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netherfeildren · 4 months

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The Cassandra Complex : Chapter XI : Lethe

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Brief reference to sexual assault (none has or will occur); Hurt/Comfort; Extremely soft Din Djarin

A/N: I kinda just winged all of this, if there are any inaccuracies or any canon divergence, a great and many apologies!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 7.7K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER XI : LETHE

At what point does one say of a man that he has become unreal?

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

Between bouts of wakefulness, you tell him of the things they did to you in the dark. A blooming flower in the dead of winter, stunted and slow, and as if you’re pulling your own teeth in some moments, when other words come like vomit, rushed and hot and putrid but necessary, something not to be held back. And you don’t tell him the whole of it, he knows this, he can see, but you tell him the parts you can bear, and for now, it’s enough.

You sit in that bed of comfort he’s so meticulously arranged for you in the dim light of the Razor Crest, overheads shut off, only a single warm snake of glowing light falling over you from the cracked open fresher door, navcom set for the desert planet of Tatooine and the spaceport of Mos Eisley, and the thrum of hyperspace buzzes around the two of you. He sits on the opposite side of the hull, wrapped in his armor and his silence and his wanting, and he watches you ebb and flow out of sleep; soft, slow drooping of your eyes into wakefulness and then back into the depths of rest. You need so much of it, he can tell.

At first, you don’t let him near. No touching, please, you beg in whispers, and although it feels as though his bones are thrashing within the confines of his skin or like his teeth will fall out of his skull from the saccharine sweet flavor of want for you that sits sticky on his tongue, he obeys. So at a distance, with certainly no touching at all, the two of you talk. For hours, and then for days, and although his bones continue to shake, and his teeth continue to ache, he holds himself in temperance and restraint because he knows that to just look upon you is enough, he knows it’s everything.

The trip to Tatooine takes days, the Crest a little worse for wear than what she’d been when you’d previously been aboard. The hits she’d taken over the years, over his and Grogu’s journey had taken their toll, and her hyperdrive was no longer what it had once been. But she ramained faithful and sturdy, like any good mistress, and she’d get the two of you where you needed to be, to Tatooine and to Peli for some much needed maintenance after the long trip to the Core. And Din knew it wouldn’t only be the ship’s routine upkeep the two of you would find there, but some much needed rest in the sand port, as well, and most importantly, time. Buying himself time during the slow going trip, and then there, to figure out how it was he was going to get you to stay with him, force you if necessary.

He’d been telling the truth when he’d said you weren’t going anywhere. He would not be left again.

Din had been a stupid man before. He would not be making the same sorts of mistakes again.

Two days since he’d brought you aboard now, and you’re still not entirely well. Tired and sluggish, but he tells himself you just need rest and the closely monitored interval feedings he’s been coaxing on you. You’re sleeping again now after he’d gently cooed and shushed you into accepting some broth, and he watches the methodical up and down sway of the wing of your shoulder, hypnotizing, listening to the whistle of your open mouthed breathing that sings a song assuring him you’re alive and well. He’s been sitting at the opposite end of the hull from you, as far as he can get while still remaining in your direct vicinity, attempting to give you whatever measure of peace he can bear, silent and still, enshrouded in the dark for hours now. Counting the minutes between the sporadic opening of your eyes, the brief moments when you come to and grant him access to your gaze.

Those eyes of yours, they’d haunted him for two years. When he was trying to forget you, when he was trying to move on, stupid and horrible, insisting he could only take Omera from behind because he couldn’t bear the sight of a face that wasn’t yours. He had been wrong. He had done wrong. He had been bad. And he didn’t want to admit it, or acknowledge it, or look it directly in the face, but it was regret which lived in him. He couldn’t deny it.

He’s been scanning your heat signatures every thirty minutes, your core temperature holding normal, your vitals stable, and he’s full of sick paranoia, ravenous want, singing joy. Too many things churning within him to properly digest, and in a way, he’s grateful for this time you’re affording him to gather himself while you sleep and recover. He needs to be well collected, ready and strong and level headed to give you whatever it is you might need when you’re finally ready to leave your restful unconsciousness and come back to him.

You start to shift as he’s scanning your temperature once again. First the hitching of a knee and the nudge of your hips, and then your leg stretching long and lithe, and he watches the arch of your small foot peek out from beneath your blanket, tiny toes splaying wide, spasming and shivering with the stretch of your muscles. He swallows hard, forces the heat in his body that would like to swell to an inferno to remain cool and serene. All this, just from the sight of one small foot. He’s pathetic and ridiculous, and he doesn’t care because he loves you, and you finally know and really, what could matter after that? Nothing.

His eyes swing back up to your face, and he watches the scrunch of your spikey, dark lashes before you nuzzle your face into the cove of your shoulder, coming awake slowly, slowly, as if you’d not had any real, true and peaceful rest since the last time you’d been on his ship. He watches you with bated breath, the subtle inclination of his body towards you as if he were trying to absorb your presence, and when you finally turn back, eyes blinking open he feels his heart lurch in his chest at the first sight of them. Nothing in the galaxy compares, and he must surely know, he’s seen so much of it.

He says your name, voice low and graveled with disuse. “How do you feel?”

You stretch your arms out in front of you, wriggling beneath the covers and making the most delicious of little noises he forces himself not to fixate on. Oh, you sigh, eyes opening wide, long lashes fanning across high cheekbones, before you finally find him in the shadows he’s sitting in. Nothing but the still gleam of beskar in the dim light to give him away.

“You’re so extra shiny now,” little voice and even tinier nose scrunch, so adorable that something soft inside of him aches and snaps its teeth.

“Yes, well…” he sighs, “new armor.”

You sit up slowly, jaw shifting from side to side as you move with what looks like frightened care, like you’re expecting something to hurt, and then, yes, there it is, tiny and subtle, but a flinch. Infinitesimal scrunch of your brows, your left eye winking shut, the droop of your mouth, all of it happening so fast, but he’s watching so intently, learning forward as if he’d shoot across the space that separates the two of you to take you in hand, fix whatever it is that’s aching, that he catches it all before you can school your features into blankness.

“Your hair’s longer,” he whispers, and you freeze, arms bracing yourself up on locked elbows, they don’t tremble anymore like before, and he takes this as a good sign. You let your head fall forward to hang between your shoulders, long hair, a curtain concealing your face from him, and he wants to snap at you, for one unhinged moment, that you’re not allowed to keep your eyes from him anymore. He’s already gone too long without them, he can’t bear anymore of it. But he swallows his insanity, keeps his mouth shut.

You shake your head down at the blankets, before finally looking back up, sitting up all the way and turning to face him. Silent while you settle with your back against the wall so that now the two of you are face to face, separated by dust motes and memories and desire that snaps like lightning between the two of you. There is frision here, pressurized and boiling, and he has to behave. He won’t push you or ask anything of you you’re not ready to give or tell. You’d already shared bits and pieces with him, over your stunted bouts of consciousness over the past two days. A dark hole in the ground, a thieving Twi’lek, breaking of a kind he can’t bear to think of directly, and I hurt like I’m newly made, Din. And now, the first time you’ve been fully awake and lucid, he isn’t going to ruin this with his desperation.

“Fancy. Looks expensive,” you press about the armor.

“I did a big job.”

He doesn’t know how to handle the subject of him. He’d told you the most important fact you needed to know, that he isn’t his biological son, that he hadn’t betrayed you in that way. But the rest? The whole of it? There was so much to say, so many things, great and small to tell. Din couldn’t fathom where to start.

“Oh? What was it?” You’ve wrapped the blanket up high beneath your chin, hiding yourself away from him swathed as you are. Everything and anything you can do to keep yourself apart and protected.

“Are you hungry? You should eat,” he says instead.

You shake your head no. “What was it? Tell me.”

A sigh, and, “Stole the kid for some Imperial remnants.”

“You did what? Your kid?” You screech, surging forward all tangled up in the blankets as you are.

“Yes. Unknowingly,” he huffs. “I collected payment, and then I– I… I don’t know, changed my mind. I went back for him.” His words come to a stuttered halt, unsure and suddenly, unbearably shy, fucking with a small loose seam coming apart at the knee of his pants he’d been meaning to mend for days. There’s a part of him, irrational or untried or overprotective that doesn’t want to tell you about him, his ad’ika, and he can’t understand why when it’s you. The girl he loves, the girl he’s waited for. But it had been so difficult, so precarious, his journey with Grogu, always on the defensive, always looking over his shoulder, waitting for the worst. He’s unused to sharing him without fear or trepidation. And then his loss… for that’s what it feels like, and he’d never admit it aloud, knows he’s where he’s supposed to be, needs to be, now, but there still lives a small, sour seed within Din that whispers that that it’s wrong, that Grogu’s place had always been, and always will be, with him. And when he looks back up at your face, open and patient and lovely, it all spills out anyways. “He was a foundling, as I was. And he’s– he’s special. And after I went back for him, he was… put in my charge of sorts. We struggled so much, trying to evade the Empire, seeking out his people–”

“You found the Jedi?” You gasp.

Murky waters. “We did. He’s with them now. We traveled to Calodan on the forest planet of Corvus, we met a Jedi there by the name of Ahsoka Tano. I thought she’d take him then, help him. He needed to be with his people, and I knew that, I was prepared for that, but along the way… along the way he became– he became–” he clears his throat, for his voice has gone rough, almost choked. He shakes his head, unable to continue but you nod encouragingly, understanding without words all Grogu means to him. You’re sitting at the edge of the nest of blankets now, as if gravitating towards him, holding yourself back, marooned on an island of your own making.

“I’ve heard of her. A great legend, tragedy…”

“Yes, well… She sensed it in us, in Grogu.”

“That’s his name?” You ask softly. “Grogu?” And Din’s heart, it aches, at the sound of it coming from your mouth, all the gentleness and tenderness his ad’ika needs to be afforded. And unbidden, like flash fire, something he has to look away from immediately for his own self preservation, yours too probably, he thinks: oh, but you’d make the most wonderful mother, cyare.

“Yes,” he breathes, “Grogu.”

“And he– he’s a boy? Where does he come from? How old is he?”

“Not human. No one knows what species he is, but he was born on Coruscant, raised at the Jedi temple before the Great Purge, and then smuggled to safety and hidden away for years before I came to find him. He’s supposed to be about fifty years old.”

“But he’s–” your brow folds in confusion, “He’s a child? You called him–”

“Yes. He’s still young, still a baby. I don’t– I don’t know. He’s special. Green and– and wrinkled, with big eyes and even bigger ears.”

“He sounds… he sounds like someone my– my master spoke to me of, once. Of an unknown species, a great Jedi master. Perhaps the strongest in the galaxy, the strongest that's ever lived. Luke Skywalker was his apprentice.”

“That’s where the kid is now– with Skywalker.”

“You gave him to Luke Skywalker?” And your eyes shutter, your mask slipping briefly, showing your frayed edges.

“Yes.” He says carefully. “Ahsoka, she said she couldn’t take him, that we were too– too connected, that he needed someone more.”

“You seem to have a way with Force users,” you say suddenly, a little bashfully, a small smile spreading across your face in a half moon of laughter. “But it makes sense,” you continue, “That his connection, whatever loyalty to you he may have had,” and the use of the past tense feels like a gut punch, “would be difficult to work around when training someone so young and untried. But if he’s anything like his predecessor, then he has great potential in the Force. He’ll probably grow to unprecedented strength eventually. And from what I’ve heard, the species is very long lived, hundreds and hundreds of years.” Another sucker punch, this one even worse. Grogu would live to be old beyond Din’s years.

He clears his throat, yanks harder on the loose seam so that it splits at the side, revealing a patch of hairy knee. “We found those he belongs to, he’s with his people now. I lost him– or I– I returned him to where he should’ve always been. It’s better like this.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper from your perch at the edge of your self imposed island. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

“Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s all the way it’s supposed to be.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Only a few weeks. Like I said, he was taken by Imperial remnants led by a Moff Gideon. Skywalker saved us and took him. He has a temple where he plans to train young Jedi. He’ll be with other children like him now. It’s good for him. I know it is.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of it, he promises he’s not, or doesn’t mean for it to come out like that.

“I’ve heard of Gideon,” you muse, shifting to lean back, movements still slow, not as smooth as they usually are. The thick mantle of your hair shifts over your shoulder, and Din’s mouth goes dry, desperate to bury his face in all that lush splendor and take in the scent of it, feel the drag of it across his naked chest, over his cock and thighs.

“What do you know of him?”

“Only his name, and the great ambition tied to it. He took part in the siege on Mandalore… didn’t he?”

“He did. He’s in the custody of the New Republic now. Awaiting trial and judgment.”

“Tell me about the saber,” you say then.

“I won it from Gideon in battle.”

“It’s the Darksaber, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“It’s legend.” And you look at him strangely at that, mercurial look passing through your eyes, memories or something worse. “Many great and terrible hands have wielded that blade. Clan Vizsla, who forged it, the Sith lord Darth Maul, Sabine Wren.”

He’s shocked by the seemingly great well of knowledge you possess on the figures he’s spent the last two years dealing with. “I’m familiar with the Clan. Paz Vizsla. How do you know all this?” He asks.

“He–” You turn away, brows hitching high, and he watches a swallow pass through the delicate column of your throat. “My master, he was a lover of knowledge, information gathered everywhere, always. He made it his business to know things, and my purpose to collect it for him.”

He wishes you’d let him go to you at the mention of that scum. He wishes he could resurrect him from the dead just to send him back to the deepest pit existing, at the look on your face, small and frightened and childlike. Din’s stomach turns, and he changes the subject. “Wren– she… I think I’ve heard of her from my friend Bo, as well.

“Who?” That brings you back to attention, and he’s grateful for the concealment of the helmet for the small smile he can’t help at the look that comes across your face.

“She’s a Mandalorian. Bo-Katan Kryze.”

“Your friend…?”

“She helped me with the kid. When Moff Gideon captured him, her and her followers aided me in his rescue. It got complicated–”

“Between the two of you?” You cut him off with a little huffing scowl.

“Before Skywalker showed up to help us, little one.”

“Oh,” you huff again, turning your nose up at him haughtily. He can’t help the breath of air he lets out at that. Silly, gorgeous thing. He wants to kiss you so badly.

“The saber’s rightfully hers.”

“Oh,” again, and he laughs, again. “Oh, yes. Yes. The–” you frown, “The legend is that whoever wields it can rule all of Mandalore. I’ve heard that.”

“And that sure as fuck isn’t me. Her family ruled before the siege, it’s hers.” The entire business of it still scathes and prickles at him.

And you laugh at that, “No?” Head tipping back, that mantle of hair sliding again, provoking him again. “Why not? It could be–”

“No. Definitely not. Never. That isn’t something I’d ever be interested in. I would never suit such a role. And this– this thing…” he motions to the crate where the Darksaber sits discarded. He’d found he hated wearing it on himself for too long. “It doesn't suit me well. It’s difficult to wield, something– something leaden and sucking about it.”

“You wielded it just fine from what I saw.”

“You were doing something.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I could feel you, when you attacked me–”

“I didn’t attack you,” you scoff, affronted. Haughty nose back up in the air, and the soft thing inside Din snaps its teeth together once more.

“Don’t start,” he admonishes, voice deep and rumbling and speaking of all the things he’d like to do to you that he cannot even give thought to right now. You roll your eyes, and he can’t help but smile. Sass is good, sass means you’re feeling better, more yourself.

“I could feel you, almost as if you were feeding your energy into me.”

You turn to look at him sharply at that. Tiny frown marring the space between your fine brows he’d like to smooth away with a kiss. “What? I– I didn’t mean to, or– or I didn’t know I was doing that…” You look away again, pressing fingertips to your mouth in concentration. Everything about you, every movement, gesture, frown and sigh and inflection, mesmerizes him. Din didn’t think it possible he could have been worse off than he was before, but he comes to the sudden, startling realization, that he’d had absolutely no idea how much deeper he could fall. The admission that you love him in return, the sound of it, had done something to him, set something off or opened something within him. Some sort of yawning, hungry maw that would only be satisfied once it’d swallowed you whole.

He needs to bide his time and temper his actions. He won’t scare you off.

“I was out of control…” you continue in a small whisper. “I didn’t know. I didn’t–” And you look nervous, frightened suddenly. Din leans forward, immediately on alert, ready to rush over to you if you need him, just from the look on your face. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” You’re all wide eyed fright and concern and an innocence about you, about the question, your worry that you’d hurt him. His heart thumps and thumps and thumps, the rush of blood through the mass of organ so hot it burns.

“Never, cyar’ika. You could never hurt me. I just feel you.” And it’s the truth, it had merely been an extension of yourself feeding him, strengthening him, emboldening him like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Something euphoric about the feeling he was not keen to experience again for the mere fact of how it’d left you, weak and fragile and exhausted, almost at a breaking point.

The two of you need to be careful, he realizes. There was a connection between the two of you, stronger and more easily traversed than either of you had previously realized, be it fate or love or the Force, but there was something that lived between the two of you and connected you and Din needs to be absolutely sure that whatever it is never becomes a detriment to you in any way.

You tilt your head sideways, some truth he knows he should fear churning behind your eyes. You bring your knees up to fold tightly against your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins, and lay your cheek against the small cap, hiding away from him again. “I want–” you say in a very small voice, “I want to tell you things, but I’m afraid of–” a swallow of breath.

“Afraid of what, cyare?”

At the tremble of your spine as you hitch with nerves, Din wants to go to you so badly. This is the most difficult thing he’s ever endured in his life. “Afraid you won’t see me the same again after I tell them.”

