land into a never-ending ocean, your ship helpless against the crush of the waves as you sank beneath the surface.

You couldn’t lie to yourself. You had found the chase thrilling, and the surge of gratification you had felt at the sight of the Sleuth diving hard toward Maramere, belching black smoke and glowing with the unforgiving friction of the planet’s atmosphere, had been almost addictive. It was an incredible rush, escaping your own destruction, watching someone else’s.

You didn’t want this man to die…did you?

A wave of nausea rolled over you, but you tamped it down, forcing those thoughts as far away as you could manage. The Razor Crest. That was where your focus was needed now. You could reckon with your own morality later.

You plotted a descent pattern just behind the Sleuth’s, modulating your angle just enough to reduce the drag from the atmosphere without widening the gap between the two ships. As the old gunship dropped into the mesosphere, you turned your attention to the navigational computer.

“Based on his current approach speed and trajectory, he’s going to crash…here,” you said, gesturing for Mando to peek over your shoulder at the monitor before you. “On land, but barely. It looks like an archipelago in the northern hemisphere.” On the topographical map the ship’s computer had generated, a sparse chain of islands freckled the surface of the never-ending sea.

The bounty hunter studied the readout for a moment then nodded once. “When he does, see if you can put us down about 100 meters from the crash site. I’ll need to go see if I can pull anything from the wreckage as proof of death.”

“You think…” The words caught in your throat, and you coughed into your fist to clear it. “You think the impact will kill him, then? Even if he doesn’t land in the water?”

He seemed to weigh his response carefully before he spoke, but when he did, his voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “With the speed he’s dropping in at, I think he’d be lucky to make it to the surface in one piece, let alone when he hits the ground.” He met your gaze then, really looking at you for the first time since he came barreling back onto the ship. “This will be the first time I’ve brought in a dead quarry since you’ve been with me. You doing okay?”

The unexpected question made you smile faintly, and your heart throbbed in your chest with fondness for this man, somehow continuing to surprise you with his kindness even all these months later. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” you replied. “I think I am okay. Which admittedly is freaking me out a little. I’m trying not to think about it too hard.”

A breathy, rasping sound, unmistakably a laugh, filtered through Mando’s helmet at that. “I appreciate the honesty,” he chuckled.

Before you could speak on it any further, however, an alarm blared from the console to your right, and the monitor for the navigational computer switched from a birds-eye view of the archipelago to a live feed of the Sleuth. It had lost several panels of its hull on the way down through the atmosphere, its engine chassis were still spewing black filth in a stream behind it, and its thrusters were coughing and sputtering as the quarry tried to keep it in the air as long as possible.

The island chain was in view now, but only barely. It was the middle of the night on Maramere, the ocean waves were high and wild, and it was pouring rain. The only thing that indicated that you were anywhere near land was the silhouette of tall, dense trees against the black sky, outlined in cloudy moonlight, and they were getting bigger with every moment that passed.

“30 seconds to impact,” you said, your eyes jumping between the scanner readouts and viewport.

The Sleuth wobbled dangerously, its underbelly dragging along the tops of the trees of one island, sending splinters of wood and vegetation spraying everywhere, overshooting its first landing attempt, heading for the next island over.

“20 seconds. 10.”

Durasteel scraps and engine oil poured into the choppy water, and just as it passed over the rocky shoreline of the next closest island, the Sleuth’s thrusters flickered out one final time.

Your heart in your throat, you watched through the rain-streaked cockpit window as the quarry’s vessel dropped the final few feet out of the sky and burst into flames.

Behind you, you heard Mando release a breath. Grogu, however, was silent. “100 meters from the crash site,” the bounty hunter reiterated. His tone was inscrutable, somewhere between relief and resignation. “See if you can keep us upwind of the fire.”

You nodded once in acknowledgement and adjusted your grip on the flight controls, throwing on the reverse thrusters to bring the Crest into a gentle drop. The ship’s headlights combined with the column of flame rising from the remains of the Sleuth illuminated the island’s coastline enough that you were able to make the landing by sight even with the rain, and suddenly, what had begun as one of the more thrilling experiences of your life had come to a rather somber ending.

However, as the Razor Crest’s landing gear finally touched down on the jagged, rocky surface of the shoreline, a flash of movement from the decimated vessel caught your eye.

“Wait. Mando, is that – ” You gestured for the Mandalorian to follow your gaze, pointing emphatically out the viewport.

And it was. The dark silhouette of a man – hunched over oddly and limping but very much alive, tumbling from the flames onto the gravel below.

“He survived,” Mando breathed, seemingly unable to look away, his gaze locked forward as he watched the injured quarry stagger to his feet, tamp out a fire on the shoulder of his flight jacket, and begin stumbling toward the tree line. “The skanah is still fucking running.”