“Didn’t I already tell you there isn’t anything you could ever do that I wouldn’t forgive you for?” He presses forward just a millimeter.

You peer up at him at that, and there are no tears in your eyes which soothes him, in part, but worse, still splintered with so much sadness or hurt or the terror of time, and it’s like he’s bellyful of grief. There is something acutely unfair about the distance sitting between the two of you right now when you’re holding that look in your eyes.

“But what about respect?”

“You could never lose that from me either.” You shake your head, propping your chin on your bent knees and wrapping your hands around your feet to pull them up and rock back and then forward, thinking of what it is you're trying to say.

“Don’t you think there are certain things that a person shouldn’t be forgiven for?”

“Perhaps. But there are certain people the rules don’t apply to. That’s you for me.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“To who?”

“To you!” You say incredulously.

“Why not?”

“You–” And there are tears now, swimming in your eyes, his heart thump, thumping in agitation at the sight of them. He gives a growl of frustration that ends on a choke as you squeeze your eyes shut, a single tear sliding over the slope of your cheekbone. “Maker, Din. This is all wrong.” You sound as full of frustration as he feels, and he wants to say that he’s sure if you’d just let him come to you, you’d find the right way forward within each other. “You want to touch me.” He bites down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“Are you looking in my head?”

You give a soft laugh. “Don’t need to.” He huffs, well, he isn’t going to deny it.

You turn away again, laying your cheek back atop your knee, and he can see the tension in your arms as you squeeze yourself tight, tighter. “I– I can’t– I can’t have sex with you,” you say in a smaller voice than he could’ve imagined possible.

He’s silent for a moment, trying to measure his breathing, and there’s violence thrumming within him at what he’s about to ask, but his voice is nothing but gentleness. “Did they– did they hurt you like that?”

You heave a long sigh, “No, but the feel of skin, I cant– I– I hurt everywhere, Din. Everywhere. Inside and– and–”

“It’s alright. It’s alright, cyar’ika.” He tries to push his voice out in gentle, measured notes. Something that’ll soothe you from afar. And the sight of you, all twisted and squeezed up into a tight little ball like you are– Maker– Din feels afraid, for a moment, of what might become of him, of the sort of violence he feels capable of in your name. “If it hurts, you don’t have to tell me anything now or at all.”

“I want to. Is it–” You look up, brow folding, squinty eyed as if you’re rifling through your head for the words. “How do I– how do I tell you that you deserve to know the full of it, but don’t deserve to carry the burden of it? That I wish I didn’t have to, but that I also want to tell you.”

“Just like that.” He presses another half a millimeter forward, feels like he’s hallucinating the scent of you from over here. “Tell me anything you need just like that. But don’t say it’d be a burden, you could never be anything even close to that to me.”

And still, with your eyes not on him, you say that which he’d already been expecting: “I let them keep me.”

He’d known.

“Are they dead?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't leave even one for me?” Your cheek rolls against the hill of your knee, eyes swinging up to spark at him, and Maker, as long as he’s still able to pull that look from you there’s hope. He can fix anything if only you continue to look at him like that.

The trip to Tatooine takes about ten days. Bouts of sleeping and eating and his gentle but insistent caring for you. He won’t let you pull away or into yourself; kept at a distance, but not pulling away, and the distinction might not be obvious, but he sees it. That’s enough.

Days later, when you wake again, a little stronger, but still sleepy and soft and beautiful, your hair is even longer. Seeming to grow a yard a day, incredibly. “It’s the Force; healing me, reconnecting with me. It works in strange ways,” you tell him as it pools around your waist. He says nothing, catalogs everything, and later, you come, moving slowly up the ladder into the cockpit to join him in the co-pilot's chair, bundled in a blanket. He’d left some of his socks for you warming on a pipe, just like before, and he sees the thick weave of them droopy over your toes, the part where his heel is supposed to go coming up to your ankle. He swallows and looks away and breathes and breathes and reminds himself he is strong and patient and entirely at your service in any way you might need. Din reminds himself that he must be good.

Your wounds heal slowly over the days, and he gripes and groans that all your energy is funneling into that damn hair and not the more important bits of you. He perches you on a crate, after having urged you into the fresher, pacing outside anxiously, hands on his hips, a huff and a sigh a minute while he listens for any bump or movement from within, making sure you don’t need him. He sticks a bowl of soup in your hands after, kneeling before you, gloves fitted over his hands so that you won’t have to feel his skin and shows you the bacta patches slowly, movements intentional and measured so that you’re not taken by surprise or touched in any way that you might not like. You eye him suspiciously, brow hitched, nose scrunched when you sniff delicately at the broth and then promptly discarding the bowl beside his medical kit, watching for what he plans to do with you next.

“That bit on your elbow isn’t healing.”

You give him a tiny frown, tucking the sore little wing tight into your side protectively. He presents his palms towards you, moves slowly. “It’s fine,” you pout.

“You know it’s not, little one. I’m going to put a single bacta patch over it. That’s it. No fuss, I promise.” Still moving slowly, watching the look in your eyes, opening the packet gently, he reaches for your arm, index finger and thumb taking hold of you first, a barely there cuff of his fingers just above your joint. He gives one slow stroke of his thumb, feeling you lock up, makes a low noise deep in his chest, something to soothe and coax you as he pulls your arm gently forward, untucking it from your side. “It’s alright, cyar’ika. Just a little bacta, nothing scary.” Your eyes go a little glazed, head tilting sideways to look down at him, mass of your hair shifting around you. That hair and those eyes and that face, Maker, but this is where he belongs, this is where he should always be, at his knees before you.

You give a soft sigh verging on a breathy little moan, your eyes fluttering shut as he smooths his thumb against the inner slope of your elbow, just there at the vulnerable dip, but when he slowly starts to lift your arm to get at the back side where the wound is, raw and red, a burned and angry looking thing, you wince, a little screech warbling in your throat, before jerking back trying to get away from him, quick and violent in your incoordination. That damned shoulder you haven’t let him look at yet, he knows it’s bad. You flail, little foot coming up to stub your toes against his stomach plate, bum scooting precariously over the edge of the stool. He reaches for you on instinct, his hand cupping the curve of your bottom to keep you seated, shit, hold on, stop, he grunts, but when you shove him away, loud slap of your palm against the curve of his helmet, he loses his balance, momentum taking the both of you toppling, unintentionally taking you with him. He falls splayed on his back, helmet dinging hollowly where his head knocks against the steel floor with a tangled mass of soft limbs and too long hair and lush tits sprawling over him. You wriggle and flail, an indignant squeak of his name, and then you go tense realizing all the places the two of you are suddenly pressed together. He feels a shudder of painful terror lock your limbs into shivers, the trembling hitch of your chest, and he holds frozen still, waiting for you to make the first move. But Maker, the feel of your weight on top of him. He widens the stance of his legs, slowly brings a knee up, trying to keep the heft of you away from his cock. He dips his chin to watch your face, eyes wide, frantically swinging across his chest, to his hands held up in surrender at your shoulders level, up to the face of his helmet.

You’re full of unsure fear and desire, yes, he can see it just there in the farthest glimmer of your eyes, the one like a scream, bright and hungry. Your brows fold together, confused, a frustrated noise slipping off your tongue before you give one more tense, strained jerk, and then seem to suddenly lose the fight and entirely melt into him. Your temple landing with a soft thump on his chest plate, arms wilting from their tensely held position over the outsides of his arms. Just a melted little thing of a girl, finally letting go of all that anxious strain you’ve held yourself in for two long years.

Din dares not move, not even breathe. He holds so still for so long he’s able to watch the change in the cadence of your breathing, the rickety little patter of nerves into slow and deep sighs, all relaxation and trust. And the bright light-like realization dawns on him while he lays beneath you, feels your chest press into his, the fire of your heart seeming to melt through beskar, the two of you know each other too well, too intimately. The two of you love each other, and he wants to live in it and experience it so badly. He wants to rush madly through the whole thing of it, live the rest of your lives together fast and in the blink of an eye first, and then be able to go back and do it all again slow and precise, taking each lived detail in his hand and learning the shape of it entirely before he’s able to move on to the next moment. He wants it all, the whole of a life with you.

So he doesn’t touch you, but the two of you lay like that, pressed against each other for hours, and the moment is enough.

Days later, he asks because he cannot help himself, because if you have to bear the truth of it all, he will too: “Why did you do it all?” And he doesn’t know precisely what the root of the question is.

Why did you leave me?

Why did you stay gone so long?

Why did you hurt yourself as you did?

You don’t answer immediately, and he wonders if he’s stepped where he shouldn’t have, pushed too far too soon, but then your face goes smooth and serene. Honest. “I didn’t think it would happen as it did. I thought I’d see you again, I thought it would all be sooner. I didn't think I’d be gone,” gone, “for so long. I thought I’d get a chance to make up for my mistakes with you.”

You sit in the co-pilot's chair, slightly behind him, and he doesn’t turn to look back at you, but he can see your reflection in the gleaming curve of the front of the cockpit, the rush of hyperspace zinging around the two of you, it’s quiet and thrumming and he can hear the soft cadence of your breathing. Your tunic is high necked, sitting just below the soft point of your little chin, every square inch of you wrapped away and sealed tightly in dark fabric, little pearlescent buttons that gleam blue crawl up to your throat and seem to strangle you. It’s as if you’d donned your own suit of armor, and he can’t understand how you still look so fucking good after everything. But as if he could peel away the stitching of you to peer beneath, he sees all that is wrong, all that is missing and all that is still echoing hollow. He thinks if he could only fill you with himself, all of everything would be set to rights.

You rest your head on the seat back, rolling it side to side slowly, thinking on what is is you’ll tell him next. “Because in ways, it felt good, better, than the alternative.”

“To be free?”

“Yes.” And the truth of that sits heavy and cloying between the two of you. An animal, hurt, will return to what it knows, no matter how badly it’s treated. It’s in its nature to seek out its familiar habitat. “Because I saw no other recourse, nothing better for me to do. Because I was stupid. Because I wanted to see how long I could last.”

He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, thick and metallic rolling over his tongue. “I don’t want to be selfish. I’ve been trying to– to not be that, to not make this about me.”

“It is about you.” Maker.

And he still doesn’t turn, says through his honest shame: “But I have to tell you that I don’t know how I can live with this, knowing this. I feel like– like I… I don’t know. I feel like if I go to sleep tonight knowing this, I won’t wake up tomorrow. Like it’ll crawl up my throat and strangle me in my sleep. And it shouldn’t– it shouldn’t be about me.”

“It’s not selfish, Din. It is about you,” you say again, and he wonders if your intention is to hurt him or yourself. More of that painful honesty like a blade through a lung.

He finally turns in his seat. “The way you live is the way I live. Do you understand me? The way you live is the way I live and your breath is mine and your hurt is mine.”

Your eyes are heavy lidded, watching him through the thick screen of your dark lashes, one eye seems to glow, the other to swallow him. “That’s why I know it’s about you too now. It started with nothing, with stupidity, and a wanton desire for– I don’t know, for destruction or something. But it ended with the realization that I’d have to tell you of all this one day. That it would be yours too eventually. And I regret it bitterly for that.”

“How am I supposed to move past this? What– what am I supposed to do with it?” He worries he sounds very like a child asking, but he has to anyway.

You shut your eyes, going so still, made of adamant and glass and smoke. He knows a thing like you could do nothing but survive, but at the same time, it seems a miracle you did. That you let yourself. He tracks the slope of your nose, the lush of your mouth, dry, you won’t drink enough water and it pisses him off, little chin and delicate throat, all that hair, the round of your breasts and the dip of your waist. Those little blue glowing pearl-for-buttons. He wants to steal them and swallow them away.

“Do you think,” you start, eyes still closed, face still calm. He leans forward, elbow braced against wide spread knees, and watches closely at the way your mouth forms the shapes of your words. “Do you think that– I don’t know how to say it, I think… but do you think it’s wrong to ask someone you love to just let a thing go? As much as it might’ve hurt them or bothered them or– or I don’t know… ruined everything. But to just ask them, for your sake, to let it go? Forget. Do you think that’s wrong?” Your eyes open. “Or selfish?”

“Is that what you want from me, cyar’ika?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t want to be selfish with you.”

“Neither do I. You said before that you don’t want me to forgive you. You don’t want forgiveness, you want forget.”

“Yes.”

He nods once. “And I have nothing to forgive you for, and asking me for the things you need is never selfish.”

And you say again, once more like before with your face still calm, “You want to touch me.”

If he were a beast made only of flesh and bone and not a man he would snap his teeth. “Yes.”

You stand slowly, hair a cloak around your shoulders, and step to him, between his wide spread thighs. He should beg, but he only stays frozen, and you bring your hand up to the face of his helmet, palm splaying along the side, he wishes you’d rip the thing off of him. He wishes he had never taken a Creed at all. Your palm on his face would fix everything, like him filling the hollow place within you. It would all be well if only the two of you could come together. Din knows it.

You lower yourself to perch primly on one thigh, slow like thaw, bringing your knees up to curl into his chest, little socked toes braced against beskar. One hand smoothing up his stomach and chest plate, other curled over the pauldron of his shoulder, you reach the lip of the helmet, close your eyes, and start to lift the weight of it from his face.

“I’m not going to open my eyes. I’m not going to look.”

The rush of hyperspace reflects off your skin in silvers and blues, makes you more dream than girl, and then his face is uncovered, and he listens to the symbol of who he is supposed to be, who he has been all his life, roll from your fingers discarded on the ground, the loud clang of history ringing in his ears, but all he cares about is, “You kept them.” He brushes a thumb, careful of your skin, against the glowing gem of your earring. The way it twinkles and sparks and exists as a monument to your shared history.

“Something shiny to remind me of my shiny.” A tear slides slow and clear down the slope of your cheek, coming to rest at the corner of your mouth, and he watches it quiver and shake there in anticipation, much like his heart does within his chest. You take his face between your hands, animal sound from his tongue, one hand at the curve of his jaw, cradling him like he’d be something precious and fragile if only the two of you let it be so. Not animal, not man, only loved.Your other hand spreads, glides and cups and soothes, his forehead, his brow, little fingertips pressed to the outside dip of his eye socket, running along the rim of bone beneath hot skin. He watches your face, the tear at the corner of your mouth, and you come towards him very slowly, the fold of your hips, stomach, breasts, and then your mouth on his.

And then your mouth on his.

He takes the tear into his mouth, holds it on the surface of his tongue. He could swallow it like he would the pearls. This is enough.

It’s soft as a whisper and then hard. Your nails digging suddenly, scratching and searching for a crack in his surface where you’d find purchase to pull him closer, burrow your way inside. You press your closed mouth hard against his, shoulders hitched high, and he grips the arms of his chair so hard his fingers ache. A sob in your throat that turns into a broken sort of moan, giving him permission to break too.

He circles your waist in his hands, takes hold of the shape of you, and it’s just like in his memories and dreams and nightmares. Hands sliding up the slope of your back through all of that glorious hair, still growing, right to the edge of your tunic covered nape.

“Din.” He swallows the tear. He touches your skin.

You moan for him, mouth shaky and wet, vibrating into him, the tip of your tongue tasting the edge of his lip, and then he’s swallowing you whole. Shifting you further onto himself, the soft round of your bottom over the thick of his lap, tits pressed against his chest, he needs to taste it all, your nails digging so hard into the skin of his face you’ll surely draw blood, and he will surely thank you for it. “Yes.” He says in return, finally, he draws onto your tongue. Full upper lip slotted between his, and it’s wet tongue and sharp teeth and a very dark place you should have never been, too much time wasted, a promise to forget because that’s what you need of him.

He hitches you higher, tighter, forces himself not to take it further, press you too hard. Groans rough and ragged when you whine soft and small. Sucking on your tongue, tugging at your lip. And your hands move to his hair, little fingers wrapped in his curls, dragging down the front of his face, over his eyes and nose, finding the seam of a scar there. “What’s this?” You follow the faultline of old hurt, and he grips your wrist, directs your hand to the other, thicker weave of scar tissue along the back curve of his skull, wanting to show you all the places he was broken that you were not there to mend. “Din,” on a frightened little gasp he soothes away with his tongue along the back of your teeth and the drag of his palm down the slope of your spine, stopping just shy of the curve of your ass.

“Explosion.”

Din, again, Din. You press your fingers along the rough knit flesh, and he feels your tears slide along his own cheek and perch at the corner of his own mouth now.

“It’s okay, little love. I’m here with you.” Tugs you back close and safe and tightly pressed, seam of him woven into the seam of you, mouth to mouth.

“And I understand.” He cups the back of your head, pulls you back, opens you and tastes and tastes and tastes. “I’ll promise to let it go. But you have to promise too.” Changes the angle, the flavor of you still the same, the sound of you still the same, the feel. “That you’ll never do it again.”

“I promise, Din.” It’s enough.

Chapter XII

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bleedingichorhearts · 20 days

Note

I require being smooshed by big astartes men after a long day of training. That boy smell gotta be immaculate. (I am frothing)

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: They have names, but no name for you. Funny how I just imagined them with just their helmets on and nothing else, just pure golden/bronze muscles.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @kit-williams, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan.

TW // SMUT/NSFW, Filth, Language.

“Just look at those muscles.” My stepsister moaned, looking over the balcony. Practically melting on the glass railing of my fathers' mansion.

I hummed, not really interested in what she was ogling at. My book was far more entertaining, I was getting to the part where the villain gets the girl! It was undeniable these two characters had some tension going on.

“I wish they would pin me down like that, unlike my boyfriend.” She groaned, rolling her head back and leaning up from the railing.

You mean your elder sister's boyfriend? The one that was going to get married to her? I glanced up from my book and gave her a questioning look, flipping my page.

“It would be far more… enjoyable.” She sighed, turning to look at me. “Don’t you think so?”

“Do I think what?” I questioned, halfly knowing what she was referring to, flipping another page.

“Oh, don’t play with me!” She scoffed, gesturing me over to the balcony. “Come over here and think of it yourself.”

Sighing, I placed my bookmark in the book and got up from the leather recliner and moved the book to the end table before going towards the open balcony. Hesitating to go out fully as the sun blinded me for a moment. My eyes blinking to get used to it.

Slowly going to my stepsisters' side, I left at least 2-3 feet away from her side. Not trusting what she could possibly do at the moment.

“Just look at those hunky men.” She groaned again, her cheek resting on the palm of her hand while she looked down at the group.

Following her gaze, I expected some construction workers to be improving the grounds or some athletic trainers that our mother had hired, but it wasn’t. It was the Custodes.

Training together right in the open for all to see. With barely any armor on.

We ogled watched them for a moment. My stepsister occasionally dreamingly sighing out as they would pin each other down. Sometimes switching between a 1v3, 1v1, 1v5, 2v5.

Though, I couldn’t help, but admire how each one seemed to flow beautifully with their attacks and defense. How swift they were with one another, becoming a blur of motion. How much they were holding back and how much they weren’t and how much muscle that moves and tenses. Flexing when there was more power put into their hits. Shifting and twisting when they avoided an incoming hit. How their body glistened in the sun, creating an enrapturing golden glow to their scarred skin that looked oily to the touch. Making them look like some Greek god.

Oh lord, that does something to me.

“So? What do you think?” She asked me, turning back to face me. Folding her arms like I should know the answer to what she was asking. Not that she would care about my opinion anyways…

“On what?” I asked, folding my arms behind my back. Pretending that I wasn’t bothered by the sudden growing heat in my core.

“To get d*cked down by one of them?” She said so boldly with an impatient attitude in it that I shouldn’t be surprised by it, but I was.

I shrugged in response, not wanting to please her ego and looked back down at the training Custodes. Making eye contact with the Dread Host and shifted in my spot.

“Of course you don’t know, you’re a virgin.” She scoffed, waving her hand at me to disregard me. “Why did I ask you in the first place?”

Well, there goes that.

I rolled my eyes at her then took my leave. Not wanting to stand there and wait for her to blow up as she made eyes at the Custodes. Thinking she could lay one down for herself pleasure. Didn't she know they were held at a higher regard than the rest of the Space Marines?

Shaking my head, I picked up my book from the end table and made my way through the mansion to get to my room. That heat pooling back into my core the second my thoughts ran to the Custodes. How those golden and bronze muscles moved—

No! We- I must stay focused. There was no time for such wicked thoughts! Especially to a Custodes no less!

Oh, but just imagine their stamina. How long they could last for. How they could have the full potential to snap your neck while keeping you in place, breeding you because he’s just that strong? Or how you could eat a meal right off their golden stomach? The golden plate? To kitten lick them clean of any mess, teasing their skin?

I slapped myself with my book on the forehead. No! I must rid of these unholy thoughts! Banish them to the void! I must not think of a being like them so lowly!

…They sure do think of you though.

“I-Imperatus!” I yelped, not expecting him to round a corner in front of me. My eyes roaming over his skin. The smell of his training dragging a spell, a curse over me.

“Little one.” He softly purrs as the hairs on the back of my neck rise when he takes careful, calculated steps towards me.

“Shouldn’t you be training?” I coughed, looking away from his sculpture of a body, oiled up on natural sweat. A blushing coating my cheeks.

The Imperatus tilts his head, my back bumping into something warm, someone warm as I look up above me to see the Dread Host. Since when was he behind me?

“Yet, you need help, don’t you?” The Imperatus questions, stepping closer.

“Help? With what? I don’t recall calling for help?” I questioned back, jumping in the Dread Host hold when he picked me up, my book dropping to the floor as my hand slid across his shimmering shoulder. The scent of him nearly having me in a daze.

“Oh, but we can smell you little one.” Imperatus hums, following right behind the Dead Host. The rest of them appearing behind them.

“W-wait a minute! I didn’t—!” I squeaked as the Dread host squeezed my thighs, a rumble vibrating through his body as the others chucked with him.

“Do not worry little one, let us take care of you.” Imperatus croons rounding around the Dread Host when he stopped in the middle my own room. The door locking behind us.

“I-it was unintentional!” I peeped out, adjusting my hold on the Dread Hosts smooth, scarred arms while he shifted where I was half being held by him and the Imperatus.

“It was intentional from us.” The Imperatus rumbled, looking down at me while squishing my thighs in his hands as I squeaked out again and jumped then pushed back into the Dread Hosts hold a whine escaping my throat as they all purred. Their hands coming out to touch what they could.

“So submissive to us.” Imperatus cooed, pushing his finger further and further down my needy walls. The Dread Host making work of sliding his hand underneath my shirt and bra, ripping them off from there as he cupped my breast in his hand and fondled it. His teeth nipping at my earlobe.

“So ravishing.” He cooed again, his head leaning forward on the other side of my neck. His lips pressing against my throat, nipping and sucking marks there as he added another finger. Pumping them and curling them in all the best places.

“So precious.” He purred into my ear, sending a tingle down my spine as he pushed another finger through my folds while I cried out, clutching onto the Dread Host. Their scents becoming stronger together as I shook around his fingers.

“Y-You are evil.” I murmured, leaning my head back onto the Dread Host shoulder, taking a kiss from him.

“Oh? Am I?” The Imperatus asked, shifting a little closer. Sudden thick heat slapping on top of my core.

“Yes—!” I choked on my own breath, blurry eyes going wide at the stretch. The Dread Host moving his hand from my breast to my neck, pinning my head back to his shoulder. Purrs and rumbles echoing around the room as more hands came across and fondled my breasts. Pinching them and squeezing them till they were hard and perky before suckling on themselves.

Moaning out, my legs twitched as my walls fluttered around him. My core burning with overwhelming need. The need to be filled by them. To be marked everywhere by them to show that I was theirs. Yet the pain of girth this Imperatus had was a stretch.

His first thrust knocked the wind out of me. Sedating the need for a split second before it was replaced by a mild ache as he growled out, talking in gothic to his brethren of how tight I was.

Adjusting his position, he thrusted again and again. Going slowly at first before picking up his pace. His hard c*ck dragging against my fluttering walls, in and out. Skin slapping against skin while hands roamed, chests rumbled, and mewls fell out of my mouth. Right into the Dread Host ear as the Shadow Keeper put his lips on mine, swallowing my moans for himself.

Impatient, the Dread host started to rock his hips with the Imperatus, eager to get some action besides just listening to their little one’s cry’s a pleasure. His solid c*ck pressing up my backside, coating it with his pre-c*m.

“Y-You can’t fit.” I cried once the Shadow Keeper pulled back, clawing back at the Dread Host behind me. The Imperatus was enough to feel me up to the brim. I don’t think I could take another one.

“I’ll make it fit.” The Dread host growled, taking that as a challenge and pushed his way through my *ss as I stiffened and threw my head back at the stretch, a whine escaping my lips. His hands squeezing my throat, keeping it pinned there against his shoulder as both the Custodes groaned at the tight fit. The Shadow Keeper and Aquilan Shield trilling at the show.

When they both rocked together. My brain was a lost cause then. Too much being oh so deliciously served. Their c*cks hitting all my nerves just right with each rhythmic, calculated thrust. Their musky scent wrapping around me like a noose. My body practically turning into jello in their strong hold.

The unholy squelch of my multiple climaxes ran down their c*cks. Never stopping their pace with each winding thrust. I had almost believed I wasn’t breathing if I wasn’t mewling out every single one of their names.

Silently crying out, the knot in my core snapped as the Imperatus pushed a little further than he did and held his position. Growling out as his c*ck pulsed thick ropes into his little ones’ sensitive walls.

Rolling his hips, the Imperatus groaned while his c*m leaked down the inside of her thighs before he slowly pulled out and switched with the Solar Watch. His c*ck sliding right into their little one with ease as he rolled his hips in a circular motion and complementing on how tight she was as well. Groaning as she quietly whined out, mouth becoming busy with the Shadow Keepers.

Once the Solar Watch started his thrusts the Dread Host moved with his brethren once more. Groaning when they heard the obstructed cry’s of their little one. Their hot breaths coating each other’s sweaty bodies as they never failed to slow their set pace.

Throne, this was a far better than training exercise.

𝕭𝖔𝖓𝖚𝖘:

Waking back up was a battle. Legs f*cked numb, hips sore, brain f*cked numb. How was one to get out of bed like that?

Trying to move upwards, I got pulled back down into the Aquilan Shield chest as he slowly rolled his hips, slowly tightening that knot in my core once again. Waking up the Shadow Keeper in front of me as he hummed, rocking his with his brethren. A grin playing on the Aquilan Shield lips while he nipped the back of my neck. A gasp leaving me.

F*ck, I’m never getting out of this bed am I?

𝕰𝖝𝖙𝖗𝖆: (What didn’t make it. A treat if you will.)

“Oh, but we can smell you little one.” The Emissaries Imperatus purred into my ear. Shoving a finger down in my core while I pushed back into the Dread Host. Biting my lip and whimpering out at the two of them.

“N-Not creepy- ah!”

“Shhhh, little one. Let us take care of you.” The Imperatus purred, nuzzling just below my ear. Going a little deeper and curling it against my walls. “We caused your… stress after all.”

“U-Us?” I mewled out, squirming in the Dead Host hold. A long, slimy, and black tongue coming from the side of my vision. My eyes following it over to the Shadow Keeper where he stood to the side off of the Dread Host.

“Us.” The Shadow keeper confirmed, his tongue tracing the side of my cheek. Getting closer and closer to my lips. The Aquilan Shield appearing from right behind him.

#space marine husbandry sentience #warhammer 40k #fanfiction #adeptus custodes #adeptus custodes x reader #x reader #reader insert #oc x reader #polygamy #polyandry #thesaurus #tw: smut #my dude had a sinful mutation

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pagesfromthevoid · 1 year

Text

Cowboy Like Me | d.d. | 11

Din Djarin x princess!reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: SMUUUUUT BABY. P in V. Oral (female receiving). Fingering. Slight dom!Din, slight possessive!Din.

Author’s Note: The thigh holster stays on during sex

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me

The Need

Din remained on his knees in front of her, taking the dagger now and returning it to its sheath.

“You seem to like your holster,” he began, taking a strap from the bag he had brought with him. She watched him curiously, hands resting in her lap. His hands searched her skirts, pushing the fabric aside to reveal the slit up her leg. His bare hand ran up from her ankle to her knee, pulling it out before him. “Figured you’d like one for the dagger too.”

She nodded, slowly standing now to allow him to buckle the piece around her bare thigh. His hands trailing over her skin, he watched as the skin raised in reaction to his touch. He wanted his mouth to cause the same feeling –wanted to press his face into her skin, and draw his name from her lips.

With the dagger strapped to her leg, peeking out from the crimson of her gown, Din felt that familiar desire building up inside him. That dagger was a symbol of what she would become –his wife, his riduur. Having accepted it, she was accepting becoming part of his life permanently. In a little over a month, all he wanted was her and he was getting just that.

“Not that it has any bearing on whether I’d marry you,” she murmured, lifting his chin to look at her. “But do I get to see what color your eyes are now?”

“When we’re married,” he promised, standing up slowly.

“And that means I can kiss you whenever I’d like?”

“Within reason.”

She hummed in response, wrapping her arms around his neck loosely. “But not right now. Because we’re not married.” He shook his head, hands resting on her waist. “Unless I put on my eye mask.”

The implication was there, and Din would be a fool if he ignored it. “Where is it?”

“Under my pillow.”

Considering his options, Din glanced between her bed and the door. Then, without warning, he lifted her into his arms and deposited her in the center of her bed. She covered her mouth, trying to be quiet so as to not alert the guards that stood outside her door. Her head fell into her pillows, her skirts fanned out around her as Din hovered over her. He reached under her pillows, grasping the silk mask and pulling it out.

Taking one last glance at her eyes, he slipped the mask on her. She adjusted it, ensuring she couldn’t see, then he lifted her hands to his helmet. She was less cautious this time, just as desperate to feel his touch as he was to feel hers, as she pulled his helmet off. He took it, setting it down on her nightstand.

His hands pulled at the straps and buckles of his armor, yanking it off as fast as he could. Which, unfortunately, was not terribly fast given that he was setting it down quietly every time he got a piece off. But eventually, he was down to his flight suit, resting between her legs as he pulled the one with the dagger up to his side. His fingers traced over the sheath and the signet before brushing her bare skin once more.

“If Credence so much as brushes against you,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear. His voice was low and threatening. “I want you to put this dagger into his jugular.”

She tensed under him, as if taken back by his sudden bloodthirst. But she nodded, offering a smile to try to ease the tension. “Biting worked just fine before.”

“You’re not going to put your mouth on anyone but me from now on, princess.”

As she was about to respond, he captured her lips in his, swallowing whatever comment she was about to make. She moaned into his mouth, reaching up to run her hands through his tangled curls. Their first kiss had been soft and tender, but this kiss –it was messy and desperate. Weeks of pent up tension being released finally as his hands roamed down her body. She arched into his as he pushed her breasts up, releasing her mouth only to kiss the skin exposed from her dress.

“How attached to this dress are you?” He asked, voice hoarse and low.

“Not very.”

He thanked the Maker because the neckline of the dress allowed for him to simply tear it down the front. She gasped at the sudden exposure, the dress pushed aside as he pulled the rest of it off of her and threw it to the floor. Once again, the only thing between him and her was his flightsuit and her underwear. But now –there were no open windows or doors to stop him as he pried her underwear off and threw them aside. The only thing on her now was the holster and dagger on her thigh —and Din wanted that to stay.

Trailing wet, open mouth kisses down her throat and over her chest, Din lowered himself onto the bed. Every inch of her demanded his attention, and he wanted to explore every part of her without interruption. Desperation was the only thing driving him now as he bit and licked his way down her body. She was trying so hard to be quiet, covering her mouth with her hand as he ran his tongue over one nipple –the other pinched between his thumb and finger as he pulled.

“Oh, Maker –please,” she begged, voice muffled by her hand.

He switched now, repeating the motion, before trailing more burning kisses down her stomach. It flexed under his touch, causing her to arch her back but he held her down as he pushed himself further down the bed. It was when his nose bumped against her clit –just barely –that she jolted. But Din wouldn’t let her move, keeping her pinned under his arm as he pressed his lips against the bundle of nerves. Glancing up at her, he grinned as she covered her face with her hands and bit her lip, trying to keep from crying out.

Din pressed his lips to her inner thigh, dragging them up until his mouth was pressed against her very core. With a quick flick of his tongue, he licked a strip up, savoring how sweet she was in his mouth. Her hand covered her mouth, biting the side of her palm, trying not to reveal what was happening behind her bedroom door. He spread her wider, allowing both a better view and more room as his tongue delved into her folds, taking in every ounce of her that he can. Her hands found his head, tugging at his hair as her hips chased his touch.

Soon, he brought his hand up, mouth still on her clit as he runs a single finger over her folds. She writhed under his touch, whispering her pleas for him to keep going, to please touch me. His finger slid inside with ease, and the feeling of her tightening around just that was intoxicating. Still sucking on her clit, building the pressure there, he slipped another finger inside and he couldn’t hold her down as he steadily started to pump the digits in and out. Her grip on his hair tightened, hips moving against his hand, a silent plea to keep going. But he could tell she was close –and he wasn’t ready to exhaust her yet.

Pulling his fingers from her –prompting a desperate whine as she fell back against the bed –Din moved to hover over her once more. She grabbed his chin, slick with her, and pulled him into a heated kiss. He groaned into it, feeling as she licked herself from his tongue.

“I need you,” he admitted, pulling from the kiss to rest his forehead against hers. His hips ground into hers, revealing how bad off he was for her.

“I’m yours, Din.” Her hands deftly felt for his chest, taking a fistful of his suit and pulling him closer to her. Her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him in. “Only yours.”

Making quick efforts to pull the remainder of his clothing off, Din found himself between her legs once more, his aching cock in his hands as he stroked himself. His breathing was hard, ragged as he stared down at her naked body.

“If you don’t touch me soon,” she warned, her voice breathless and soft –but there was a bite to it. “I’m going to have to do it myself.”

“You’re impatient,” he countered, swatting her hand away as she reached down to, in fact, touch herself.

“I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” she admitted, trying to sit up to make a point.

Then suddenly, Din was on his back with her straddling his waist. He was surprised for a moment, caught off guard by her new position. But his hands found her hips, pulling her down against him. He closed his eyes, catching his breath. She leaned in, kissing along his jaw, as her hand finally grasped his cock and lined it up against her. Din sucked in a breath, trying so hard not to just pull her onto him and fill her to the hilt.

But she did that for him, sinking down onto him like she was made for him. Din threw his head back, gripping her hips hard enough that he was certain they’d bruise. She bit her lip to hold back her moans, sitting up now to feel all of him inside her.

Finally, Din opened his eyes, keeping her still for several moments as he memorized the sight of her full of him. She tried moving, but he held her tight, cock buried in her while he basked in how tight she was.

“Din,” she moaned, reaching between her legs to drag her fingers over her clit. “Please.”