The bounty hunter lurched to his feet then, moving out of the cockpit and down the ladder with a swiftness that made him almost impossible to follow. You tried anyway, and although Grogu squealed from his seat strapped into the copilot’s chair, you paid him no heed. You would come right back for him. And if you didn’t, at least you knew he would be safe there until either you or Mando made it back –

By the time you made it down into the cargo hold, Mando had already flung open his weapons cabinet and was arming himself to the teeth – additional blaster cartridges threaded into his bandolier, thermal detonators added to his utility belt. Once he was satisfied with his load-out, he gave his blaster a quick once-over and brought his fist down on the control panel next to the rear exit, bringing out the gangplank.

You didn’t wait for his request or his approval. Instead, you simply darted over to the bunk where you had left your brown cargo pants in a crumpled pile on the floor. You roughly tugged them up over your hips, zipping them closed over your sleep shorts and shoving your bare feet into your boots as quickly as you could manage. When you reached into the weapons cabinet to grab your own blaster, however, you felt a gloved hand clamp around your wrist.

“No. Stay on the ship,” the Mandalorian commanded, and you felt your eyebrows fly to meet your hairline.

“What if you need back-up?” you replied, refusing to drop your hand. “This guy is slippery, Mando, maybe if there’s two of us – ”

“What? You’ll shoot him, gotabor’ika? Hm?”

Your cheeks burned at the not-so-subtle taunt, and you yanked your wrist out of his grip. “Look, as far as I’m concerned, we’re in this one together now, and that man is dangerous. You can’t just go out there in the dark on your own – ”

“I don’t have time to argue with you,” he growled, crowding into your space, forcing you to tilt your chin up if you wanted to keep your eyes on his visor. “You will stay. On. The. Ship. That’s how this works. I capture the bounties. You protect my kid.”

You faltered a bit at the mention of Grogu, who you could still hear whining in the cockpit, and it was as though the bounty hunter could see your resolve beginning to buckle. You might have begun to protest again, but it hardly mattered. Holding your eye contact with an intensity that ought to have been intimidating, Mando closed the remaining distance between you and brought his hand to the side of your neck, and with demanding force, he tucked his orange-tipped thumb under your jaw and angled your face to up his. You felt your breath leave your lungs at the contact, but before you could even begin to process it, he was resting the forehead of his helmet against yours.

The beskar was cold against your heated skin. Your eyelids fluttered of their own accord, almost closing completely as your heartrate spiked. The warmth of his body bled into yours, and you found yourself bringing your own hands up to clutch at his breastplate lest your knees suddenly give out from under you. He’d never touched you like this before – with intention, with such single-minded focus and something not unlike desperation boiling under the surface.

“Please. Promise me,” Mando whispered, and you swore that you could hear not only the modulated version of his voice through his helmet but also his real voice, his natural voice, like an echo that would have been lost had you not been so impossibly close. “Keep yourself safe. Keep Grogu safe. My sweet, fierce girl.”

You swallowed heavily and fought the urge to allow your eyes slide closed, to permit yourself to simply savor this moment for as long as he would allow it. Instead, you brought your fingers up to his neck, threading them through the folds of his cape, the high neck of his cowl. Stars, he was so warm there – so vital and real and alive.

You wondered then if he knew what this did to you. If he knew you would do anything he asked if only he asked you like this, with this body pressed against yours, his hands on your skin.

A moment of silence stretched between you, marked only by the sound of your breaths and his, both heavy and labored.

“Fine,” you said, digging your fingers into the back of his neck with an urgency you couldn’t disguise. “But you have to keep yourself safe, too. Keep yourself safe…for me.”

You felt him gulp beneath your touch, his throat working against your fingertips in a way that made you blush. “I’ll do everything I can, cyare.” He took a deep breath, his chest expanding against yours, and then, “If I’m not back by sunrise – ”

“Don’t,” you murmured, biting back a whimper at the thought. You knew he couldn’t promise you anything. You knew every time he walked out the door, he took his life into his own hands. But you couldn’t bear the thought…

“It’s all right,” you said. “Go. We’ll be here when you get back.”

Maker, how many times had you watched this man leave you? How many times had you prayed to every deity ever imagined in the cosmos that he would return to you, safe?

Why was this time so much harder?

You couldn’t make your hands release him. He had to take the first step back.

Releasing his grip on your neck, he almost threw his body away from yours, increasing the space between you like he was ripping off a bandage. You stayed rooted to the spot as he backed out of the cargo hold, as he retreated into the pouring rain and the blackness beyond, and giving you one last, long look, the Mandalorian drew his blaster from the holster at his hip and ran off, disappearing into the forest beyond the shoreline.

___

Mando'a Translations:

beskar'gam - armor haar'chak - damn it! cyare - beloved skanah - a very hated person, on the same level as calling someone a "fucker"

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