He flipped them over once more, bringing the leg with her dagger on it around his waist. She groaned at the change of angle, but didn’t fight him as he started a steady pace. One hand held her leg against him while the other supported his weight over her, allowing him to kiss her hard as he pulled out then slammed back in. She moaned into the kiss again, hands reaching up to grasp his shoulders as he picked up speed.

“Oh, Maker, Din,” she sighed as he trailed kisses down her throat again, taking a moment to rest his head in the crook of her neck. “Oh fuck, I love you —I-I love you so much. I’m so close —please —,”

His hips stuttered as she clenched around him, and Din swore he saw stars as she cried out his name one last time as she came. He was so close, could feel that tension building inside him. Watching her cum on him only brought it closer, until he snapped his hips forward and spilled everything into her.

Panting, Din buried his face in the crook of her neck, catching his breath as he came. She was writhing under him, overstimulated from her own climax as well as his now. But he didn’t want to leave her warmth; he wanted to stay buried in her forever.

Eventually, he pulled out, rolling onto his back. But he made sure to bring her with him, wrapping his arms around her as she laid her head against his chest. The silk of the mask was cool against his heated skin, and he briefly considered just…slipping it off her. But he knew better; he’d found loopholes in everything. He could wait just a little while longer.

“I love you, riduur,” he whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss there. “We’ll get you back home with me soon.”

———

Taglist (CLOSED): @r4iner @sgt-morgan @mingeniee @darling1darling @teriolan-blog @venusfalling @double—take @sunshine96 @demisexuallover @mxtokko @ellesvoid @waddafaknik @c-ms1ut @kokoirne @sl-ut @munsons-queen @intense-sneezing @geekrenaissance @dancealongthelightofday @tizylish @ruleroftides @aheadfullofsteverogers

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian imagine #the mandolorian x reader #the manadalorian #mando x reader

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questforgalas · 9 months

Text

Passing the Time

Notes: a quick little diddy I wrote inspired by this art created by @zaana that I couldn't get out of my head and I also need pre-order 66 moments with the Batch like I need air. Just Crosshair and Hunter being soft bros and reminiscing

WC: 900

Tay's Masterlist

Read on AO3

Staring up at the night sky, Crosshair counts 7 different constellations laying within his vision. The midnight air still carried the day’s humidity, causing a thin layer of sweat to coat his skin underneath his armor even as he relaxes against the boulder he settled against at the beginning of his watch shift. A breeze rustles the palm fronds hanging above them, softly grazing his face, and in the distance, waves are heard softly rolling onto the beach on the other side of the grove.

Hard to believe just hours ago they were knee deep in Separatist territory doing what they do best. Especially what Wrecker does best with explosives.

Checking his vambrace’s chrono, they aren’t due to leave for Kamino for another 5 hours. Finally returning home after nearly 5 months of missions. Giving a content hum, he crosses his legs in front of him, leaning further into the boulder and settling in for the remainder of the night. The only noise disturbing the soft jungle symphony coming from the GNK droid keeping him company.

A thud from behind catches his attention, causing him to glance over his shoulder back at the Marauder. The gate was left open, letting the soft interior light spill onto the jungle floor and illuminate the figure walking towards him. Turning back to the jungle, Crosshair reaches into his belt taking out a toothpick to place between his lips as he waits for his sergeant to join him.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks when Hunter settles in next to him, using the GNK as an improvised chair.

“Can’t shut it down tonight,” Hunter replies. Crosshair gives a hum, understanding. As they grew older, the nights Hunter couldn’t shut his senses down became more rare, but occasionally, after a string of tiring missions, they could prove too much for his exhausted mind.

“Echo and Wrecker out?”

“Like lights.”

“Tech?”

“Doing something to the Marauder. As always.”

Crosshair huffs a sigh. “He’s going to work himself to death.”

“When did you become a mother hen?” Hunter jokes, playfully jabbing an elbow into the sniper’s arm. That earns him a grumble that loses its bite when Crosshair can’t help the smile tugging on his lips.

“Simply keeping the efficiency of the squad in mind,” Crosshair counters.

“Uh huh. Don’t worry, Cross. Your secret’s safe with me. Can’t let anyone think you’re not a prickly asshole,” Hunter teases.

The sniper rolls his eyes and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth as he looks back up to the sky, letting the comfortable silence between him and Hunter settle around them. Mind on the brother likely buried in wires, he smiles up at the stars as his thoughts bring up memories previously forgotten.

“Remember when we were younglings,” Crosshair starts, “and he was determined to build his own battle droid? Wanted it to go on missions with us.”

Hunter groans, “Convinced Wrecker to break into the training lab with him to scrap and carry parts back to our barracks. Was set on having it ready for our next simulator. Stayed awake for days to finish it. He was so tired, he accidentally mis-wired the activation so it came alive in the barracks. Started firing everywhere.”

“A bolt went right by my head! Hit my favorite target card!” Crosshair exclaims as he pushes himself off of the boulder, turning his body towards Hunter.

“I’ve never seen Wrecker move so quickly when he flipped the table and took cover,” Hunter continues. “I had to tackle Tech down since he was still in a stupor, just staring at the droid wildly firing. It finally ran out of juice after a minute, but the damage to the barracks…”

“Can’t believe Nala Se’s check up was scheduled for that day. Remember the look on her face when she opened the door?” Crosshair says with a laugh.

“Still not as good as Lama Su’s when I had to explain to him what happened after being called to his office,” Hunter snickers. “Only the second time that week too. Pretty sure that was a record for us.”

“What was the most?”

“In one week? Nine. Became more frequent after Echo joined. Who knew an ARC would be such a troublemaker,” Hunter chuckled.

“He’s not so bad. For a reg.”

Hunter flicked his gaze up to Crosshair and smiled at the fondness he found in his eyes. No one was more protective of their squad than the ARC, and no one was more protective of the ARC than their sniper.

Turns out, Echo has as much patience for bullies as he does for Separatists, and the Batch learned quickly that something as small as a snide look sent their way resulted in it being punched off the reg’s face by a scomp. Naturally, Echo’s fierce loyalty and no hesitation to knock down regs earned him a high spot in Crosshair’s regard.

“Pretty sure he gets it from that Fives he’s always talking about,” Crosshair says.

“Can’t really picture Rex having a bunch of rowdy ARCs,” Hunter mutters.

“I think Skywalker required all of his attention. Let the others get away with it,” Crosshair chuckles.

Hunter matches his chuckle with his own. “Remember when…”

Surrounded by the quiet of the jungle, the brothers swap stories until the dark hours of night soften with the first rays of the sun crawling up to the horizon. The quiet is interrupted by Wrecker’s laugh inside the ship, and the sergeant and the sniper join their squad as they prepare to return home.

#tay writes #divider by samspenandsword #star wars #the bad batch #hunter #crosshair #echo #tech #the bad batch tech #the bad batch echo #the bad batch crosshair #the bad batch hunter #pre order 66 bad batch #soft bros

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raisedbythetv89 · 10 months

Text

No, but like…FAMOUSLY not just in Buffy, but every universe that has spells and magic, real love CANNOT be manufactured or duplicated by magic. Only twisted obsession/infatuation like what we see in Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.

But in “Something Blue” Buffy literally says once the spell is over and she’s talking to Willow “I loved him, we were betrothed” in a spell whose specifications had only to do with marriage which would only change them from being enemies to allies, which then allowed all their suppressed and ignored feelings to come to the surface that they could NOT act on before when the other person was supposed to bring about their death.

And I’m not saying full deep romantic season 7 and beyond love but they clearly CARE about each other and are extremely attracted to each other, in lust if you will…and must have been for a while. Giving SO MUCH credence to neither of them ever succeeding at killing each other because deep down they genuinely never wanted to. (yeah yeah plot armor but so much of the time when one of them got away it was really WAY too easy like they could have at least made it so both of them were always just BARELY getting away by the skin of their teeth instead of how many times one of them really just lets the other go after exchanging a few punches like 😹 they weren’t even TRYING after a while and to me “Something Blue” proves it’s because they do not want to kill each other because they are crushing SO HARD. Because also in season 2 when they make the truce literally FIVE MINUTES LATER Buffy leaves Spike alone with her mother while she’s on the phone. The amount of trust that demonstrates is actually insane especially when you combine it with the fact that Buffy doesn’t do a disinvite spell after he leaves town OR comes back in season 3 & 4. And plot armor or not, them never killing each other becomes part of the lore and informs the motivation of the characters because that’s just how fiction works! 🤷🏼‍♀️)

I mean just look at these two love sick idiots

I MEAN….Buffy’s face when her immortal and extremely durable vampire just gets tossed across the room?? She goes into slayer overdrive, swiftly taking care of the two demons she was fighting to run over and check on him exactly like she does so many times in season 7 because that’s her vampire!!!

We see them so happy and in love - literally the happiest we’ve ever seen Buffy and then the show tries to tell us “it wasn’t even nice” because what? They bickered?? You mean they actually SAID what was on their minds and talked about it and then comforted the other when they were sad instead of bottling it all up or being evasive of topics that would cause fights and Buffy would tell Spike lovingly to shut up when he was being dumb??? OH NO THE HORROR!!

And what really is the cherry on top for me is the “wind beneath my wings” bit because Buffy blames the spell while her body language and face clearly says it was NOT the spell, that was all Buffy. Which opens the door for us to question just how much was what we saw because of the spell’s influence vs the real Spike and Buffy just completely uninhibited by their status of an engaged couple???

Especially when this supposed engagement to a “bad boy” who was helpful to her watcher, extremely caring and loving towards her in front of all her friends and when xander says something mean spike is SO HURT and he’s like “that’s it! You’re off the usher list!” Like oh yes THE BIG BAD INDEED 💀 but Buffy claims being engaged to a Spike “gets her over her bad boy thing because it wasn’t even nice” ….. GURL you are running for the hills to seemingly “normal” captain cardboard because you LOVED being engaged to the slayer of slayers and that scared the absolute shit out of you and you were like I need to do something to convince myself I’m normal and not the kind of girl who would be into Spike IMMEDIATELY 💀 and then avoids Spike for the next several episodes while Spike is always asking where she is for Buffy to achieve maximum avoidant/suppression of feelings possible 😹😹😹

And the way Spike NEVER teases her about it afterwards like he did with the “wind beneath my wings” bit at the end of the episode to me is so telling of the importance it held for him too that he never used everything he must have learned about her at that time or never even taunted Riley about the fact that the Slayer was all over him when her and Riley had first started dating because let’s be honest that would be SUCH a Spike thing to do. Like???? They have been so into and conflicted about each other for a LONGGG time and I honestly cannot be convinced otherwise 😹

#they’re actually madly in love your honor #spuffy #something blue #spike and buffy

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darknight3904 · 5 months

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Like We Used To

Masterlist / Main Masterlist

This marks the beginning of Part Two of This Love.

Warnings: Slight references to male masturbation and dirty dreams. Nothing wild.

Asgard 2013

"Are you sure you want this?"

"Hush, Fandral, she can make her own decisions."

"Yeah, I can make my own decisions, and I have decided to change it to blue."

"HA! You're such an idiot!" Volstagg cheered, slamming his final card to the table which erupted into loud groans

Astri and her friends had been playing a Midgardian game Thor had brought back from New York, it was called Uno and Astri was inherently terrible at it.

"He can not keep winning like this," Hogun said tossing his hand into the middle of the table.

"He has to be cheating," Sif whispered

"We could always rig the cards against him," Fandral suggested

"But then, is it a fair victory when one of us wins?" Astri asked

"It is if he hasn't been winning fairly this whole time." Sif pointed out

"Pass the cards out, I plan to win again." Volstagg declared

"Cheater," Fandral whispered as he dealt the cards again.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Loki didn't realize how mind-numbing his time in the dungeons would end up being. The first few weeks had been a blur, Frigga had sent furniture and books to him and he spent time rearranging and figuring out the best angle for his bed. Now, he was out of furniture to rearrange and the endless books were becoming boring. He had begun to stew over his loss on Midgard but felt his mind slipping away from his humiliation. As he lay there, he realized he missed the feel of the sun on his face and the way the wind would slightly blow through his chambers when he left the balcony doors open. Loki missed horseback riding through the dense forests of Asgard and the way the stars looked down at him at night when he couldn't sleep. Most of all though, he missed Astri and everything that came with her. He missed the way her laughter would carry through the castle when he made a bad joke. He could imagine the way her long hair would shine whenever the sun streamed into the huge library windows. Loki swore he could smell the soft scent of Astri's fruit-smelling perfume as he lay in his cell.

He couldn't believe she hadn't visited him yet. At first, he had presumed Odin had banned visitors but after asking Frigga who said Astri was free to visit him as much as she wished, he was saddened by her absence. Every day when his meals arrived he swore he heard the soft clicking of her shoes, instead he was met with the same guard over and over again. Loki tried to imagine what she could possibly be doing without him. They had spent nearly every waking moment together as they grew up. Was she with Thor or Sif? Was she rotting away in the library, learning a million different spells? Or perhaps she was with the Aesir fellow she had met in the damn markets? Loki had felt jealousy swirl in his stomach at the idea of the last one. Aesir wasn't necessarily terrible but he just seemed so droll. The way he just mindlessly complimented Astri whenever he saw her, it was like he was grovelling for her when they barely even knew each other. Loki doubted he even remembered what Astri wore each time they saw each other. Did Aesir know Astri's favorite foods and that she hated red flowers? Clearly not since he brought her bunches of them all the time and brought almond cakes when Atri clearly liked lemon better.

By the time his supper had arrived, he had decided that Aesir was possibly the most boring Asgardian who ever lived. Beyond his flat personality, he has terrible style. Loki had peered into Astri's mind the other night and found the most recent memories of Aesir. He had been dressed in the worst possible outfit. The way the silver in his armor contrasted against his skin made him look rather yellow. He felt Astri's embarrassment as they had strolled through the gardens when multiple handmaids had passed and giggled at Aesir.

"What's on your mind?" A soft voice asked

Loki swore he had never sat up quicker than in this moment.

"What's wrong, you look like you've seen a ghost." Astri asked, "Is there something on my face?"

"I didn't think you'd ever visit," Loki admitted crossing the cell to where the golden barrier separated them

"I wasn't planning on visiting today. I was going to make you sweat it out for a few more weeks but Volstagg was driving me insane and I needed a break." She explained

"What did he do that's annoying you so much?" Loki asked

"He keeps beating me at this Midgardian game Thor showed all of us." Astri sighed

Loki felt his mouth twitch slightly into a smile. Even though he wanted to be mad at her for not seeing him sooner, he was, as usual, finding it to be impossible to be angry with her.

"I also brought this..." Astri said pushing a tray of food through a designated spot in the barrier.

"Aren't you hungry?" Loki asked

"No, Thor and I have been eating our suppers together for the past year and I swear spending time around him has fattened me up. It's like his huge stomach is affecting me too." Astri admitted

"I think you look great." Loki complimented, he felt jealousy roar in his chest at the idea of Astri sitting across from Thor in her chambers, laughing at jokes and eating her favorite cakes.

"Aesir said that a few days ago. I'm sure you already knew that though. You know you're not entirely undetected going through my mind like that at night. You show up in my dreams and that's how I know you're searching my memories, seeing what I've been doing with my days." Astri said

"Anyone has a right to know what their best friend is up to. And how else would I know when I thought you had resolved to never see me again." Loki countered, surprised that she was able to sense him.

"Oh please, you never thought that. You knew I'd show eventually." Astri knowingly said

Damn, she knew him well.

"Has it occurred to you that maybe I missed you?" Loki asked honestly

"It's crossed my mind. Although I'd like to think that you don't since then I'd feel guilty about not spending my every moment with you." Astri said

"Like we used to?" He asked

"Like we used to." Astri parroted with a soft smile that made Loki's heart beat just a little quicker.

Silence fell as he stared at the girl across from him. While she claimed to be fattening up with his "brother", he swore she had lost weight. Perhaps it was the lighting or maybe her dress was ill-fitting? No. Astri was definitely smaller than usual, her arms were normally more defined with muscle than they were now, exposed by a soft yellow gown she wore.

"You're staring again," Astri said

"I haven't seen you since the cage on Midgard." He reminded "Forgive me if I'm trying to commit your face to memory. I don't know when you'll visit again."

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't," Astri said wistfully

She seemed sadder. As if someone had snuffed out her firey spirit Loki had come to love over the years.

"Would you be able to come tomorrow?" He asked

"What's in it for me?" She coyly asked

"I'll read to you for as long as you'd like." Loki promised.

"You're just tired of being bored in there," Astri said

"Oh, quite the opposite I'm having a wonderful time here." Loki lied

"You're not the only one going through their best friend's minds when they sleep" Astri smirked

When in the Nine Realms had she been doing that? Loki felt his smile falter as Astri laughed

"By the way, beyond your obvious boredom, your dreams of me undressing and then bathing are quite erotic. I feel bad for your hand, and the other prisoners." Astri laughed

That explains the dream he'd been having for the past week.

"You should not be going through my mind like that." He scolded, feeling his face redden

"Oh, and that gives you permission to go through mine?" She questioned

"What you saw is personal." He hissed, embarrassed at her knowledge of him

"Whatever you say, Loki." She laughed

God he missed that sound, it warmed the air around him and sent a smile to his face.

"I'll see you tomorrow. I hope whatever book you have is worth my time." Astri said standing

"You're leaving already?" Loki asked following her as she walked.

"It's getting late, I had a long day of losing to Volstagg. Plus I'm sure you need some alone time with your dreams of me." She teased

Loki felt his face go red, he was so embarrassed he bet even his ears were red.

"What a nice color on you, Loki!" Astri complimented before walking away

Loki sighed and watched Astri walk off, she was going to kill him one day. The funny thing was he'd be perfectly fine with it, dying for her no matter how ridiculous the reason.

Astri had barely closed the door to her chambers before Thor had her jumping out of her skin.

"How is he?" Thor asked

"Don't scare me like that ever again." Astri glared looking at Thor who was reclined on her bed

"Why? It's so fun." Thor smiled

"He's fine. He's bored and just as Loki as he has ever been." Astri said

Thor nodded as Astri walked to her vanity and began removing her jewelry and pulling pins from her hair.

"Aesir came calling when you were with Loki." He said

"Really? What did he want? I just saw him two days ago." She said

"Well, he left these." Thor gestured to a large red vase of flowers "I put them in water, no need to thank me."

Astri rolled her eyes, she definitely wasn't going to thank him.

"He say anything to go along with them?" She asked

"Well, he said his mother was going to make the almond cakes you liked last time and he said he wanted to take a horse ride through the forest in a few days time." Thor said

"How nice, I'll have to tell him I accept," Astri said picking her brush up

"Don't you hate red flowers, and you don't even like almond cakes, everyone knows you prefer lemon." Thor pointed out

"Maybe I've changed," Astri said

She looked at Thor through the mirror who gave her a 'Are you serious?' stare.

"Okay, you got me, maybe I didn't tell him those things." She groaned

"They seem like important things," Thor said

"Pfft.... no." Astri laughed nervously, when did Thor become so observant?

Silence fell over the pair as Astri brushed through her hair and every few seconds glanced at Thor who seemed to be admiring her patterned bedspread.

"Did Loki ask about me?" Thor asked

Astri thought about lying to him to make him feel better. But what good were feelings if they came from lies that would just hurt later down the road?

"He didn't. Our conversation was rather trivial today." Astri admitted

"Ah. Okay." Thor said

"I'm going back tomorrow night. Maybe he'll ask about you. If he does I'll tell him all good things." She said truthfully

"You better." Thor smiled

"I should really get ready to sleep so if you could you know...leave," Astri said, a bit rudely

"I came to you to talk about something more important than Loki and Aesir," Thor said ignoring her request.

"And that is?" Astri asked turning to him

"My father has said that I am too taken with Jane. He's pointed out that I'm better served with what is in front me me here." Thor started

"He better not be suggesting we court," Astri interjected, worriedly

Thor's silence was her answer.

"We are not getting married. I would rather die." Astri groaned

"That was rather rude." Thor pointed out "You don't have to worry I'm not telling you this because I want to court you. I'm telling you because I don't think he's right, I want to be with Jane but I also want to do my duty to Asgard."

"You know you're not king yet," Astri said, relieved that Thor wasn't interested in her.

"What does that have to do with Jane?" He asked

"It means that you should go out and live. Who cares what Odin thinks is best?" Astri smiled

"It's irresponsible." Thor pointed out

"When has Thor Odinson ever cared about responsibility?" Astri laughed

"Well there was that time I brought my brother back because he tried to take over Midgard." Thor pointed out

Okay he had her there.

"I am sure whatever is meant to happen will happen. If you end up with Jane, great! If not...well we aren't getting married but there's lots of other eligible maidens!" Astri said

"I suppose you are right..." Thor said

"I'm always right." She smiled "Now, get off my bed and leave so I can sleep, Volstaggs victories and Loki's silver tongue have worn me out."

Thor's eyebrow raised at the last statement from Astri.

"Astri! You don't want to court me yet you sneak around with my brother while he is locked away under the castle?! I ought to tell the whole kingdom!" He gasped, feigning a scandalized face.

"I didn't mean it like that, you idiot! I meant his wordy conversation is exhausting! Just go to your own room!" She blushed trying to pull him out of the bed.

Thor laughed and continued to laugh at her reddened face as Astri shoved him out the door and proceeded to slam it in his face. The Odinson brothers were surely going to drive Astri insane one of these days and hopefully, it wouldn't be for another thousand years.

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes movie has changed my entire life. Suzanne Collins cooked again.

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actual-changeling · 1 year

Text

I know that Ellie eventually going to school is a pretty much universally accepted part of the world building, but I am itching to explore her trying to do so and simply being unable to do it.

The child abuse she went through at the hands of FEDRA was probably prolific and cruel, and her life was basically nothing but different kinds of "education" strung together, whether that's whatever they cobbled together for general education or the military training. Joel might know it was bad (cause it's fucking FEDRA), but the extend of her trauma is hard to gauge when you are not in a situation that triggers it.

Her academic trauma does not disappear outside of school, but unless Ellie is in a similar situation it simply won't be immediately obvious (speaking from experience). On top of that, David being a teacher does not help whatsoever.

Joel and Ellie agree on a first day of school, but they want to check out the building beforehand, just so they're both a bit more at peace. Ellie is somewhat excited but also scared, and the closer they get to the building, the quieter she becomes, just hanging onto Joel's hand and squeezing it until her knuckles turn white. He pulls her close, notices she is nervous, but he doesn't press and gets them inside. One of the handful of teachers, a woman about Joel's age (they're aware enough to not have it be a man, Silver Lake is a known topic), meets them at the door and shows them around.

Small classrooms with surprisingly comfortable looking wooden chairs (Ellie sees the pillows on them and her mind short-circuits), some old sofas and couches, armchairs, spacious desks and all kinds of posters and materials. There's an art room and it is the only time Ellie's grip on Joel loosens a tiny bit, the array of brushes, paints, and instruments fascinates her, but that moment passes as quickly as it came.

With every step they take, the teacher's voice blurs with Joel's and turns into white noise, her vision grows fuzzy and grey, and she has to keep blinking with fluttering lashes to not sway on her feet when the dissociation gets worse. Absently, her mind keeps cataloguing the floor plan, windows, doors, all exists she can make our and imagine, but by the end of the tour, she cannot remember anything past leaving their house this morning. Something tugs on her hand, and she blinks up at Joel, his gaze loaded with a question she didn't hear, and maybe ten weeks ago she would have pretended she had; she doesn't know.

Ellie doesn't even know why she is reacting like this, there are no specific memories popping up, nothing to fight back, just her mind and body slipping into a protective armor of static like they're pulling her into the fizzling TV in their living room.

"Ellie?"

The teacher's voice snaps her back to a pounding heart and a breath stuck in her lungs, and when she looks down at their clasped hands her nails have left marks in Joel's skin. She lets go at once, holding onto her wrists with her arms behind her back, and she still didn't hear the question. Every cell in her body is telling her to leave, pulling her toward the nearest exit, but she doesn't. There are memories flickering across her vision now, a decade of unjust, painful punishments and her body being pushed to its breaking point, and she decides the answer to that question is more important than whatever they had asked her.

"What do you do? For, like, punishment?"

Her voice is steadier than she is on her feet, so she rocks gently back and force to stop herself from swaying. Joel's gaze burns hot on her cheeks, but she keeps her eyes on the teacher, whose eyebrows are raised so high they disappear beneath her fringe.

"Punishment? We don't- there's not reason to punish forgotten homework or the like here, Ellie, it's supposed to be both fun and educational."

Something about the tone in her voice unsettles her, but the answer isn't satisfying, and she needs to know, needs to know the rules so she can follow them, because the art room looks like it might actually be fun to be in and she is so tired of dark lonely spaces and marks on her back; imagining the disappointed look on Joel's face when her teachers tell him about it is the worst of it all, though.

"What are the rules? When are the drills and what's the consequences for breaking the rules? Is there-" is there a hole, she wants to ask, but her breathing is fast and shallow, periphery dotted with dancing black spots, and she doesn't want to give them any ideas they didn't already have. Joel's hand lands on her back, right between her shoulder blades, and the warm weight his comforting without being oppressive, her breaths slowing just a smidge.

The woman with a name Ellie forgot is taller than Joel with the shoes she is wearing, and she she squats down, the look on her foreign face looks like a a finished puzzle, the final piece having snapped into place. Her features are rounded, soft, a stark contrast to the borderline malnourished and hardened look of pretty much every person around the QZ including her teachers, a few light-brown and grey strands escaping from her ponytail, and Ellie can't help but think that she looks - nice, non-threatening. School isn't supposed to be non-threatening, but this whole building is dripping with it, and it scares her to death; getting this ripped away from her as punishment will hurt even more than escaping packed, concrete classrooms.

"You grew up in a FEDRA school, right?" she asks, voice almost tender, and Ellie can only stare and nod while Joel rubs circles into her back.

"I heard stories about what it was like before I came here, horrible experiences no one should have to go through, especially not a child."

She sounds so much like Joel the comfort laced into her words manages to penetrate the static and soothe some of the panic, her eyes a bright hazel shade, not blue, and she keeps her distance even though she could easily get into Ellie's personal space

"Even before the outbreak, school wasn't like that, and it is definitely not like that here. There is no punishments, Ellie, no real rules or structure outside of general lesson plans, no consequences for not turning in work or being late. This is meant to provide some stability and education, give you a places to hang out with people your age, have some more people to connect with. If you don't want to be here, no one will force you."

Ellie doesn't cry. She doesn't. A deep breath and some determined blinking pull back the tears from her waterline and her chest aches with a vengeance when she thinks about how different it would have been here for her and Riley, how much better. Riley would still be alive. For a few minutes, they're all silent, allowing her to gather the scattered pieces of herself and glue them back together, and when she does, a tiny bit of the fear in her bones has made space for tentative excitement.

"I like the art room," she says quietly, feeling younger than she ever has, and a wave of something washes over all of them. "Do I- can I-"

"You can use it whenever you like, even outside of school hours, as long as you don't leave too much of a mess and use it responsibly."

Liliya, her brain finally provides, straightens her back again, and the lack of a last name during her introduction is probably part of what through her off. Ellie looks up at Joel, a muscle in his jaw ticking with suppressed anger, not at her, at FEDRA, she knows him well enough to realize that, and decides her question about The Hole is both best saved for another time and hopefully not relevant at all.

"Okay," Ellie responds, pressing herself back against Joel and melting when his arm protectively wraps around her shoulders, "I'll give it a try."

Over the relief rushing through her hairs, she barely hears the details the adults next to her discuss, happy to bury her face in Joel's shirt without shame, and she manages to shake off the last wisps of static clinging to her. Maybe this will work out for her, maybe it won't, maybe all she will use are the art supplies, but when they are lead back to the entrance, more than ready to go home, Liliya gives her a smile, eyes crinkling. For the first time in her life, Ellie smiles back at a teacher simply because she wants to, and the hopeful excitement sprouting in her chest is enough to tell her that she will be right on time for her first class on Monday.

#alex writes tlou #the last of us #tlou #joel and ellie #ellie williams #joel miller #ficlet #fedra school #some riley pain for Z <33 #joel is a good fucking dad and that teachers is a good person #and ellie has mommy issues and can and will get attached but more about that later #ellie has academic trauma in so many ways this is literally not even scratching the surface but it scratched my itch for now #wanna guess how long my little reblog is or what was meant to be little anyway #wanna take a big fucking guess?#if you guessed 1.3k aka a WHOLE ASS FIC you are correct #i cant- i cant even anymore #anyway #back to doing literally anything else

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isagrimorie · 10 days

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Repeating on a theme on Seven's Borg implants (read here for previous posts)

Because I'm still obsessed with Seven's Borg tech and how much of her is organic. Supposedly EMH took out 82% of Seven's Borg tech and took out many over the years Seven still has a lot of working Borg tech and nanoprobes more than other xB around.

One thing I just noticed from Equinox, part 2 is how we see Seven's ocular implant without the casing:

This is where it makes it so obvious that Seven's head is mostly metal because that is a skin cut out showing what's underneath that skin. Also that there are various lights under there we didn't know about.

Look at how shiny Seven's metallic skull is without skin.

The configuration of Seven's head is mostly just metal.

In this Picard s2 prop - this Borg skull only has a fraction of what Seven has underneath her skin:

Seven's entire cranium is made of metal.

That is why when Narissa bashed Seven's head on the console Seven didn’t lose consciousness and only made Seven a little dizzy, and pissed her off more tbh.

An organic person would've had a concussion and maybe even died.

I wonder if Seven looks like a Terminator beneath the skin.

(This is brought to you by having just rewatched Terminator 1 & 2).

Because as we saw in Imperfections scratch the skin underneath and she seems to have metal exoskeleton as implants.

Speaking of further body horror-- Even when the Borg deadened Seven’s nerve endings, Seven still felt the pain of having her occipital ocular installed:

During or after her procedure, even with all the precautions that the body wouldn't feel a thing, Seven remembered feeling the pain. (It makes me wonder if Unimatrix!Annika felt the pain or it was something she could block out).

A fan theory I subscribe to posited that Seven is a Borg Queen candidate.

This would go a long way explaining why Seven has some form of individual identity and why the Borg Queen has a special interest re: Seven.

Aside from being assimilated at a young age, this would also account for the number of implants in her system.

Even among her own unimatrix, she was the one calling the shots and enforcing the Borg rules.

All the Borg Queens we've seen only have their heads and upper torso.

Seven might have been on her way to a similar fate. Her spine's already reinforced.

I'm pretty sure one or both of Seven's legs from the knee down are prosthetic legs ala Edward Elric.

(Also there was a VOY writer who seemed keen on blowing up Seven's legs -- the first version of The Raven has Seven becoming a terminator and to stop her the crew apparently needed to blow up her legs, and she had to crawl her way to Janeway—thankfully someone in the writer’s room said “WTF??”, Because WTF???I'm so glad someone went: No, dude).

As possible evidence that one or both of Seven’s legs are prosthetics: when she was unconscious during The Gift we can see there are wires on Seven's left kneecap.

And I don't know if that shin armor is exoplating or if prostheses have replaced her legs.

There's so much about Seven we don't really know about and I really want to know more about her functional Borg components and to settle, once and for all, if by Picard's time, she still needs to regenerate.

I'm on the camp that Seven still needs to regenerate.

/edited

#body horror #body of borg #seven of nine #star trek #star trek voyager #dhawan!master would love the borg too much #the borg collective #star trek picard

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happyk44 · 1 year

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The world froze as a dog’s howl pierced the air somewhere behind the Titan’s army. It was too much to hope but Percy called out, “Mrs. O’Leary?”

The enemy forces stirred uneasily. They began to part, clearing a path through the street like something behind them was forcing them to. Soon there was a free aisle down the center of Fifth Avenue. Standing at the end of the block was Percy’s giant dog, a small figure in black armor and a slightly larger figure crackling with electricity.

Percy’s heart stumbled in his chest. “Nico?”

“ROWWF!” Mrs. O’Leary bounded towards him, ignoring the monsters on either side of her. Meanwhile, Nico continued forward. The enemy army fell back as though he radiated death. Jason was at his side, becoming more and more recognizable as he approached. His mouth was matted with golden blood. It stained his skin.

Through the face guard of his skull-shaped helmet, Nico smiled. “Got your message. Is it too late to join the party?”

Percy’s heart skipped a beat as he glanced at Jason, growling low. “I thought Jason was supposed to be doing something else?”

Nico drew his hand up to Jason’s face. “He completed his task in record time.” He turned to Kronos. The tone of his voice was chillingly breezy. “You remember your brother, Grandfather? Krios. Jason eviscerated him just moments ago.”

At the sound his name, Jason turned his bloodstained body to face the Titan still on his chariot.

The shock that slid over Kronos’s golden eyes was almost funny. His lips turned back into an ugly sneer. His hand tightened on his scythe. “Son of Hades,” he hissed. “Do you love death so much you wish to experience it?”

Jason growled. Lightning licked the earth around him. For a moment, Kronos almost looked worried. It sent a shock of confidence through Percy’s core, even as the campers behind him, even as Annabeth at his side, faltered nervously at the sight.

Nico held a hand out. “Your death,” he said, “would be great for me. And as Jason’s already proven, you and your kind will easily perish.”

He withdrew his sword - black as a nightmare. With the motion, the ground rumbled. Cracks appeared in the road, the sidewalks, the sides of buildings. Skeletal hands grasped the air as the dead clawed their way into the world of the living. There were thousands of them, and as they emerged, the Titan’s monsters got jumpy and started to back up.

“HOLD YOUR GROUND!” Kronos demanded. “The dead are no match for us!”

The sky turned dark and cold. Shadows thickened. A harsh war horn sounded. As the dead soldiers formed up ranks with their guns and swords and spears, an enormous chariot roared down Fifth Avenue. It came to a stop next to Nico and Jason. The horses were living shadows. The chariot was inlaid with obsidian and gold, decorated with scenes of painful death. Holding the reins was Hades himself, Lord of the Dead, with Demeter and Persephone riding behind him.

Hades wore black armour and a clock the colour of fresh blood. On top of his ink-black hair was the helm of darkness, a crown that radiated pure terror. Just looking at sent chills down Percy’s spine. It changed shape as he watched: a dragon’s head to a circle of black flames to a wreath of human bones. It reached into his mind, pulling forth his worst nightmares and fears. He wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. It was only obvious the enemy army felt the same way from the way they were shuffling, only remaining in place by Kronos’s power and authority.

Behind him, Demeter and Persephone were decked in armour as well, though Persephone matched her husband more closely. Where her mother’s armour was as gold as wheat, Persephone’s was blacker than sky. A silver diadem of roses laid across her head. She carried a wicked sharp sword, Stygian Iron like Nico’s, but it glinted bloodred in the sun. In Demeter’s hands, she held a scythe. Something about it made the air cold. Like winter was coming.

Hades smiled coldly. “Hello, Father. You’re looking… young.”

“Hades,” Kronos growled. “I hope you and the lades have come to pledge your allegiance.”

“The ladies?” Demeter snapped. The air within the first few feet of her dropped by several degrees. A light layer of frost rose slid across the pavement under her chariot. “I am your daughter, you body-stealing cretin. This is why I helped kill you last time.”

Persephone grinned wildly. The flowers on her chariot bloomed. “Hello, Grandfather! We’ve never met before, but I’m excited to watch you die!”

Hades’s laugh was chilling to hear. It resounded loud across the air. The enemy army shuddered at the sound. It broke right down into Percy’s veins. Even Kronos stilled. Persephone only beamed wider.

“I’m afraid we are not here to join your side,” Hades said. “My son here convinced me that perhaps I should prioritize my list of enemies.” He glanced at Percy with genuine distaste. “As much as I dislike certain upstart demigods, it would not do for Olympus to fall. I would miss bickering with my siblings. And if there is one thing we agree on, it is that you were a terrible father.”

“True,” Demeter huffed. There was a cold glint in her eyes. “No appreciation for agriculture.”

“Mother!” Persephone groaned, but Hades’s lips quirked upwards.

Hades drew his sword - the same double-edged Stygian blade Percy remembered presenting to him months before, although now it was complete, etched with silver and haunting. “I will say, I’ve always envied our youngest brother. Watching you die has always been my dream.”

Demeter raised her scythe. “Then we’ve been having the same dream, brother.”

For a moment, a genuine flash of fear showed in Kronos’ eyes. Quickly he steeled himself, snarling, viciously, “I don’t have time for this!”

He slammed the ground with his scythe before either of his children could finish their attacks. A crack spread in both directions. It circled the Empire State Building. A wall of force shimmered along the fissure line, separating Kronos’s vanguard, Percy, and those closest to him from the bulk of the two armies.

“What’s he doing?” Percy muttered.

“Sealing us in,” Thalia whispered. She turned to where Jason was hunched over low to the grounds, hands clawed. “He’s collapsing the magic barriers around Manhattan, cutting off just the building, and us.”

Outside the barrier, car engines revved back to life. Pedestrians woke up and stared uncomprehendingly at the monsters and zombies all around them. No telling what they saw through the Mist, but it had to be plenty scary. Car doors opened. At the end of the block, Paul and Sally emerged from their Prius.

Panic spiked Percy’s chest. “No. Don’t…”

From Sally’s expression, she understood how dire things were. Percy hoped she would have the sense to run, but instead she said something to Paul and began running straight towards him. His voice trapped in his throat. A positive, he didn’t want to cause Kronos to divert his attention to her. But fear clawed its way, ugly and heated, throughout him as he watched her dodge crevices in the pavement and guide Paul around weapons and monsters.

Lightning slammed the earth. Percy snapped to attention, eyes flicking to Thalia then past her at the barrier where Jason had just thrown himself at the barrier. He stumbled back, but, undeterred, threw himself at the barrier again. It was almost enchanting to watch. Winds stormed around him like a mini tornado. Electricity crackled against his skin. With every slam, the sky thundered.

And Kronos seemed that much more worried.

Hades blasted the wall with black energy and roared, “ATTACK!”

The armies of the dead clashed with the Titan’s monsters. Fifth Avenue exploded into absolute chaos. Mortals screamed and ran for cover. Demeter waved her hand and an entire column of giants turned into a wheat field. She spun her scythe towards a group of cowering mortals and blew them out of danger with a blast of winter wind. Persephone laughed, delighted. She changed the dracaenae’s spears into sunflowers. Nico slashed and hacked his way through the enemy. He guarded fleeing pedestrians as best he could. Meanwhile, Sally and Paul continued to run towards Percy, dodging monsters with every step.

“Nakamura,” Kronos said. “Attend me. Giants.” He looked down at Percy and sneered. “Deal with them.”

Then he vanished into the lobby.

For a second, Percy was stunned. He’d been expecting more of a fight. Not a blatant dismal. Like he wasn’t worth the time. Rage hit him like a storm. When the first giant smashed at him with his club, Percy rolled between his legs and stabbed him in the ass. He shattered into a pile of ice shards. The second giant breathed frost at Annabeth, but Grover pulled her out of the way, while Thalia sprinted up the giant’s back like a gazelle and sliced her hunting knives across his monstrous blue neck.

Outside the magic barrier, Nico was fighting towards Sally and Paul. Hades barked an order at Jason that Percy could barely hear under the thundering fall of the giant Thalia had slaughtered, but whatever he said, had Jason sprinting, faster than light, towards Nico’s side. He grabbed a monster and ripped it apart with his bare hands.

Thalia landed by Percy’s side with heavy breaths. She followed his line of sight and exhaled sharply.

Jason was his own mess of violence. Monsters and friends alike cowered before him. Mortals screamed more in terror at the sight of him than anything else that was happening. Once he reached Nico’s side, he was like a guard dog. He darted around Nico and caught an enemy demigod’s throat between his teeth. Blood spurted as he tore out their jugular, then threw them away with one hand. Their sword clattered to the ground as their body slammed into the barrier.

Thalia’s breath hitched.

Percy was so mesmerized by the horror of a one-man killing machine he almost didn’t notice that his mom had arrived, Paul at her side. Paul grabbed the sword from the demigod Jason had murdered and stabbed an oncoming dracaena in the gut.

“Paul?” Percy said bewildered.

So many things were happening right now - Hades had arrived with reinforcement to turn the tide of this battle, Kronos had just run off, a wolf child was tearing monsters and people with his teeth, Paul had just expertly killed a monster.

Paul grinned as he turned to Percy. “I hope that was a monster! I was a Shakesperian actor in college! Picked up a little swordplay!”

Percy could’ve laughed, but a Laistrygonian giant was charging towards Sally at top speed. Her bac turned, she was rummaging through the open door of an abandoned police car. Fear vomited through Percy’s mouth as he screamed, “MOM!”

She whirled around, just as the monster was almost on top of her. But instead she cranked the pump and a shotgun blast blew the monster twenty feet backwards, right into Nico’s sword. Enraged, Jason howled and launched himself at the next one, eviscerating it, before quickly returning to Nico’s side.

“Nice one,” Paul said, a little distant as he glanced down at Jason nervously.

“When did you learn to fire a shotgun?”

Sally blew the hair out of her face. “About two seconds ago. Percy, we’ll be fine. Go!”

“Yes,” Nico agreed. “We’ll handle the army. You have to get Kronos.” He lifted up his sword and grinned. “We got this, Percy.”

“Okay,” Percy breathed as he stepped back, stopped only by Thalia grabbing his hand.

She was watching Jason with wide watery eyes. Nico followed her gaze and shook his head. “He’s fine!” he insisted. “He can handle himself.”

Jason proved as much by shredding an entire group from the enemy army with one decisive wave of his hand. The air pressure slamming down exploded them into bits. An unbothered air rolled about him. He crouched low to the ground and growled.

“He’s fine,” Nico repeated. “Please. Thalia.” She turned to him. “You have to go.”

Percy pulled on her hand. For a moment, she refused. And then, quietly, she went. As Percy ran after her, he called out to Mrs. O’Leary to search for Chiron in the rubble. And as he, Thalia, Grover and Annabeth ran into the building, they paused in the destroyed doorway to look behind them at the war ensuing. Sally was blasting away at monsters. Paul was hacking and slashing. Nico was shouting orders to skeletal soldiers.

And Jason was a force of blinding light, tearing everyone else to pieces like they were nothing but toys to play with.

Thalia shivered. Annabeth and Grover glanced at Percy but he just grabbed Thalia’s hand and turned, racing towards the elevators. They could get into who and what Jason was later.

–

Percy watched his dad walk towards his throne, with an amused grin and little wink. Before she ascended to her throne beside her husband, Hera waved her hand. A simple stone guest chair appeared at the foot of the hearth. Hades brustled past Percy towards it but didn’t sit on it yet, gazing past Percy through the open doorway of the throne room.

With a gentle smile, Hestia glanced up at her little brother. Demeter passed him on her way to the throne and gave a quiet acknowledging nod. Even Poseidon patted his shoulder brotherly before he sat down on his throne. However, Zeus only looked annoyed.

“Do you wish to continue standing, brother?”

Hades rolled his eyes. “I’m waiting for my son. The rest of your brood are here. Only seems fitting mine should be as well.”

A floral scent emerged from nearby. Percy glanced over his shoulder to see Persephone walk in, looking slightly frazzled. She grimaced and mouthed an apology. Behind her, he could hear Nico arguing with someone. The acrid stench of electricity filled everyone’s nose. The other gods paused in what they were doing as Nico approached, his lips thinned. Alongside him, Jason fussed over him. For the most part, he was clean. There were still stains of blood in his blonde hair, but it was gone from his clothes, hands, and mouth. Strangely, he was devoid of any wounds. But he was trying to lick at Nico’s healing cuts and growled every time Nico swatted at him.

He kept walking towards his father, but his footsteps shook with every beat once he passed through the doorway. Attuned to the change, Jason’s posture turned as well. He bared his teeth at everyone they passed by, tensed and angry.

“I’m sorry,” Nico said to his father. “I tried to get him to go home with Persephone but he was refusing.”

As though on instinct, Jason dropped to his butt by Hades’ chair. Hades ignored Nico’s apology to sweep his hair back from his face instead. Then he pushed Nico down by the shoulder. Nico crossed his legs over one another, settling beside Jason who was laying down on the ground, watching everyone else warily, but less tense now that Nico was with his dad. Hades himself sat down.

It was clear he was pretending he didn’t notice Zeus staring down at him in abject horror. A mixture of anger and disgust flustered across his face.

Voice thin, he pushed himself up. “Hades, why do you have my son with you?”

Not looking at him, Hades glanced down at Jason and pet his hair absentmindedly. Jason leaned into the touch, rumbling low in his chest. “I would argue that he is with my son, rather than with me.”

“Jason?” Hera said faintly.

The situation was tense as could be. The air around them all was supercharged. They had just exited one war, and it seemed like another was fast on the horizon. Zeus descended from his throne to approach. A thunderous rage built like a storm in his eyes. Jason tensed, rising up to all fours, beside sliding back onto the tips of his toes. A low growl rolled from his throat, a warning.

Hades’s eyes flickered up to face him. Then he stood quietly and shifted to the side, shielding Nico from view. Percy couldn’t blame him. Zeus had already tried to kill Nico once.

He’d be damned if he tried again.

“He,” Zeus began, quiet and testy, “is not supposed to be here.”

“And yet he is,” Hades mused. “He could be dead, if you’d prefer.”

This time it wasn’t Zeus that spoke, but Hera. “What?”

Hades didn’t turn to her when he responded. His gaze remained firmly on his youngest brother, his stance hardened, protective. “They asked me to help kill him, I offered him a home instead, they accepted, and here we are.”

Zeus laughed, bitter. “They would never-”

“When has a child raised by wolves ever been returned to the human world in a way that doesn’t breed fear?” Hades snapped before Zeus could finish. “A child of yours is no more special than anyone else’s. He was a terror. They wanted him gone.” His voice lowered. “I found it quite funny, actually. All that talk about how my children were a danger to everyone else, best to be culled-” The word stung the air with a tremendous force. “-before they came into themselves, and it was yours who proved to be as such.”

It was so fast, Percy almost missed it. Zeus had raised his hand - to slap Hades or blast him. But Jason threw himself forward in such a blinding rage that Zeus stumbled back. Shadowy tendrils emerged from Hades’s cloak. They snapped forward and caught Jason before he could sink his teeth into his father’s throat, before he could sink his outstretched hands into his father’s bare skin and rip.

To his credit, Zeus had the sense to take a few steps back. Hades clicked his tongue and Jason relaxed. The shadowy leash dispelled as Jason eased backwards, crouched low all the while. His eyes never strayed from his father. He let out a loud snarl, almost like a bark. Lightning glowed across his skin. Faint winds whipped across his hair. His teeth remained bared.

Stay back, he was saying. Or I’ll kill you.

Percy remembered how he’d appeared, covered in golden blood. It was meant to be a thought, kept quiet to himself to speculate aloud later when the situation wasn’t so charged, but instead his seaweed brain faltered and he blurted out, “Who’s Krios?”

Zeus whipped to face him, face reddened with fury, and he wished he’d said nothing at all.

Hades sat down with a quiet laugh. Poseidon clasped his hands together. “He’s our uncle,” he said slowly, as though picking his words carefully.

Percy was content to keep it at that, ready to just get this meeting over with and go home. But Thalia stepped forward, breathing shakily. Zeus looked more pissed off. Thalia ignored him. “Jason killed Krios. How come we didn’t see him do that? Where was he?” She gripped her hands into tight fists and steeled her voice. “Where has he been?”

The gods glanced around themselves. Artemis cleared her throat. “Thalia-”

“There is a Roman camp,” Hades said. Everyone’s gazes snapped to him. Their eyes were wide with shock. Hestia giggled and he grinned at her. Quickly, Persephone crossed the room, glaring briefly at her father, before settling herself on Hades’s knee. “For Roman demigods. Jason is not the son of Zeus. He is the son of Jupiter. Same person, different priorities.”

Zeus’s entire body was trembling now. “You-”

“Me,” Hades agreed. He shrugged. “I always thought it was dumb to separate the two. The problem didn’t come from petty rivalries but the idea that they were different to begin with. I am no better than Pluto and he is no better than me. Jason is no better than her-” He gestured at Thalia. “-and she is no better than him.” He placed his hand on Persephone’s hip, steadying her. “If anything there’s value in the differences.”

Thalia bore no mind to her father’s shaking form. “And the wolves?”

“The Roman children are taught by wolves, by Lupa. Jason was too young, stayed too long. It changed him as it would any child his age. When the camp received him, they couldn’t manage him. They wanted him gone but failed to do so themselves. I was summoned as a next step. I didn’t see the value in killing him. Besides, I quite like dogs.” Thalia bristled but didn’t react. “I did agree to hand him back when requested.

“While you fought here, they fought their own battle. He killed Krios as requested, and when he was done, he came home.” His lips twitched. “As you can see, he’s quite attached to your cousin, as well as myself and my wife. Refused to stay behind if we were going. Since he’s here, there’s really no sense in hiding his origins any longer. He completed his great purpose, after all, the reason behind his secrecy. And as much as certain people in the room enjoy trying to kill their nephews-” He turned his gaze back to Zeus, voice incredibly bleak. “-I have little interest in killing mine.” He glanced at Percy from the corner of his eye. “Well, it depends on the nephew, I suppose.”

Percy ignored the flash of fear that squirmed in his stomach like flopping fish.

A Roman camp…

He supposed it made some kind of sense. Greco-Roman was the name. Didn’t they go hand in hand, written in and out of each other? And they’d met Janus the year before, hadn’t they? He was Roman, and Percy hadn’t questioned his existence.

“So! Little brother.” Hades leaned forward, gave a roll of his hand. “I believe there were things you wanted to say.”

“Yes, Zeus,” Hestia chimed in. “Please get started.”

Her voice was so soft and kind. Zeus softened with every word. His gaze hardened as he raised it back to Hades, but without further complaint, he rose to his throne and sat back down. Thalia took a step back, exhaling shakily as Zeus called the Olympian Council convened and began his long-winded speech. Persephone smiled from Hades’s lap and ran her hand through Jason’s hair. He laid his chin on Hades’s other knee, keeping a careful watch on Zeus all the while.

A fact that did not go unnoticed by the rest of the people in the room.

–

“So. A Roman camp, huh?” Percy leaned against his cabin wall. “How much do you know that no one else does?”

Nico screwed up his face. “It depends. What do you know?”

Percy snorted and glanced up to where Jason was wandering around, taking everything in. He didn’t stray too far from Nico, constantly looking back to make sure he was there and that Percy, standing a good couple feet away, wasn’t hurting him. Thalia was watching from closeby. Her face was carefully guarded. However, every time she would try to get closer to Jason, he’d snap at her and a flash of distress would cut over her eyes as she stepped back.

Percy sighed. “I don’t…” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what she’s feeling.”

Before they all left Olympus, Hades had called Thalia to the side and spoke with her. When she returned, she said that he had explained briefly the reality of how Jason had gone missing in the first place.

Why

their mother had abandoned him. Which was news to Percy. After Jason’s introduction during that whole sword quest in the Underworld, Thalia had chosen not to explain anything about him in the aftermath. Percy had thought he’d run away or something.

But no. He’d been abandoned to wolves at two years old. By his mother.

She didn’t go into much more detail, but obviously whatever Hades had told her had hurt her. Instead of following Artemis back to the Hunters, Thalia tagged along with Nico. Then continued to follow them as they chased after Rachel. They all overheard yet another prophecy being written into the stars, ideally nothing for the next century or so, when Percy was long dead and didn’t have to deal with any more godly madness. But in the softening madness, Thalia was hanging back, observing her wolfish brother.

Dinner would be starting soon. Percy wondered if that meant Nico would be taking Jason back to the Underworld. If Thalia would lose her brother for the third time.

“Pain,” Nico said. “And hope.” He fiddled with his fingers. “I didn’t know about the Roman camp until I met Pluto, my father’s Roman form. He prefers Hades, but sometimes, when Jason is too rowdy, they fall into what he would know them as.” Nico chewed his lip. “I don’t think he can tell much of a difference. Mostly because there really isn’t one. It’s not like dual sides, or different aspects, like with Egyptian gods.”

“Wait, Egyptian-”

“I mean, there’s no wild or calm variations. It’s like Dad said,” Nico continued, breezing past Percy and this new revelation with ease. “It’s just slightly different priorities. Pluto is more wealth than my father but they’re both still kings of the dead, in charge of the underworld, owners of all the jewels beneath the earth. They’re both still my father. Same as Jason will always be Thalia’s brother, even if he was born from a different name.”

Percy considered what to say. Then, “I didn’t know you were rich.”

Nico’s lip twitched. “My father’s rich. I’m just his son.”

Percy shrugged. “Well, he’s gotta die some time, right?”

Nico laughed, gently. “He would agree with you on that actually.” Ahead of them, Jason, finished examining the exterior of all the cabins, turned sharply on his heels and began jogging back towards them. “Nothing lasts forever.”

#feral!jason #percy jackson #nico di angelo #jason grace #thalia grace #hades (pjo)#pjo #my writing #my fanfic #pjo fanfic #i am so tired i'll upload this to ao3 sometime tmr #kronos is scared of jason because he remembers his son killing him with lightning and isn't thrilled at the risk of a repeat #please please please please enjoy this it took so fucking long to write and im really tired #underworld jason au #happy talks pjo

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r0-boat · 6 months

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The Prince's most prized wife

This is the NSFW bonus part 2 hey you haven't read part 1 please do so!!

Wc: smut, yandere, noncon, gendered word: Wife/wifey, Stockholm Syndrome.

Gn!reader x oc

Silas's mouth salivates that the sight before him. He had been craving by this moment for months, months. His breath shakes as his pupils dilate, the sound of the bed and sheets tossing as you move underneath him, trying to break free from his grasps around your delicate wrists.

He hopes you could one day forgive what he is about to do for he could hold back no longer.

The urge the claim you with something more than just kisses overriding is very princely being.

His lips crash upon yours as you feel his knee forcefully spread your legs apart; even as your tail whips about, it is not strong enough, the pounds of muscle holding you down.

His purple eyes drink every inch of your form. Though still wanting more, he moves your wrist into one hand to free his other. His fingers tips delicately trace every part of your body, occasionally pressing his full hand against your body to caress your hips and grope your chest, places that he had only dreamed of touching moments prior. Your scales were smooth and hard, yet your human skin was soft and plush. The prince had to resist the urge to grab your hips to have his fingernails dig into your skin to position you to where his throbbing bulge could rut against your entrance, calling for him to fill it. He could already feel his own clothes becoming too tight and warm, using his own hand to strip himself, hastily ripping off as much as he could of his own clothes and light armor uncaring of the damage he was doing to his own clothes. To him all that mattered was his object of obsession.

To you gazing at the Boarish Prince from below, he was the one who looked like the monster. His jet black now disheveled as it cascades down to tickle your skin as his mouth closes around a nipple. his amethyst eyes filled with hunger, lust, and greed rivaled dragons you've known that succumbed to their ferocity, hoarding their treasures and holding their mates captive.

You were both his mate and his treasure. He already treated you like his object from the way he was marking me with his teeth his hands ripped and teared into your fabric marking each exposed part of your body with a kiss, breathing feverishly and growling mine against your skin, and now he was going to take you like his mate.

You were setting the last ounce of his etiquette and formality to breed you like an animal. And you couldn't help but fall with him. You internally curse at your animalistic desires, your inner instinct considering him as a suitable partner. You couldn't help but melt when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, the Heat flooding to your core with every move of his lips against yours and and hand gentle yet firm hold on your hips making you move in tandem with his own, grinding his clothes throbbing bulge against your still clothed entrance made it harder to fight against his unwanted advances.

"You claim to hate me, yet you kiss me back." Silas purrs, finally ending his session of messy kisses, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to your lips breaking as he licks his lips. " Do you really harbor such hatred for your future husband? Do I need to properly claim you to make you see my love for you?"

He did not allow you to answer his question, letting go of your arms to lift your legs over his shoulders. How fast and forcefully he folded you in half, almost knocked the wind out of you. He looked down at you with a small dark smile, the head of his cock brushed against your covered hole.

When you looked down, your eyes widened; he was big. His smile widens at your reaction as his cock twitches under your attention. "it's for you. All for you." he purred, hands traveling to your hips but not before moving your underwear out of the way for his cock to slowly press against your bear entrance; you felt the witness of his precum kiss your entrance before slowly getting pushed inside. Silas's hands grabbed your waist to support his hot breath against your lips as he wanted to kiss them. You are so small, so tight he tried to kiss and protect and love you, yet a deeper part of him wanted to ruin you, make you scream and dominate you until you can't think or function, make you addicted to his cock and cum. Your tail thrashed about as he forced his cock deeper, your walls clamping down on him, making it hard, but he persisted still. He was big, and it hurt, but at the same time, the feeling of fullness inside you felt good. And when Silas peppered kisses on your lips to comfort you, it felt nice.

"Relax, it will feel good, I promise; I'll make you feel so good; just relax and open up more for me." Silas purrs his sweet yet seductive as he tries to soothe you. His kisses were soft and gentle against your face, in his cock buried deep in you to the hilt was a feeling you'd never experienced before. You whined, kissing from the pain of his cock, stretching your tight little wifey hole, your hands finding somewhere anywhere to grab to brace yourself for his movements when he began to grind himself inside you. His cock sliding against your warm wet walls, his nose buried into your shoulder, his breathy whimpers tickling your neck when, feeling you tighten around him when he begins to slide slowly in and out, his cock throbbing inside you, driving him crazy, he already felt close. But still, he resisted working you open with every thrust, gradually increasing his pace until his hips were drilling down onto you, forcing moans and cries with every slam. When the slight pain subsides in a place of pleasure, the heat in your core burning so hot it threatens to overtake you, breaking you from the inside out as every rational thought in your brain gets fucked out and replaced with pleasure.

Your handshake fingernails digging into your palms as the sheets no longer sufficed, you bring your arms around him and grab at his shoulders and back, desperate scratching and clawing. Silas, the stinging feeling of your nails digging into his back go straight to his cock, his eyes rolling around as his hips faltered his relentless pace for only a second. "F-fuck! D-do that again, and ill cum; flood you till you'll leak of me for days!"

Was this a promise or a threat you don't know anymore? All you know is that the thought of it made you close, clenching around him.

And he felt you, he felt you react, felt you tighten around him as if you were asking begging for him to claim you,

and he lost it.

You screamed his name as the sharp pain of his teeth sinking into your shoulder seared into you, etching his claim into your skin, muffling his growls and howls of pleasure when his cock exploded inside you. Your vision blurs as you cum hard, your gum walls milking every last drop of his seed deep inside.

You are so sensitive as you come down from your high that you shake, feeling your new mate grind his cock deeper. Luckily for you, Silas, who is ogling the latest mark he had made on your skin, would not continue when you are this sensitive. He was beyond satisfied, with your arms still wrapped around him as you begin to nod off exhaustion, hitting you all at once; he takes this as submission.

Finally, you may not be fully broken, but it's a start. His heart fluttered as he lay beside you, something that you would have never let him do; he wrapped his arms around you, holding you closer to his chest; feeling his warmth, you sleepily snuggled against him, your tail now wrapping around his leg.

He shall prepare the wedding as soon as possible, but for now, you will enjoy this moment of quiet, knowing that your submission will not last long.

#Smut #oc x reader #oc smut #yandere male #yandere oc #yandere x reader #X reader #gn!reader #ocs #oc: silas

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roxtron · 9 months

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So I wanted to try to make a theory/analysis post on something I've wondered for a while: What the fuck are the Krang made of? Yeah that's literally my intro to this. Can I make smooth transitions? Absolutely not.

So starting out chronologically with their introduction, the majority of their animation shows smooth movements from their tentacles, basically like tentacles irl lmao. But further into that fight scene..

We can see their tentacles also strong enough to double as blades, able to stand up against (and nearly overpower) Leo's swords, and able to stab through Raph's shell. The material isn't exactly consistent in how solid it can be, able to go from the fluid movement of the tentacles, to sharp enough to function as a blade. This leads me to think their flesh is able to shapeshift in some minor ways, especially considering the way the tentacle shifts to become sharper as the Krang's leg is about to stab Leo.

And considering how goopy Krang 2 looks after being.. basically melted by April, it does show that at the very least their natural state of flesh is more fluid. Another interesting detail about this scene, and the way Krang 2 is animated after the attack that sort of feeds into the shapeshifting theory..

Back in the finale we're shown the skull of one of the Krangs. Yet after Krang 2 has her eye melted off, we see no hint of the skull. That could either just be from not wanting to add that much detail into the animation, which to be fair it would've likely given more extra work to animation that's already amazingly detailed as it is. OR- It could be from the flesh melting around the skull to keep it from being exposed. If we can see their bodies practically shift states of matter, and see Krang 3 use his own body to expand the portal, is it that much of a stretch to say they can shift their state of flesh to cover vulnerable parts of their body after being injured?

And another thing this screenshot helps to show, their bodies don't seem to all be made from the same material specifically. Normally I'd assume all the pinks/purples are the same type of flesh but I actually don't think it is. Their tounges specifically are shown to always be sharp, a slightly darker shade with the sort of lines and stripes covering it. Keep this part in mind.

After the Foot Clan get transformed into these creatures, it actually gives us further evidence on how the krang's flesh functions. When possessing humans, the Krang pieces sort of fuse and meld with human flesh. Whether it's adding on pieces, or, like with the stomach here, changing its shape entirely. But notice how they have those additions while still keeping the same colors their skin and bodies used to be.

But when Raph gets possessed? The Krang flesh doesn't fuse with his body at all. It's more of an add-on, especially with the way his arm back there shows the original shape of his hands, while still being covered in the Krang's pink. That, and his body isn't even the same color of pinks either. Some pieces are darker, and some don't even seem to be the same shape. Like I mentioned with the Krang's tounges earlier, I think those spikes on his arms and back are made of that same material. Darker color, lines and stripes, permanently spiked.. Sounds right to me.

Even in this scene, the colors of the tounge seem to match up, a lot of pieces attatched to his body fit into that, maybe that fleshy state inbetween transforming from fluid to solid? His tounge seems to be the only part of those spiked pieces that's able to mimic fluid movements, the rest seems to be solid in place. It definitely seems to be a different type of flesh, considering how the flesh around it seems to part instead of melding together.

As for the Krang's armor.. I was confused about it before but now that I think more about how the Krang themselves are built it's starting to make more sense. Essentially I think there's 3 main components to pay attention to. The darker gray of the chest and shoulderpads seem to be simple armor plates, made of some type of alien metal I assume.

The darkest blacks of the armor seem to just be the base pieces of the suit. I've seen theories it's partially organic, with the way it bleeds black liquid after Leo stabs into it, and honestly, that seems like a really good answer. I'm not sure if it's flesh with the black suit on top of it, or if that dark black with the markings is actually its natural state. (Though, side note, it makes me even more curious HOW they would've aquired or created this armor. Their tech is mostly made of flesh, sure, but with another theory about the Technodrome having a mind of its own, willing to let Donnie merge with it and control the ship.. It does make me wonder if their armor is made from the corpse of another being, or if they simply know how to create and generate flesh, and were able to mold it for their purposes.)

Anyway- The white pieces of the armor seem to be bone to me. What with the head looking like a skull, the tail having bone-structure and being animated that way, less smooth than everything else, jerking around each piece. But here's what makes it confusing, the gloves.

There's a couple scenes where the hand has folds on it. Yet the rest of the arm seems pretty solid, and the material must be solid enough to form claws at the end, so, what the hell is it?? This is what stumps me the most, it seems to be made of fabric and bone at the same time, I really don't understand it. The only real answer I have is that the material is comparable to the base body of the Krang. Flesh that's able to mold between different states, able to take that solid, bone-like appearance, to form claws at the end.. While still being moldable enough it's able to bend and fold like the tentacles can. Potentially, it's mostly solid and bone-like, but the pieces that need to be able to move are more flesh-like. The wrist and hands have more folds because they move more, and tend to get stuck in that state to move with the body, while the plates, spikes, and claws are able to be stuck in their solid states.

I dunno how to write conclusions, but that's most of what I'm able to observe for what the Krang are made of, and why pieces of their body function the way they do. Not only are they futuristic, they're also alien, so it's natural to assume they're just advanced enough to be capable of breaking these rules materials in our world have to stick to.

#rottmnt #rottmnt movie #rottmnt krang #rottmnt theory #rottmnt analysis #krang #krang raph #rise of tmnt #rise of teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt movie theory #rottmnt movie spoilers #and now for the save rise tags haha #save rise of the tmnt #save rottmnt #unpause rottmnt #unpause rise of the tmnt #unpause rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles

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maccreadysbaby · 1 month

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A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: death and gore

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

he’s gonna get home soon I promise :,) also the end of this chapter makes me SQUEEEAAALLLL

part thirty

❝ ASPHYXIATION ❞

MONDAY — AUGUST 17 — 9:52PM

BENTLEY ONLY STEPPED OUT OF THE ROOM WHEN DAVIS MADE A HIGH-PITCHED WHISTLE.

He grabbed Davis’s other metal glove off the white tile floor and, upon stepping into the hall, was met by a spread of half a dozen bodies. Three men with lab coats, three men with armored jumpsuits and guns, all laying, unresponsive, with black crawling beneath their skin. Davis was standing right in the middle.

Bentley had never seen so many people… die.

“Stay close. This whole hallway has Synchronizing rooms on it, so we’ll have to check them all,” Davis ordered. Bentley followed behind and said nothing as they approached a metal door, right across from the room he’d been in.

The hallway was almost endless in both directions; so long and bright and white that Bentley got a little dizzy when he looked down it. They were never going to find them, were they?

Davis retracted a keycard from his pocket — one he’d stolen off a guard, maybe? — and tapped it on a little blue light next to the door. The light turned green, there was a click, and the metal door slid open.

The room was just like his own, with nothing inside but a solid white Synchronizer. Davis made for the control panel next to it, and Bentley stayed near the door, looking down the long, white hallways. At the pile of men laying in it, skin turning black.

Asten and Nico could be in any room. What if they didn’t get to them in time? What if they already had superpowers? Or mind control devices put in them?

Davis messed around with the keypad for a few grueling moments, during which Bentley stared nervously down the hall for more guards to appear. Suddenly, there was a click and a hiss, and a girl came tumbling out of the Synchronizer in a hospital gown that matched theirs, landing on her hands and knees on the floor. She was older — probably Davis’s age, with bright red hair kinda like Bentley’s, heaving for breath.

“Exchange incomplete. Please return subject to Synchronizer,”

The girl disappeared.

But she was still there, Bentley could hear her breathing. She was just… invisible.

Davis left the room without a word to her, careful to keep his hands far from Bentley as he passed him in the doorway. “C’mon.”

Bentley glanced at him, then looked back into the room, at the girl he couldn’t see. “You’re just going to leave her?”

“Your friends have timers on their heads,” Davis said, running a black hand through his hair. His green eyes were shining with something like remorse, despair, maybe rage somewhere deep in them. “We don’t have time to save everyone.”

Bentley spent a few more seconds looking in the direction of the invisible girl. She was invisible, so maybe she’d be able to escape on her own, right?

That’s what he settled on, anyways, because Davis trailed back into the hallway and he had to follow him. But as soon as he crossed the threshold into the hall-

BANG!

Bentley cried out when he heard the deafening boom of a gun. There were more men in the hallway now, four of them in their white security suits coming from the left, with guns trained on the pair. They were standing near the pile of men Davis had already killed.

Bentley was being shot at.

Davis opened the door to the next Synchronizing room and Bentley ran inside without a second thought, Davis ducking in right after. Deafening and horrible gunshots kept coming, BANG! BANG! BANG! Even though the guards didn’t have anything to aim for anymore.

Why was it when Bentley and Davis were together, there were always people with guns?

“Go open the Synchronizer. I’ll handle these guys,” Davis ordered. “There’s an emergency eject button — you can’t miss it.”

Bentley nodded quickly, scanning the identical room before shuffling over to the glowing control panel next to the Synchronizer. There were so many buttons, each glowing a slightly different color with words and abbreviations on top. He let Davis’s metal gloves clatter onto the floor and lifted his hands, trying to find the button Davis had spoken about. Emergency Eject was what he said.

The door to the room slid open with a beep. Bentley turned just in time to flinch when a guard rounded the corner pistol-first and pulled the trigger blindly, the bullet clanging dangerously against the back wall. He saw Davis reach over and grab the guy by the neck, black spreading there.

“Bentley!” He barely managed to hear Davis’s shout over the ringing in his ears.

The child took that as a queue for him to hurry, so he focused back on the control panel, his heartbeat and adrenaline pumping in his ears with heavy, loud pulses. He finally spotted a red button in the very top corner labeled EJECT. So he slammed his fist down on it.

And his entire arm lit on fire.

The thud from the second guard hitting the floor came at the same time a boy with black hair thudded out of the Synchronizer. Probably, like, Tim’s age. Bentley couldn’t tell. Why was his arm burning?

“Exchange incomplete. Please return subject to synchronizer,”

Bentley glanced down, and his vision swam.

Red. So much red. All over his arm, dripping down his fingertips and making dots on the floor. His white gown was turning red from his right shoulder down. There was a little blood spattered across the room, on the wall, near a skid mark left by a bullet. Bentley blinked, mind blank.

There was no way. Surely it would’ve hurt so much worse… there was no way he wouldn’t have noticed, if he’d gotten…

There was blood all over him, and his arm was on fire. Davis hadn’t yelled at him because he needed him to hurry. He’d yelled at him because…

Because Bentley…

…had been shot.

The realization made him sway on his feet, and he ended up against the control panel as Davis struck down the final two guards with only a finger, his vision swirling with red that he was trying so hard not to look at. There was no way. There was no way.

“Davis…?”

Bentley saw people moving — the black haired boy ran out of the room, Davis ran all the way in — but he was having trouble seeing through all the blood. The frantic click, click, click, click, click of Davis putting his gloves back on pierced the air. It was really cold in the room. Like, ice cold, but Bentley’s arm was so, so hot.

He stood, somewhat in disbelief. There was no way. Why didn’t it hurt worse? Why was he just hot?

“He shot me,” Bentley said as Davis’s face came back into focus, near to his own. Why didn’t it hurt worse? Davis was kneeling in front of him, fastening his gloves.

“He shot me,” He whispered, more to himself than Davis. Forcing himself to realize what had happened, that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. He looked down at the red drenching his white hospital gown, blinking rapidly as the burn in his arm seemed to extend to his eyes. “He shot me!”

“It’s okay,” Davis replied, bringing his hands up to the hem of Bentley’s hospital gown and tearing a strip off of the bottom with his metal gloves. “It’s okay… You’ll be okay. The bullet went all the way through. That’s good.”

Oh my God. A bullet went through his shoulder. A bullet went through his shoulder.

Black dots started to come and dance in Bentley’s vision, and it became increasingly difficult to keep himself upright. He could feel Davis messing with his shoulder, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at it. All he was looking at was the many droplets of blood peppering the floor. At his own crimson fingers.

He’d been shot by a gun.

As the realization finally seemed to click into place — that Bentley had actually, literally, seriously been shot by a gun — the pain hit him like a semi-truck. Like his whole arm had been ripped off, hacked off one grueling chop at a time by a hatchet.

There was so much pain and so much blood and so much red and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t think and… everything started turning black.

“No, no, hey, don’t faint. We don’t have time for you to faint,” There was a gloved hand on the back of his head, keeping him from falling over, and his vision swam back to life just as quickly as it had gone. “You’re fine. You’re okay. No need to faint. It’s not that bad. It’s scary, but it’s not that bad. You’re okay.”

There was what felt like a tug on his injured arm, and a glance over revealed that the strip of hospital gown fabric had been tied there like a makeshift bandage. Red was already staining it, seeping through it.

Bentley breathed in, and the exhale mixed with the searing agony made him nauseous. He was pretty sure he was dying. “I-I want to go home.”

“I know. I know you do,”

He instinctively tried to cover his face, but he couldn’t. It shot pain all the way up his arm and into the rest of his body like a firework, burning agony ripping through all of his muscles and veins. A sound that reminded him vaguely of a puppy worked it’s way out of him, and boiling tears sprung up in his eyes at the pain.

“It hurts,” Bentley cried, the hot tears streaming down his face before he could even think about stopping them. The pain was making his legs seem weak, and like some childish instinct, he reached for the man in front of him. “It hurts, Davis. It hurts so bad…”

“I know. I know,” Davis repeated, his eyes bridging the gap between worried and all-out panicked as they flicked across all the red in the white room. “I’ve gotcha. I’ve gotcha.”

Bentley was suddenly gathered up in Davis’s arms when the latter stood, which was fine, because he wasn’t sure how much longer his legs would last. “Just… I just need you to keep talking to me. We’ll find your friends. We’ll get through this.”

Davis was holding Bentley bridal style, and his injured — shot — right shoulder was now bleeding on the older boy’s gown. He didn’t seem to care, and that was good. Bentley choked down a few sobs at the searing pain that came with being moved, laying his forehead against Davis’s shoulder. “It hurts so bad.”

“I know it does, buddy. I know. Just… just talk to me about something. About your home. You live in Wayne Manor, right? Why don’t you tell me about all your siblings?” Davis questioned. Bentley could feel him moving, but didn’t look up.

“Uh…” He started, hiccuping lightly, using his uninjured hand to grab onto the front of Davis’s gown. “Davis, I can’t-“

“Yes, you can. Go ahead. I’m listening,”

“Uh… Damian… is the youngest,” He forced out, trying to bring his knees up even though he wasn’t really moving all that much. “He’s still older than me. And he… likes animals. A lot.”

Bentley felt air rushing at him, and the subtle ups and downs of Davis’s footsteps. “He has a big dog.”

Davis inhaled. “Oh, yeah? What’s it's name?”

“Titus,”

“Titus is a good name for a big dog,” He commented.

“Yeah. He… got sick last year,” Bentley explained quietly, trying to push away the fiery pulsing in his arm. (It was kind of hard to push it away when it felt like he had lava instead of blood.) He exhaled heavily, shakily, and it tapered off into a few soft cries. “Davis, it hurts.”

There was a beep of a door opening. “Keep talking to me, bud. Is Titus okay now?”

“Mhm,” Bentley muttered, his fingertips and bare toes growing such an icy cold that it hurt a little bit. “I’m getting cold.”

“Who’s the next oldest? After Damian?”

Bentley found himself shivering as air wafted past him again. “Duke. He drives me to school. He… is graduating. This year… I think.”

There was a sound, like Davis tapping something with his metal glove. The hiss and beep of a Synchronizer came.

“Exchange incomplete. Please return subject to Synchronizer,”

Bentley looked up, just quick enough to see a…

Blonde girl.

“We’re not going to find them fast enough,” He whined, putting his face back where it was with a trio of bitter sobs. “I’m so dumb. If… If I wouldn’t have-”

“We will find them,” Davis reassured, cutting the child off mid-sentence. “Who comes after Duke?”

Bentley breathed in, biting his lip to stifle a few more cries. The pain was subsiding the slightest, slightest bit… being replaced by a foggy, empty feeling like he felt after waking up in the hospital. “Um… Steph? Or Tim? I-I can’t remember. I don’t feel good.”

Davis’s thumb moved in circles on his back, and the strange sensation of air blowing as he walked returned. “How old are they?”

“Uh… both… eighteen. No, wait, nineteen. Maybe,” It was getting way too hard for Bentley to think. Why couldn’t he remember how old Tim was? “I’m… tired.”

“No, no. Keep going. C’mon, you’re okay,”

Bentley shivered. “Tim is… sick. Right now. He likes… computers. And Steph likes purple. She made me a sweater… last Christmas. Am I going to die?”

“What? No!” Davis shook Bentley the slightest bit, and the child winced from the pain it caused. “Who’s next?”

There was a beep — a door lock. “Cass. She… uh… taught me ASL,” Bentley explained, fighting away the fog that was threatening to take over and make it impossible to stay awake. “She doesn’t talk much. And then comes… uh…”

Then comes Jason.

Bentley bit his lip again, his shoulders shaking with a few quiet sobs as the scene from the Synchronizer returned to his mind. Robin. The Joker. “Then Jason…” He let go of Davis’s gown to bring a hand to his mouth, in an attempt to quiet his cries. “Jason… I miss him… so much.”

“You’ll be home soon,” Davis replied. A beep and a hiss came, and Bentley looked up, watching the Synchronizer they were beside open up. Vapor plumed out, dancing across the floor, and the metal clasps on the inside opened. Someone fell out, thumping on their hands and knees.

Someone with blue hair.

Bentley abandoned all rational thought, squirming in Davis’s arms with a sudden: “Asten!”

Thankfully, Davis didn’t drop him — because moving that much hurt so bad that Bentley got lightheaded. He blinked until it faded, and Davis slowly put him down on his feet, gloved hands hovering nearby, just in case.

Bentley went a solid two steps and then dropped to his knees next to Asten, bringing his arms up and around the Brazilian’s shoulders no matter how much fire it sent rippling through his bones. He kept crying — maybe from fear, maybe from pain, maybe from relief, maybe from everything.

Asten was…

He was crying, too.

He was on his hands and knees, trembling like he’d been dipped in a freezing cold lake. He was wearing the exact same white Hospital gown everyone wore. His shoulders were shaking the lightest bit, and without even looking up, he leaned into his friend with a soft: “Bentley…”

It was quiet and plagued with a kind of pain Bentley didn’t even know how to decipher.

“Asten,” He replied near-inaudibly, bringing his uninjured hand up to hold Asten’s head closer to him. He tried his best to keep the searing agony out of his voice, for his friend’s sake, but he wasn’t sure he was doing a very good job. “It’s… okay. You’re out of that thing now.”

Asten cried, one of his hands finding Bentley’s (thankfully) un-shot arm and holding onto it tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

Bentley didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but it made him cry harder anyways. “I-It’s okay.”

Silence passed. “Your father…”

Bentley blinked. Asten and Nico always called Bruce his dad, not his father. So did that mean, when Asten was in the Synchronizer, that he saw… not Bruce, but John? Had he seen Bentley’s life before the Wayne’s?

“I couldn’t make him stop, I don’t…” Asten trailed off, dissolving into the most pitiful bout of crying Bentley had ever witnessed. Never had he ever imagined he’d see Asten like this.

Bentley choked down as much of the crying as he could. “It’s okay,” It ended up sounding very much like I’m-trying-so-hard-not-to-absolutely-sob-right-now instead.

Asten adjusted his head with a deep sniffle. “You... You… Where…? What happened?”

“Dr. Keene took us. To the place in the video. Put us… in the machine,” Bentley explained quietly. His left hand was moving in Asten’s hair without any prior thought, which was good, because he would’ve been awfully embarrassed if he’d realized he was doing it. “We have to leave.”

Asten lifted his head, and immediately, his bloodshot, green eyes tripled in size, and he choked on whatever he was going to say. Instead he suddenly jerked back, peeling Bentley’s arms away from himself and holding them off to each side. Bentley cried out at the sudden and terrible pain it caused. “You’re… covered in blood…”

“He’s going to be okay,” Davis interjected, moving toward the pair. Asten’s eyes shot up to him, then bounced around the room. The Brazilian promptly stopped crying in the presence of a stranger, and instead, looked suddenly and utterly pissed.

He sat back on his knees with a scowl, dropping Bentley’s arms. “And who the hell are you?”

Bentley winced as the momentary adrenaline of finding Asten began to wear off, sniffing. “It’s okay. He’s my friend.”

Asten looked at Bentley, then back over at Davis. “Does this mean we’re all…?”

Bentley, assuming the word missing from his question was metahumans, merely stared at him in response.

Asten looked down at himself (and his gown that now had blood on it thanks to Bentley.) and muttered: “Merda!”

Bentley was hit by a sudden wave of vertigo, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to push it away. It just made him kind of nauseous. “I… don’t feel so good.”

As if his words were a queue, he was lifted back off the floor by Davis.

“What happened to him?” Asten asked, pushing himself off of the floor and wiping his face with the sleeve of his gown. Bentley wished he could do that — shove all his feelings and emotions and crying off to the side in a drop of a hat. “And where’s Nico?”

“We’re looking for him,” Davis replied with a deep breath in. “And someone… shot him. Bentley.”

Bentley hid his face away again like it was embarrassing to be shot, and they began to move into the hallway. Asten’s voice went up what seemed like a whole octave when he repeated: “Shot him?! Who in the hell?!” Bentley heard his bare footsteps pat-patting behind them.

“I don’t know. An employee here. He’s dead now,” Davis explained. There was a beep like he was unlocking another door.

“And how do you know that?” Asten pressed.

Davis huffed, a calculated exhale. “Because I killed him.”

A moment of stiff silence passed. Bentley chose not to acknowledge the fact that the guy who’s shoulder his face was buried in had killed at least three dozen people.

“Am I… a metahuman now?” Asten muttered, a little bit of something like hurt prominent in his voice. Bentley felt Davis inhale, then shrug lightly, air brushing against him as he walked.

“Maybe. Maybe not, if I got you out fast enough. I’ve watched Keene work for long enough to know that it can take seconds or days for powers to fully show up. But that’s in someone whose exchange wasn’t interrupted,” Davis explained. “My hope is that you and Bentley didn’t go through enough exchanging to fully imbed them in your DNA.”

So… that meant if they were only in the machines for a few minutes, they were still normal?

Asten cleared his throat. “And… the mind control?”

Davis adjusted Bentley’s weight against him, and the bouncing that signified walking began. “It’s the last step of the Synchronizing process. I got you out before it was implanted. Bentley, too.”

Bentley let out a breath of relief he didn’t even know he was holding onto. The absolute last thing he needed was his teacher taking control of his mind.

There was a beep and a hiss, and another Synchronizer fell open. Bentley looked up just in time to watch the subject come tumbling out of it, landing very ungracefully on their hands and knees.

Bentley didn’t comprehend the blonde hair quick enough — before he even realized who it was, Asten exclaimed: “Nico!”

Nico was downright sobbing, and it looked like he had been for a long, long time. There were tears tracks on his face, and his nose and ears were a bright red that Bentley had only seen near the bus top the other night (after he’d been crying for an hour). He had his eyes closed tight, and he was very nearly hyperventilating, in an uncomfortable sounding, wheezy kind of way.

While the thought of moving made Bentley’s shoulder throb with agony that sent him coiling up tighter, Asten didn’t waste a second throwing himself across the room to their friend. “Nico, hey, buddy, it’s me.”

Nico looked up, his eyes snapping open and struggling to focus.

“Asten?” He choked, frantically sucking in air that didn’t seem to be doing much of anything.

“Yeah — hey,” Asten continued. Without a warning, Nico lurched forward and pulled him into an extremely tight, probably painful looking embrace.

“Oh my God,” He sobbed, his hands curling up in Asten’s hospital gown just like they had to Bentley’s jacket. “Oh my God…”

“I’ve gotcha, buddy,” Asten said, patting Nico on the back stiffly. His eyes traveled around the room, bouncing here and there before they narrowed. Bentley only realized what he was looking for when Nico wheezed deeply, breaking into a string of gaspy coughs afterward.

They’d taken everything away from them, their clothes, Asten’s bag, their tools… and Nico’s inhaler.

“Merda,” Asten repeated. He began to move his hand up and down Nico’s back in a way that made Bentley miss Bruce. “Breathe through your nose.”

“Find him! Now!” Came a very sudden, very gruff shout from the hallway. So sudden that Bentley flinched, and then hissed in pain when the movement triggered a fiery ripple to move through his body. Nico gasped, loud and wheezy.

“We have to go,” Davis said, and Nico looked up at him, his eyes widening until they nearly covered his whole face. His big blue eyes flicked from Davis, to Bentley’s bloody body, to Asten, to Davis, to Bentley, to Asten.

“What happened to Bentley?!” He squeaked with a sob, falling into a coughing fit right afterward. “Where are we? What’s happening?!”

Asten grabbed his shoulders. “Hey, calm down.”

“What’s happening?!” He tried again. Bentley blinked in disbelief when Nico’s hands began to… shake. Not like, normally shake, but almost, like, vibrate. Like the night his leg was moving too fast. His hands were going back and forth so quickly Bentley could hardly see them.

Asten looked down at them. “Nico…”

“What’s happening to me?” He asked, desperately, sobbing and staring down at his own hands. “What’s wrong with me?”

Nico looked over at Bentley, and his eyes had yellow lightning dancing around in them.

“Nico!” Asten exclaimed. Nico’s hands were sparking, now, spitting the same yellow lightning that was in his eyes. It was crawling all over his skin, arcing from hand to hand with crackles that sounded deadly. He looked back down at them and started to panic, making a sound akin to a scream, coughing and wheezing and crying so badly Bentley thought he might throw up.

Dr. Keene’s voice echoed in his head: Abilities seem to grow more powerful, volatile in the presence of extreme emotional stress.

Bentley opened his mouth to speak, but a voice came before he could: “Well well well, what do we have here?”

Davis turned with Bentley in his arms, and there were men, six — no, eight — standing in the doorway. All with guns. All aiming at one of them. These guards had helmets on and thicker armor, so hardly any skin was exposed. Bentley had only seen Davis touch skin to induce death.

“Put the kid down, and put your hands where I can see them, Reaper,” A man with beaty eyes, front and center ordered. He didn’t pay Nico’s sparking hands much mind. (They were probably used to it here, Bentley guessed.) “If you listen to me, no one will get… very hurt.”

Davis, with no other real options, gently set Bentley on his feet. The child swayed — only a little — catching himself by grabbing onto Davis’s arm.

“Good. Good. Hands up, gloves on,”

Suddenly, one of the men in the back of the group dropped his pistol with a clack that made everybody jump. He began gasping and clawing at his throat like he was struggling to breathe, like something was in the way. Bentley could’ve swore he caught a glimpse of his irises… glowing white?

The rest of the guards faltered, turning back to look at him. Davis subtly maneuvered himself in front of Bentley; in the line of fire, just like he had at the bar last year.

Wind began to whistle and howl around the room. Around the sterile lab with no windows. It was whipping and jerking Bentley’s hair around, tugging at his gown.

Then another man dropped his pistol, and started to choke — gasping for breath like the air that was all around them just wouldn’t come.

Soon, all eight of them were choking. Coughing. Suffocating. The wind kept picking up speed and intensity until it got hard to hear, and Bentley grabbed ahold of Davis’s arm to avoid getting blown away. The guards’ eyes were bulging, their faces turning various shades of beet red at the lack of oxygen, eyes all glowing the strange, menacing white.

Only when all eight of them were on the floor, staring, unmoving, not breathing, dead, did the wind slow. The white faded from their irises.

Bentley peeled his gaze away from the pile of bodies to glance back at Asten and Nico, who were still in the floor. They stared back, and…

Nico’s irises were glowing white.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

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